“But—­but,” stammered Ricardo, “the case upon the dressing-room table was empty.”

“Still, she was not wearing them, I know,” said Hanaud decisively.

“How do you know?” cried Ricardo, gazing at Hanaud with awe in his eyes.  “How could you know?”

“Because”—­and Hanaud struck a majestic attitude, like a king in a play—­“because I am the captain of the ship.”

Upon that Mr. Ricardo suffered a return of his ill-humour.

“I do not like to be trifled with,” he remarked, with as much dignity as his ruffled hair and the bed-clothes allowed him.  He looked sternly at the newspaper, turning it over, and then he uttered a cry of surprise.

“But this is yesterday’s paper!” he said.

“Yesterday evening’s paper,” Hanaud corrected.

“Printed at Geneva!”

“Printed, and published and sold at Geneva,” said Hanaud.

“When did you send the advertisement in, then?”

“I wrote a letter while we were taking our luncheon,” Hanaud explained.  “The letter was to Besnard, asking him to telegraph the advertisement at once.”

“But you never said a word about it to us,” Ricardo grumbled.

“No.  And was I not wise?” said Hanaud, with complacency.  “For you would have forbidden me to use your name.”

“Oh, I don’t go so far as that,” said Ricardo reluctantly.  His indignation was rapidly evaporating.  For there was growing up in his mind a pleasant perception that the advertisement placed him in the limelight.

He rose from his bed.

“You will make yourself comfortable in the sitting-room while I have my bath.”

“I will, indeed,” replied Hanaud cheerily.  “I have already ordered my morning chocolate.  I have hopes that you may have a telegram very soon.  This paper was cried last night through the streets of Geneva.”

Ricardo dressed for once in a way with some approach to ordinary celerity, and joined Hanaud.

“Has nothing come?” he asked.

“No.  This chocolate is very good; it is better than that which I get in my hotel.”

“Good heavens!” cried Ricardo, who was fairly twittering with excitement.  “You sit there talking about chocolate while my cup shakes in my fingers.”

“Again I must remind you that you are the amateur, I the professional, my friend.”

As the morning drew on, however, Hanaud’s professional quietude deserted him.  He began to start at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, to glance every other moment from the window, to eat his cigarettes rather than to smoke them.  At eleven o’clock Ricardo’s valet brought a telegram into the room.  Ricardo seized it.

“Calmly, my friend,” said Hanaud.

With trembling fingers Ricardo tore it open.  He jumped in his chair.  Speechless, he handed the telegram to Hanaud.  It had been sent from Geneva, and it ran thus: 

“Expect me soon after three.—­Marthe Gobin.”