“Good,” said Hanaud.  “We will dine, then, and be gay.”

He called to the waiter and ordered dinner.  It was after seven when they sat down to dinner, and they dined while the dusk deepened.  In the street below the lights flashed out, throwing a sheen on the foliage of the trees at the water’s side.  Upon the dark lake the reflections of lamps rippled and shook.  A boat in which musicians sang to music, passed by with a cool splash of oars.  The green and red lights of the launches glided backwards and forwards.  Hanaud alone of the party on the balcony tried to keep the conversation upon a light and general level.  But it was plain that even he was overdoing his gaiety.  There were moments when a sudden contraction of the muscles would clench his hands and give a spasmodic jerk to his shoulders.  He was waiting uneasily, uncomfortably, until darkness should come.

“Eat,” he cried—­“eat, my friends,” playing with his own barely tasted food.

And then, at a sentence from Lemerre, his knife and fork clattered on his plate, and he sat with a face suddenly grown white.

For Lemerre said, as though it was no more than a matter of ordinary comment: 

“So Mme. Dauvray’s jewels were, after all, never stolen?”

Hanaud started.

“You know that?  How did you know it?”

“It was in this evening’s paper.  I bought one on the way here.  They were found under the floor of the bedroom.”

And even as he spoke a newsboy’s voice rang out in the street below them.  Lemerre was alarmed by the look upon his friend’s face.

“Does it matter, Hanaud?” he asked, with some solicitude.

“It matters—­” and Hanaud rose up abruptly.

The boy’s voice sounded louder in the street below.  The words became distinct to all upon that balcony.

“The Aix murder!  Discovery of the jewels!”

“We must go,” Hanaud whispered hoarsely.  “Here are life and death in the balance, as I believe, and there”—­he pointed down to the little group gathering about the newsboy under the trees—­“there is the command which way to tip the scales.”

“It was not I who sent it,” said Ricardo eagerly.

He had no precise idea what Hanaud meant by his words; but he realised that the sooner he exculpated himself from the charge the better.

“Of course it was not you.  I know that very well,” said Hanaud.  He called for the bill.  “When is that paper published?”

“At seven,” said Lemerre.

“They have been crying it in the streets of Geneva, then, for more than half an hour.”

He sat drumming impatiently upon the table until the bill should be brought.

“By Heaven, that’s clever!” he muttered savagely.  “There’s a man who gets ahead of me at every turn.  See, Lemerre, I take every care, every precaution, that no message shall be sent.  I let it be known, I take careful pains to let it be known, that no message can be sent without detection following, and here’s the message sent by the one channel I never thought to guard against and stop.  Look!”