“Yes, monsieur—­oh, the poor woman!  And he flung up his hands.

“And you knew her young companion?”

“Oh yes, monsieur.  They generally had their meals here.  See, at that little table over there!  I kept it for them.  But monsieur knows well”—­and the waiter looked towards Harry Wethermill—­“for monsieur was often with them.”

“Yes,” said Hanaud.  “Did Mme. Dauvray dine at that little table last night?”

“No, monsieur.  She was not here last night.”

“Nor Mlle. Celie?”

“No, monsieur!  I do not think they were in the Villa des Fleurs at all.”

“We know they were not,” exclaimed Ricardo.  “Wethermill and I were in the rooms and we did not see them.”

“But perhaps you left early,” objected Hanaud.

“No,” said Ricardo.  “It was just ten o’clock when we reached the Majestic.”

“You reached your hotel at ten,” Hanaud repeated.  “Did you walk straight from here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you left here about a quarter to ten.  And we know that Mme. Dauvray was back at the villa soon after nine.  Yes—­they could not have been here last night,” Hanaud agreed, and sat for a moment silent.  Then he turned to the head waiter.

“Have you noticed any woman with Mme. Dauvray and her companion lately?”

“No, monsieur.  I do not think so.”

“Think!  A woman, for instance, with red hair.”

Harry Wethermill started forward.  Mr. Ricardo stared at Hanaud in amazement.  The waiter reflected.

“No, monsieur.  I have seen no woman with red hair.”

“Thank you,” said Hanaud, and the waiter moved away.

“A woman with red hair!” cried Wethermill.  “But Helene Vauquier described her.  She was sallow; her eyes, her hair, were dark.”

Hanaud turned with a smile to Harry Wethermill.

“Did Helene Vauquier, then, speak the truth?” he asked.  “No; the woman who was in the salon last night, who returned home with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie, was not a woman with black hair and bright black eyes.  Look!” And, fetching his pocket-book from his pocket, he unfolded a sheet of paper and showed them, lying upon its white surface a long red hair.

“I picked that up on the table-the round satinwood table in the salon.  It was easy not to see it, but I did see it.  Now, that is not Mlle. Celie’s hair, which is fair; nor Mme. Dauvray’s, which is dyed brown; nor Helene Vauquier’s, which is black; nor the charwoman’s, which, as I have taken the trouble to find out, is grey.  It is therefore from the head of our unknown woman.  And I will tell you more.  This woman with the red hair—­she is in Geneva.”

A startled exclamation burst from Ricardo.  Harry Wethermill sat slowly down.  For the first time that day there had come some colour into his cheeks, a sparkle into his eye.

“But that is wonderful!” he cried.  “How did you find that out?”