CHAPTER PAGE

    I. Summer lightning
   II.  A cry for help
  III.  Perrichet’s story
   IV.  At the villa
    V. In the salon
   VI.  Helene Vauquier’s evidence
  VII.  A startling discovery
 VIII.  The captain of the ship
   IX.  Mme. Dauvray’s motor-car
    X. NEWS from Geneva
   XI.  The unopened letter
  XII.  The aluminium flask
 XIII.  In the house at Geneva
  XIV.  Mr. Ricardo is bewildered
   XV.  Celia’s story
  XVI.  The first move
 XVII.  The afternoon of Tuesday
XVIII.  The seance
  XIX.  HELENS explains
   XX.  The Geneva road
  XXI.  Hanaud explains

AT THE VILLA ROSE

CHAPTER I

SUMMER LIGHTNING

It was Mr. Ricardo’s habit as soon as the second week of August came round to travel to Aix-les-Bains, in Savoy, where for five or six weeks he lived pleasantly.  He pretended to take the waters in the morning, he went for a ride in his motor-car in the afternoon, he dined at the Cercle in the evening, and spent an hour or two afterwards in the baccarat-rooms at the Villa des Fleurs.  An enviable, smooth life without a doubt, and it is certain that his acquaintances envied him.  At the same time, however, they laughed at him and, alas with some justice; for he was an exaggerated person.  He was to be construed in the comparative.  Everything in his life was a trifle overdone, from the fastidious arrangement of his neckties to the feminine nicety of his little dinner-parties.  In age Mr. Ricardo was approaching the fifties; in condition he was a widower—­a state greatly to his liking, for he avoided at once the irksomeness of marriage and the reproaches justly levelled at the bachelor; finally, he was rich, having amassed a fortune in Mincing Lane, which he had invested in profitable securities.

Ten years of ease, however, had not altogether obliterated in him the business look.  Though he lounged from January to December, he lounged with the air of a financier taking a holiday; and when he visited, as he frequently did, the studio of a painter, a stranger would have hesitated to decide whether he had been drawn thither by a love of art or by the possibility of an investment.  His “acquaintances” have been mentioned, and the word is suitable.  For while he mingled in many circles, he stood aloof from all.  He affected the company of artists, by whom he was regarded as one ambitious to become a connoisseur; and amongst the younger business men, who had never dealt with him, he earned the disrespect reserved for the dilettante.  If he had a grief, it was that he had discovered no great man who in return for practical favours would engrave his memory in brass.  He was a Maecenas without a Horace, an Earl of Southampton without a Shakespeare.  In a word, Aix-les-Bains in the season was the very