“You are better, mademoiselle,” he said politely.

“One can see that.  There is more colour in your cheeks.  A day or two, and you will be yourself again.”

He held the door open while she got into the cab.  The nurse took her seat beside her; Durette mounted on the box.  The cab turned and went down the drive.

“Goodbye, mademoiselle,” cried Hanaud, and he watched until the high shrubs hid the cab from his eyes.  Then he behaved in an extraordinary way.  He turned and sprang like lightning up the stairs.  His agility amazed Ricardo.  The others followed upon his heels.  He flung himself at Celia’s door and opened it He burst into the room, stood for a second, then ran to the window.  He hid behind the curtain, looking out.  With his hand he waved to his companions to keep back.  The sound of wheels creaking and rasping rose to their ears.  The cab had just come out into the road.  Durette upon the box turned and looked towards the house.  Just for a moment Hanaud leaned from the window, as Besnard, the Commissaire, had done, and, like Besnard again, he waved his hand.  Then he came back into the room and saw, standing in front of him, with his mouth open and his eyes starting out of his head, Perrichet—­the intelligent Perrichet.

“Monsieur,” cried Perrichet, “something has been taken from this room.”

Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.

“No,” he said.

“But yes, monsieur,” Perrichet insisted.  “Oh, but yes.  See!  Upon this dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream.  It stood here, where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago.  Now it is gone.”

Hanaud burst into a laugh.

“My friend Perrichet,” he said ironically, “I will tell you the newspaper did not do you justice.  You are more intelligent.  The truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you would find it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream.  Now let us go.  For in this house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do.”

He passed out of the room.  Perrichet stood aside, his face crimson, his attitude one of shame.  He had been rebuked by the great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked.  He knew it now.  He had wished to display his intelligence—­yes, at all costs he must show how intelligent he was.  And he had shown himself a fool.  He should have kept silence about that pot of cream.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP

Hanaud walked away from the Villa Rose in the company of Wethermill and Ricardo.

“We will go and lunch,” he said.

“Yes; come to my hotel,” said Harry Wethermill.  But Hanaud shook his head.

“No; come with me to the Villa des Fleurs,” he replied.  “We may learn something there; and in a case like this every minute is of importance.  We have to be quick.”

“I may come too?” cried Mr. Ricardo eagerly.