“For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active,” said Mr. Ricardo to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much success.  “A heavy, clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a little gutter-boy at a moment’s notice.”

Thus he described the great detective, and the description is quoted.  For it was Ricardo’s best effort in the whole of this business.

The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill’s apartment, which consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor.  A balcony ran along outside.  Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked about him, and returned.

“It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard,” he said.

Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair.  The mask he had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment.  There was a look of infinite suffering upon his face.  It was the face of a man tortured by misery to the snapping-point.

Hanaud, on the other hand, was particularly alert.  The discovery of the motor-car had raised his spirits.  He sat at the table.

“I will tell you what we have learnt,” he said, “and it is of importance.  The three of them—­the man, the woman with the red hair, and Mlle. Celie—­all drove yesterday night to Geneva.  That is only one thing we have learnt.”

“Then you still cling to Geneva?” said Ricardo.

“More than ever,” said Hanaud.

He turned in his chair towards Wethermill.

“Ah, my poor friend!” he said, when he saw the young man’s distress.

Harry Wethermill sprang up with a gesture as though to sweep the need of sympathy away.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You have a road map, perhaps?” said Hanaud.

“Yes,” said Wethermill, “mine is here.  There it is”; and crossing the room he brought it from a sidetable and placed it in front of Hanaud.  Hanaud took a pencil from his pocket.

“One hundred and fifty kilometers was about the distance which the car had travelled.  Measure the distances here, and you will see that Geneva is the likely place.  It is a good city to hide in.  Moreover the car appears at the corner at daylight.  How does it appear, there?  What road is it which comes out at that corner?  The road from Geneva.  I am not sorry that it is Geneva, for the Chef de la Surete is a friend of mine.”

“And what else do we know?” asked Ricardo.

“This,” said Hanaud.  He paused impressively.  “Bring up your chair to the table, M. Wethermill, and consider whether I am right or wrong”; and he waited until Harry Wethermill had obeyed.  Then he laughed in a friendly way at himself.

“I cannot help it,” he said; “I have an eye for dramatic effects.  I must prepare for them when I know they are coming.  And one, I tell you, is coming now.”

He shook his finger at his companions.  Ricardo shifted and shuffled in his chair.  Harry Wethermill kept his eyes fixed on Hanaud’s face, but he was quiet, as he had been throughout the long inquiry.