“Quick!” said Hanaud, pointing to the girl, who was now struggling helplessly upon the sofa.  “Mlle. Celie!”

Ricardo cut the stitches of the sacking.  Hanaud unstrapped her hands and feet.  They helped her to sit up.  She shook her hands in the air as though they tortured her, and then, in a piteous, whimpering voice, like a child’s, she babbled incoherently and whispered prayers.  Suddenly the prayers ceased.  She sat stiff, with eyes fixed and staring.  She was watching Lemerre, and she was watching him fascinated with terror.  He was holding in his hand the large, bright aluminium flask.  He poured a little of the contents very carefully on to a piece of the sack; and then with an exclamation of anger he turned towards Hanaud.  But Hanaud was supporting Celia; and so, as Lemerre turned abruptly towards him with the flask in his hand, he turned abruptly towards Celia too.  She wrenched herself from Hanaud’s arms, she shrank violently away.  Her white face flushed scarlet and grew white again.  She screamed loudly, terribly; and after the scream she uttered a strange, weak sigh, and so fell sideways in a swoon.  Hanaud caught her as she fell.  A light broke over his face.

“Now I understand!” he cried.  “Good God!  That’s horrible.”

CHAPTER XIII

IN THE HOUSE AT GENEVA

It was well, Mr. Ricardo thought, that some one understood.  For himself, he frankly admitted that he did not.  Indeed, in his view the first principles of reasoning seemed to be set at naught.  It was obvious from the solicitude with which Celia Harland was surrounded that every one except himself was convinced of her innocence.  Yet it was equally obvious that any one who bore in mind the eight points he had tabulated against her must be convinced of her guilt.  Yet again, if she were guilty, how did it happen that she had been so mishandled by her accomplices?  He was not allowed however, to reflect upon these remarkable problems.  He had too busy a time of it.  At one moment he was running to fetch water wherewith to bathe Celia’s forehead.  At another, when he had returned with the water, he was distracted by the appearance of Durette, the inspector from Aix, in the doorway.

“We have them both,” he said—­“Hippolyte and the woman.  They were hiding in the garden.”

“So I thought,” said Hanaud, “when I saw the door open downstairs, and the morphia-needle on the table.”

Lemerre turned to one of the officers.

“Let them be taken with old Jeanne in cabs to the depot.”

And when the man had gone upon his errand Lemerre spoke to Hanaud.

“You will stay here tonight to arrange for their transfer to Aix?”

“I will leave Durette behind,” said Hanaud.  “I am needed at Aix.  We will make a formal application for the prisoners.”  He was kneeling by Celia’s side and awkwardly dabbing her forehead with a wet handkerchief.  He raised a warning hand.  Celia Harland moved and opened her eyes.  She sat up on the sofa, shivering, and looked with dazed and wondering eyes from one to another of the strangers who surrounded her.  She searched in vain for a familiar face.