“Oh, she said that!” said Hanaud quickly.

“Yes, monsieur.”

Hanaud looked gloomily towards Wethermill.  Then he exchanged a sharp glance with the Commissaire, and moved his shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug.  But Mr. Ricardo saw it, and construed it into one word.  He imagined a jury uttering the word “Guilty.”

Helene Vauquier saw the movement too.

“Do not condemn her too quickly, monsieur,” she, said, with an impulse of remorse.  “And not upon my words.  For, as I say, I—­ hated her.”

Hanaud nodded reassuringly, and she resumed: 

“I was surprised, and I asked mademoiselle what she would do without her confederate.  But she laughed, and said there would be no difficulty.  That is partly why I think there was no seance held last night.  Monsieur, there was a note in her voice that evening which I did not as yet understand.  Mademoiselle then took her bath while I laid out her black dress and the slippers with the soft, noiseless soles.  And now I tell you why I am sure there was no seance last night—­why Mlle. Celie never meant there should be one.”

“Yes, let us hear that,” said Hanaud curiously, and leaning forward with his hands upon his knees.

“You have here, monsieur, a description of how mademoiselle was dressed when she went away.”  Helene Vauquier picked up a sheet of paper from the table at her side.  “I wrote it out at the request of M. le Commissaire.”  She handed the paper to Hanaud, who glanced through it as she continued.  “Well, except for the white lace coat, monsieur, I dressed Mlle. Celie just in that way.  She would have none of her plain black robe.  No, Mlle. Celie must wear her fine new evening frock of pale reseda-green chiffon over soft clinging satin, which set off her fair beauty so prettily.  It left her white arms and shoulders bare, and it had a long train, and it rustled as she moved.  And with that she must put on her pale green silk stockings, her new little satin slippers to match, with the large paste buckles—­and a sash of green satin looped through another glittering buckle at the side of the waist, with long ends loosely knotted together at the knee.  I must tie her fair hair with a silver ribbon, and pin upon her curls a large hat of reseda green with a golden-brown ostrich feather drooping behind.  I warned mademoiselle that there was a tiny fire burning in the salon.  Even with the fire-screen in front of it there would still be a little light upon the floor, and the glittering buckles on her feet would betray her, even if the rustle of her dress did not.  But she said she would kick her slippers off.  Ah, gentlemen, it is, after all, not so that one dresses for a seance,” she cried, shaking her head.  “But it is just so—­is it not?—­that one dresses to go to meet a lover.”

The suggestion startled every one who heard it.  It fairly took Mr. Ricardo’s breath away.  Wethermill stepped forward with a cry of revolt.  The Commissaire exclaimed, admiringly, “But here is an idea!” Even Hanaud sat back in his chair, though his expression lost nothing of its impassivity, and his eyes never moved from Helene Vauquier’s face.