her with the hope.  But she would not gratify it.  She would not spoil her fine affairs by making these treats too common.  And she acquired—­how should she not?—­a power over Mme. Dauvray which was unassailable.  The fortune-tellers had no more to say to Mme. Dauvray.  She did nothing but felicitate herself upon the happy chance which had sent her Mlle. Celie.  And now she lies in her room murdered!”

Once more Helene’s voice broke upon the words.  But Hanaud poured her out a glass of water and held it to her lips.  Helene drank it eagerly.

“There, that is better, is it not?” he said.

“Yes, monsieur,” said Helene Vauquier, recovering herself.  “Sometimes, too,” she resumed, “messages from the spirits would flutter down in writing on the table.”

“In writing?” exclaimed Hanaud quickly.

“Yes; answers to questions.  Mlle. Celie had them ready.  Oh, but she was of an address altogether surprising.

“I see,” said Hanaud slowly; and he added, “But sometimes, I suppose, the questions were questions which Mlle. Celie could not answer?”

“Sometimes,” Helene Vauquier admitted, “when visitors were present.  When Mme. Dauvray was alone—­well, she was an ignorant woman, and any answer would serve.  But it was not so when there were visitors whom Mlle. Celie did not know, or only knew slightly.  These visitors might be putting questions to test her, of which they knew the answers, while Mlle. Celie did not.”

“Exactly,” said Hanaud.  “What happened then?”

All who were listening understood to what point he was leading Helene Vauquier.  All waited intently for her answer.

She smiled.

“It was all one to Mlle. Celie.”

“She was prepared with an escape from the difficulty?”

“Perfectly prepared.”

Hanaud looked puzzled.

“I can think of no way out of it except the one,” and he looked round to the Commissaire and to Ricardo as though he would inquire of them how many ways they had discovered.  “I can think of no escape except that a message in writing should flutter down from the spirit appealed to saying frankly,” and Hanaud shrugged his shoulders, “‘I do not know.’”

“Oh no no, monsieur,” replied Helene Vauquier in pity for Hanaud’s misconception, “I see that you are not in the habit of attending seances.  It would never do for a spirit to admit that it did not know.  At once its authority would be gone, and with it Mlle. Celie’s as well.  But on the other hand, for inscrutable reasons the spirit might not be allowed to answer.”

“I understand,” said Hanaud, meekly accepting the correction.  “The spirit might reply that it was forbidden to answer, but never that it did not know.”

“No, never that,” [agreed] Helene.  So it seemed that Hanaud must look elsewhere for the explanation of that sentence.  “I do not know.”  Helene continued:  “Oh, Mlle. Celie—­it was not easy to baffle her, I can tell you.  She carried a lace scarf which she could drape about her head, and in a moment she would be, in the dim light, an old, old woman, with a voice so altered that no one could know it.  Indeed, you said rightly, monsieur—­she was clever.”