“I shall tell you something now of Mme. Dauvray,” he said.  “We will not take up her early history.  It might not be edifying and, poor woman, she is dead.  Let us not go back beyond her marriage seventeen years ago to a wealthy manufacturer of Nancy, whom she had met in Paris.  Seven years ago M. Dauvray died, leaving his widow a very rich woman.  She had a passion for jewellery, which she was now able to gratify.  She collected jewels.  A famous necklace, a well-known stone—­she was not, as you say, happy till she got it.  She had a fortune in precious stones—­oh, but a large fortune!  By the ostentation of her jewels she paraded her wealth here, at Monte Carlo, in Paris.  Besides that, she was kind-hearted and most impressionable.  Finally, she was, like so many of her class, superstitious to the degree of folly.”

Suddenly Mr. Ricardo started in his chair.  Superstitious!  The word was a sudden light upon his darkness.  Now he knew what had perplexed him during the last two days.  Clearly—­too clearly—­he remembered where he had seen Celia Harland, and when.  A picture rose before his eyes, and it seemed to strengthen like a film in a developing-dish as Hanaud continued: 

“Very well! take Mme. Dauvray as we find her—­rich, ostentatious, easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious--and you have in her a living provocation to every rogue.  By a hundred instances she proclaimed herself a dupe.  She threw down a challenge to every criminal to come and rob her.  For seven years Helene Vauquier stands at her elbow and protects her from serious trouble.  Suddenly there is added to her—­your young friend, and she is robbed and murdered.  And, follow this, M. Wethermill, our thieves are, I think, more brutal to their victims than is the case with you.”

Wethermill shut his eyes in a spasm of pain and the pallor of his face increased.

“Suppose that Celia were one of the victims?” he cried in a stifled voice.

Hanaud glanced at him with a look of commiseration.

“That perhaps we shall see,” he said.  “But what I meant was this.  A stranger like Mlle. Celie might be the accomplice in such a crime as the crime of the Villa Rose, meaning only robbery.  A stranger might only have discovered too late that murder would be added to the theft.”

Meanwhile, in strong, clear colours, Ricardo’s picture stood out before his eyes.  He was startled by hearing Wethermill say, in a firm voice: 

“My friend Ricardo has something to add to what you have said.”

“I!” exclaimed Ricardo.  How in the world could Wethermill know of that clear picture in his mind?

“Yes.  You saw Celia Harland on the evening before the murder.”

Ricardo stared at his friend.  It seemed to him that Harry Wethermill had gone out of his mind.  Here he was corroborating the suspicions of the police by facts—­damning and incontrovertible facts.