“You put it in your letter-case.”

“Oh, did I?”

Hanaud took out his letter-case and found the telegram within it.  His face lightened.

“Good!” he said emphatically.  “For, since we have this telegram, there must have been another message sent from Adele Rossignol to Aix saying that Marthe Gobin, that busybody, that inquisitive neighbour, who had no doubt seen M. Ricardo’s advertisement, was on her way hither.  Oh it will not be put as crudely as that, but that is what the message will mean.  We shall have him.”  And suddenly his face grew very stern.  “I must catch him, for Marthe Gobin’s death I cannot forgive.  A poor woman meaning no harm, and murdered like a sheep under our noses.  No, that I cannot forgive.”

Ricardo wondered whether it was the actual murder of Marthe Gobin or the fact that he had been beaten and outwitted which Hanaud could not forgive.  But discretion kept him silent.

“Let us go,” said Hanaud.  “By the lift, if you please; it will save time.”

They descended into the hall close by the main door.  The body of Marthe Gobin had been removed to the mortuary of the town.  The life of the hotel had resumed its course.

“M.  Besnard has gone, I suppose?” Hanaud asked of the porter; and, receiving an assent, he walked quickly out of the front door.

“But there is a shorter way,” said Ricardo, running after him:  “across the garden at the back and down the steps.”

“It will make no difference now,” said Hanaud.

They hurried along the drive and down the road which circled round the hotel and dipped to the town.

Behind Hanaud’s hotel Ricardo’s car was waiting.

“We must go first to Besnard’s office.  The poor man will be at his wits’ end to know who was Mme. Gobin and what brought her to Aix.  Besides, I wish to send a message over the telephone.”

Hanaud descended and spent a quarter of an hour with the Commissaire.  As he came out he looked at his watch.

“We shall be in time, I think,” he said.  He climbed into the car.  “The murder of Marthe Gobin on her way from the station will put our friends at their ease.  It will be published, no doubt, in the evening papers, and those good people over there in Geneva will read it with amusement.  They do not know that Marthe Gobin wrote a letter yesterday night.  Come, let us go!”

“Where to?” asked Ricardo.

“Where to?” exclaimed Hanaud.  “Why, of course, to Geneva.”

CHAPTER XII

THE ALUMINIUM FLASK

“I have telephoned to Lemerre, the Chef de la Surete at Geneva,” said Hanaud, as the car sped out of Aix along the road to Annecy.  “He will have the house watched.  We shall be in time.  They will do nothing until dark.”

But though he spoke confidently there was a note of anxiety in his voice, and he sat forward in the car, as though he were already straining his eyes to see Geneva.