“The murder was discovered at twelve o’clock at night by the sergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word of praise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks upon the door and windows that the murderer was admitted from within the villa.  Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray’s motor-car has disappeared, and with it a young Englishwoman who came to Aix with her as her companion.  The motive of the crime leaps to the eyes.  Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for her jewels, which she wore with too little prudence.  The condition of the house shows that a careful search was made for them, and they have disappeared.  It is anticipated that a description of the young Englishwoman, with a reward for her apprehension, will be issued immediately.  And it is not too much to hope that the citizens of Aix, and indeed of Prance, will be cleared of all participation in so cruel and sinister a crime.”

Ricardo read through the paragraph with a growing consternation, and laid the paper upon his dressing-table.

“It is infamous,” cried Wethermill passionately.

“The young Englishwoman is, I suppose, your friend Miss Celia?” said Ricardo slowly.

Wethermill started forward.

“You know her, then?” he cried in amazement.

“No; but I saw her with you in the rooms.  I heard you call her by that name.”

“You saw us together?” exclaimed Wethermill.  “Then you can understand how infamous the suggestion is.”

But Ricardo had seen the girl half an hour before he had seen her with Harry Wethermill.  He could not but vividly remember the picture of her as she flung herself on to the bench in the garden in a moment of hysteria, and petulantly kicked a satin slipper backwards and forwards against the stones.  She was young, she was pretty, she had a charm of freshness, but—­but—­strive against it as he would, this picture in the recollection began more and more to wear a sinister aspect.  He remembered some words spoken by a stranger.  “She is pretty, that little one.  It is regrettable that she has lost.”

Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than he usually employed.

“And Mme. Dauvray?” he asked.  “She was the stout woman with whom your young friend went away?”

“Yes,” said Wethermill.

Ricardo turned round from the mirror.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Hanaud is at Aix.  He is the cleverest of the French detectives.  You know him.  He dined with you once.”

It was Mr. Ricardo’s practice to collect celebrities round his dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had been present together.

“You wish me to approach him?”

“At once.”

“It is a delicate position,” said Ricardo.  “Here is a man in charge of a case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him—­”

To his relief Wethermill interrupted him.