“Yes, yes, he is a good judge, M. Hanaud—­quick, discriminating, sympathetic; but he has that bee in his bonnet, like so many others.  Everywhere he must see l’affaire Dreyfus.  He cannot get it out of his head.  No matter how insignificant a woman is murdered, she must have letters in her possession which would convict Dreyfus.  But you know!  There are thousands like that—­good, kindly, just people in the ordinary ways of life, but behind every crime they see the Jew.”

Hanaud nodded his head.

“I know; and in a Juge d’Instruction it is very embarrassing.  Let us walk on.”

Half-way between the gate and the villa a second carriage-road struck off to the left, and at the entrance to it stood a young, stout man in black leggings.

“The chauffeur?” asked Hanaud.  “I will speak to him.”

The Commissaire called the chauffeur forward.

“Servettaz,” he said, “you will answer any questions which monsieur may put to you.”

“Certainly, M. le Commissaire,” said the chauffeur.  His manner was serious, but he answered readily.  There was no sign of fear upon his face.

“How long have you been with Mme. Dauvray?” Hanaud asked.

“Four months, monsieur.  I drove her to Aix from Paris.”

“And since your parents live at Chambery you wished to seize the opportunity of spending a day with them while you were so near?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“When did you ask for permission?”

“On Saturday, monsieur.”

“Did you ask particularly that you should have yesterday, the Tuesday?”

“No, monsieur; I asked only for a day whenever it should be convenient to madame.”

“Quite so,” said Hanaud.  “Now, when did Mme. Dauvray tell you that you might have Tuesday?”

Servettaz hesitated.  His face became troubled.  When he spoke, he spoke reluctantly.

“It was not Mme. Dauvray, monsieur, who told me that I might go on Tuesday,” he said.

“Not Mme. Dauvray!  Who was it, then?” Hanaud asked sharply.

Servettaz glanced from one to another of the grave faces which confronted him.

“It was Mlle. Celie,” he said, “who told me.”

“Oh!” said Hanaud, slowly.  “It was Mlle. Celie.  When did she tell you?”

“On Monday morning, monsieur.  I was cleaning the car.  She came to the garage with some flowers in her hand which she had been cutting in the garden, and she said:  ’I was right, Alphonse.  Madame has a kind heart.  You can go to-morrow by the train which leaves Aix at 1.52 and arrives at Chambery at nine minutes after two.’”

Hanaud started.

“‘I was right, Alphonse.’  Were those her words?  And ’Madame has a kind heart.’  Come, come, what is all this?” He lifted a warning finger and said gravely, “Be very careful, Servettaz.”

“Those were her words, monsieur.”