Ricardo did not move.  He arranged in his mind the interrogatory which was to take place.  He was to conduct it.  He was the master of the situation.  All the limelight was to be his.  Startling facts would come to light elicited by his deft questions.  Hanaud need not fear.  He would not frighten her.  He would be gentle, he would be cunning.  Softly and delicately he would turn this good woman inside out, like a glove.  Every artistic fibre in his body vibrated to the dramatic situation.

Suddenly Hanaud leaned out of the window.

“It comes! it comes!” he said in a quick, feverish whisper.  “I can see the cab between the shrubs of the drive.”

“Let it come!” said Mr. Ricardo superbly.

Even as he sat he could hear the grating of wheels upon the drive.  He saw Hanaud lean farther from the window and stamp impatiently upon the floor.

“There it is at the door,” he said; and for a few seconds he spoke no more.  He stood looking downwards, craning his head, with his back towards Ricardo.

Then, with a wild and startled cry, he staggered back into the room.  His face was white as wax, his eyes full of horror, his mouth open.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Ricardo, springing to his feet.

“They are lifting her out!  She doesn’t move!  They are lifting her out!”

For a moment he stared into Ricardo’s face—­paralysed by fear.  Then he sprang down the stairs.  Ricardo followed him.

There was confusion in the corridor.  Men were running, voices were crying questions.  As they passed the window they saw Wethermill start up, aroused from his lethargy.  They knew the truth before they reached the entrance of the hotel.  A cab had driven up to the door from the station; in the cab was an unknown woman stabbed to the heart.

“She should have come by the omnibus,” Hanaud repeated and repeated stupidly.  For the moment he was off his balance.

CHAPTER XI

THE UNOPENED LETTER

The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people.  At the entrance from the corridor a porter barred the way.

“No one can pass,” said he.

“I think that I can,” said Hanaud, and he produced his card.  “From the Surete at Paris.”

He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels.  On the ground lay Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a doctor was on his knees.  Hanaud gave his card to the manager.

“You have sent word to the police?”

“Yes,” said the manager.

“And the wound?” asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the doctor.  It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and there was very little blood.  “It was made by a bullet,” said Hanaud—­“some tiny bullet from an air-pistol.”

“No,” answered the doctor.

“No knife made it,” Hanaud asserted.