Hanaud nodded his head.

“I told you I had hopes.”  All his levity had gone in an instant from his manner.  He spoke very quietly.

“I had better send for Wethermill?” asked Ricardo.

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.

“As you like.  But why raise hopes in that poor man’s breast which an hour or two may dash for ever to the ground?  Consider!  Marthe Gobin has something to tell us.  Think over those eight points of evidence which you drew up yesterday in the Villa des Fleurs, and say whether what she has to tell us is more likely to prove Mlle. Celie’s innocence than her guilt.  Think well, for I will be guided by you, M. Ricardo,” said Hanaud solemnly.  “If you think it better that your friend should live in torture until Marthe Gobin comes, and then perhaps suffer worse torture from the news she brings, be it so.  You shall decide.  If, on the other hand, you think it will be best to leave M. Wethermill in peace until we know her story, be it so.  You shall decide.”

Ricardo moved uneasily.  The solemnity of Hanaud’s manner impressed him.  He had no wish to take the responsibility of the decision upon himself.  But Hanaud sat with his eyes strangely fixed upon Ricardo, waiting for his answer.

“Well,” said Ricardo, at length, “good news will be none the worse for waiting a few hours.  Bad news will be a little the better.”

“Yes,” said Hanaud; “so I thought you would decide.”  He took up a Continental Bradshaw from a bookshelf in the room.  “From Geneva she will come through Culoz.  Let us see!” He turned over the pages.  “There is a train from Culoz which reaches Aix at seven minutes past three.  It is by that train she will come.  You have a motor-car?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.  Will you pick me up in it at three at my hotel?  We will drive down to the station and see the arrivals by that train.  It may help us to get some idea of the person with whom we have to deal.  That is always an advantage.  Now I will leave you, for I have much to do.  But I will look in upon M. Wethermill as I go down and tell him that there is as yet no news.”

He took up his hat and stick, and stood for a moment staring out of the window.  Then he roused himself from his reverie with a start.

“You look out upon Mont Revard, I see.  I think M. Wethermill’s view over the garden and the town is the better one,” he said, and went out of the room.

At three o’clock Ricardo called in his car, which was an open car of high power, at Hanaud’s hotel, and the two men went to the station.  They waited outside the exit while the passengers gave up their tickets.  Amongst them a middle-aged, short woman, of a plethoric tendency, attracted their notice.  She was neatly but shabbily dressed in black; her gloves were darned, and she was obviously in a hurry.  As she came out she asked a commissionaire: 

“How far is it to the Hotel Majestic?”