“So that she was under no necessity to have ready money always in her pocket,” said Hanaud.  “I understand that.  But at times perhaps she won at the Villa des Fleurs?”

Helene Vauquier shook her head.

“She loved the Villa des Fleurs, but she never played for high sums and often never played at all.  If she won a few louis, she was as delighted with her gains and as afraid to lose them again at the tables as if she were of the poorest, and she stopped at once.  No, monsieur; twenty or thirty louis—­there was never more than that in the house.”

“Then it was certainly for her famous collection of jewellery that Madame Dauvray was murdered?”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

“Now, where did she keep her jewellery?”

“In a safe in her bedroom, monsieur.  Every night she took off what she had been wearing and locked it up with the rest.  She was never too tired for that.”

“And what did she do with the keys?”

“That I cannot tell you.  Certainly she locked her rings and necklaces away whilst I undressed her.  And she laid the keys upon the dressing-table or the mantel-shelf—­anywhere.  But in the morning the keys were no longer where she had left them.  She had put them secretly away.”

Hanaud turned to another point.

“I suppose that Mademoiselle Celie knew of the safe and that the jewels were kept there?”

“Oh yes!  Mademoiselle indeed was often in Madame Dauvray’s room when she was dressing or undressing.  She must often have seen madame take them out and lock them up again.  But then, monsieur, so did I.”

Hanaud nodded to her with a friendly smile.

“Thank you once more, mademoiselle,” he said.  “The torture is over.  But of course Monsieur Fleuriot will require your presence.”

Helene Vauquier looked anxiously towards him.

“But meanwhile I can go from this villa, monsieur?” she pleaded, with a trembling voice.

“Certainly; you shall go to your friends at once.”

“Oh, monsieur, thank you!” she cried, and suddenly she gave way.  The tears began to flow from her eyes.  She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.  “It is foolish of me, but what would you?” She jerked out the words between her sobs.  “It has been too terrible.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hanaud soothingly.  “The nurse will put a few things together for you in a bag.  You will not leuve Aix, of course, and I will send some one with you to your friends.”

The maid started violently.

“Oh, not a sergent-de-ville, monsieur, I beg of you.  I should be disgraced.”

“No.  It shall be a man in plain clothes, to see that you are not hindered by reporters on the way.”

Hanaud turned towards the door.  On the dressing-table a cord was lying.  He took it up and spoke to the nurse.

“Was this the cord with which Helene Vauquier’s hands were tied?”

“Yes, monsieur,” she replied.