“Listen!” she continued, “I will tell you what I think.  It was my habit to put out some sirop and lemonade and some little cakes in the dining-room, which, as you know, is at the other side of the house across the hall.  I think it possible, messieurs, that while Mlle. Celie was changing her dress Mme. Dauvray and the stranger, Adele, went into the dining-room.  I know that Mlle. Celie, as soon as she was dressed, ran downstairs to the salon.  Well, then, suppose Mlle. Celie had a lover waiting with whom she meant to run away.  She hurries through the empty salon, opens the glass doors, and is gone, leaving the doors open.  And the thief, an accomplice of Adele, finds the doors open and hides himself in the salon until Mme. Dauvray returns from the dining-room.  You see, that leaves Mlle. Celie innocent.”

Vauquier leaned forward eagerly, her white face flushing.  There was a moment’s silence, and then Hanaud said: 

“That is all very well, Mlle. Vauquier.  But it does not account for the lace coat in which the girl went away.  She must have returned to her room to fetch that after you had gone to bed.”

Helene Vauquier leaned back with an air of disappointment.

“That is true.  I had forgotten the coat.  I did not like Mlle. Celie, but I am not wicked—­”

“Nor for the fact that the sirop and the lemonade had not been touched in the dining-room,” said the Commissaire, interrupting her.

Again the disappointment overspread Vauquier’s face.

“Is that so?” she asked.  “I did not know—­I have been kept a prisoner here.”

The Commissaire cut her short with a cry of satisfaction.

“Listen! listen!” he exclaimed excitedly.  “Here is a theory which accounts for all, which combines Vauquier’s idea with ours, and Vauquier’s idea is, I think, very just, up to a point.  Suppose, M. Hanaud, that the girl was going to meet her lover, but the lover is the murderer.  Then all becomes clear.  She does not run away to him; she opens the door for him and lets him in.”

Both Hanaud and Ricardo stole a glance at Wethermill.  How did he take the theory?  Wethermill was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, his face white and contorted with a spasm of pain.  But he had the air of a man silently enduring an outrage rather than struck down by the conviction that the woman he loved was worthless.

“It is not for me to say, monsieur,” Helene Vauquier continued.  “I only tell you what I know.  I am a woman, and it would be very difficult for a girl who was eagerly expecting her lover so to act that another woman would not know it.  However uncultivated and ignorant the other woman was, that at all events she would know.  The knowledge would spread to her of itself, without a word.  Consider, gentlemen!” And suddenly Helene Vauquier smiled.  “A young girl tingling with excitement from head to foot, eager that her beauty just at this moment