“No, no,” he cried; “he is not in charge of the case.  He is on his holiday.  I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper.  It was stated that he came for rest.  What I want is that he should take charge of the case.”

The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment, but his recollections were too clear.

“You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of French detectives in search of this girl.  Are you wise, Wethermill?”

Wethermill sprang up from his chair in desperation.

“You, too, think her guilty!  You have seen her.  You think her guilty—­like this detestable newspaper, like the police.”

“Like the police?” asked Ricardo sharply.

“Yes,” said Harry Wethermill sullenly.  “As soon as I saw that rag I ran down to the villa.  The police are in possession.  They would not let me into the garden.  But I talked with one of them.  They, too, think that she let in the murderers.”

Ricardo took a turn across the room.  Then he came to a stop in front of Wethermill.

“Listen to me,” he said solemnly.  “I saw this girl half an hour before I saw you.  She rushed out into the garden.  She flung herself on to a bench.  She could not sit still.  She was hysterical.  You know what that means.  She had been losing.  That’s point number one.”

Mr. Ricardo ticked it off upon his finger.

“She ran back into the rooms.  You asked her to share the winnings of your bank.  She consented eagerly.  And you lost.  That’s point number two.  A little later, as she was going away, you asked her whether she would be in the rooms the next night—­yesterday night--the night when the murder was committed.  Her face clouded over.  She hesitated.  She became more than grave.  There was a distinct impression as though she shrank from the contemplation of what it was proposed she should do on the next night.  And then she answered you, ‘No, we have other plans.’  That’s number three.”  And Mr. Ricardo ticked off his third point.

“Now,” he asked, “do you still ask me to launch Hanaud upon the case?”

“Yes, and at once,” cried Wethermill.

Ricardo called for his hat and his stick.

“You know where Hanaud is staying?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Wethermill, and he led Ricardo to an unpretentious little hotel in the centre of the town.  Ricardo sent in his name, and the two visitors were immediately shown into a small sitting-room, where M. Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate.  He was stout and broad-shouldered, with a full and almost heavy face.  In his morning suit at his breakfast-table he looked like a prosperous comedian.

He came forward with a smile of welcome, extending both his hands to Mr. Ricardo.

“Ah, my good friend,” he said, “it is pleasant to see you.  And Mr. Wethermill,” he exclaimed, holding a hand out to the young inventor.

“You remember me, then?” said Wethermill gladly.