“Yes, monsieur.”

“Where did you take up Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie?”

“At the front door of the Villa Rose.”

“Did you get down from the seat at all?”

“No, monsieur; not after I left the garage.”

Hanaud returned to his companions.

“See!” And he opened his hand.  “This is black soil—­moist from last night’s rain—­soil like the soil in front of Mme. Dauvray’s salon.  Look, here is even a blade or two of the grass”; and he turned the mould over in the palm of his hand.  Then he took an empty envelope from his pocket and poured the soil into it and gummed the flap down.  He stood and frowned at the motor-car.

“Listen,” he said, “how I am puzzled!  There was a man last night at the Villa Rose.  There were a man’s blurred footmarks in the mould before the glass door.  That man drove madame’s car for a hundred and fifty kilometers, and he leaves the mould which clung to his boots upon the floor of his seat.  Mlle. Celie and another woman drove away inside the car.  Mlle. Celie leaves a fragment of the chiffon tunic of her frock which caught in the hinge.  But Mlle. Celie made much clearer impressions in the mould than the man.  Yet on the floor of the carriage there is no trace of her shoes.  Again I say there is something here which I do not understand.”  And he spread out his hands with an impulsive gesture of despair

“It looks as if they had been careful and he careless,” said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem.

“What a mind!” cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in admiration.  “How quick and how profound!”

There was at times something elphantinely elfish in M. Hanaud’s demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss.  But he had come to notice that these undignified manifestations usually took place when Hanaud had reached a definite opinion upon some point which had perplexed him.

“Yet there is perhaps, another explanation,” Hanaud continued.  “For observe, M. Ricardo.  We have other evidence to show that the careless one was Mlle. Celie.  It was she who left her footsteps so plainly visible upon the grass, not the man.  However, we will go back to M. Wethermill’s room at the Hotel Majestic and talk this matter over.  We know something now.  Yes, we know—­what do we know, monsieur?” he asked, suddenly turning with a smile to Ricardo, and, as Ricardo paused:  “Think it over while we walk down to M. Wethermill’s apartment in the Hotel Majestic.”

“We know that the murderer has escaped,” replied Ricardo hotly.

“The murderer is not now the most important object of our search.  He is very likely at Marseilles by now.  We shall lay our hands on him, never fear,” replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of disdain.  “But it was thoughtful of you to remind me of him.  I might so easily have clean forgotten him, and then indeed my reputation would have suffered an eclipse.”  He made a low, ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly down the road.