“Here?” cried Ricardo in amazement.

The discovery upset all his theories.  He had expected to hear that it had been found fifty leagues away; but here, within a couple of miles of the Villa Rose itself—­the idea seemed absurd!  Why take it away at all—­unless it was taken away as a blind?  That supposition found its way into Ricardo’s mind, and gathered strength as he thought upon it; for Hanaud had seemed to lean to the belief that one of the murderers might be still in Aix.  Indeed, a glance at him showed that he was not discomposed by their discovery.

“When was it found?” Hanaud asked.

“This morning.  A gardener comes to the villa on two days a week to keep the grounds in order.  Fortunately Wednesday is one of his days.  Fortunately, too, there was rain yesterday evening.  He noticed the tracks of the wheels which you can see on the gravel, and since the villa is empty he was surprised.  He found the coach-house door forced and the motor-car inside it.  When he went to his luncheon he brought the news of his discovery to the depot.”

The party followed the Commissaire along the drive to the coach-house.

“We will have the car brought out,” said Hanaud to Servettaz.

It was a big and powerful machine with a limousine body, luxuriously fitted and cushioned in the shade of light grey.  The outside panels of the car were painted a dark grey.  The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of stupefaction burst from the lips of Perrichet.

“Oh!” he cried, in utter abasement.  “I shall never forgive myself--never, never!”

“Why?” Hanaud asked, turning sharply as he spoke.

Perrichet was standing with his round eyes staring and his mouth agape.

“Because, monsieur, I saw that car—­at four o’clock this morning—­ at the corner of the road—­not fifty yards from the Villa Rose.”

“What!” cried Ricardo.

“You saw it!” exclaimed Wethermill.

Upon their faces was reflected now the stupefaction of Perrichet.

“But you must have made a mistake,” said the Commissaire.

“No, no, monsieur,” Perrichet insisted.  “It was that car.  It was that number.  It was just after daylight.  I was standing outside the gate of the villa on duty where M. le Commissaire had placed me.  The car appeared at the corner and slackened speed.  It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the road and come down past me.  But instead the driver, as if he were now sure of his way, put the car at its top speed and went on into Aix.”

“Was any one inside the car?” asked Hanaud.

“No, monsieur; it was empty.”

“But you saw the driver!” exclaimed Wethermill.

“Yes; what was he like?” cried the Commissaire.

Perrichet shook his head mournfully.

“He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy great-coat of blue with a white collar.”