Hanaud’s face clouded over.

“You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo.  I was sure, but I still wanted evidence to convict.  I left him free, hoping for that evidence.  I left him free, hoping that he would commit himself.  He did, but—­well, let us talk of some one else.  What of Mlle. Celie?”

Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket.

“I have a sister in London, a widow,” he said.  “She is kind.  I, too, have been thinking of what will become of Mlle. Celie.  I wrote to my sister, and here is her reply.  Mlle. Celie will be very welcome.”

Hanaud stretched out his hand and shook Ricardo’s warmly.

“She will not, I think, be for very long a burden.  She is young.  She will recover from this shock.  She is very pretty, very gentle.  If—­if no one comes forward whom she loves and who loves her—­I—­ yes, I myself, who was her papa for one night, will be her husband forever.”

He laughed inordinately at his own joke; it was a habit of M. Hanaud’s.  Then he said gravely: 

“But I am glad, M. Ricardo, for Mlle. Celie’s sake that I came to your amusing dinner-party in London.”

Mr. Ricardo was silent for a moment.  Then he asked: 

“And what will happen to the condemned?”

“To the women?  Imprisonment for life.”

“And to the man?”

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps the guillotine.  Perhaps New Caledonia.  How can I say?  I am not the President of the Republic.”

END