“No!” cried Celia decisively, and she again laid hold of his coat, with a pretty imperiousness, as though he belonged to her.

“But I must,” said Hanaud with a laugh.

“Then I will come too,” said Celia, and she opened the door and set a foot upon the step.

“You will not, mademoiselle,” said Hanaud, with a laugh.  “Will you take your foot back into that car?  That is better.  Now you will sit with your friend, M. Ricardo, whom, by the way, I have not yet introduced to you.  He is a very good friend of yours, mademoiselle, and will in the future be a still better one.”

Ricardo felt his conscience rather heavy within him, for he had come out to Geneva with the fixed intention of arresting her as a most dangerous criminal.  Even now he could not understand how she could be innocent of a share in Mme. Dauvray’s murder.  But Hanaud evidently thought she was.  And since Hanaud thought so, why, it was better to say nothing if one was sensitive to gibes.  So Ricardo sat and talked with her while Hanaud ran back into the restaurant.  It mattered very little, however, what he said, for Celia’s eyes were fixed upon the doorway through which Hanaud had disappeared.  And when he came back she was quick to turn the handle of the door.

“Now, mademoiselle, we will wrap you up in M. Ricardo’s spare motor-coat and cover your knees with a rug and put you between us, and then you can go to sleep.”

The car sped through the streets of Geneva.  Celia Harland, with a little sigh of relief, nestled down between the two men.

“If I knew you better,” she said to Hanaud, “I should tell you—­ what, of course, I do not tell you now—­that I feel as if I had a big Newfoundland dog with me.”

“Mlle. Celie,” said Hanaud, and his voice told her that he was moved, “that is a very pretty thing which you have said to me.”

The lights of the city fell away behind them.  Now only a glow in the sky spoke of Geneva; now even that was gone and with a smooth continuous purr the car raced through the cool darkness.  The great head lamps threw a bright circle of light before them and the road slipped away beneath the wheels like a running tide.  Celia fell asleep.  Even when the car stopped at the Pont de La Caille she did not waken.  The door was opened, a search for contrabrand was made, the book was signed, still she did not wake.  The car sped on.

“You see, coming into France is a different affair,” said Hanaud.

“Yes,” replied Ricardo.

“Still, I will own it, you caught me napping yesterday.

“I did?” exclaimed Ricardo joyfully.

“You did,” returned Hanaud.  “I had never heard of the Pont de La Caille.  But you will not mention it?  You will not ruin me?”

“I will not,” answered.  M. Ricardo, superb in his magnanimity.  “You are a good detective.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you!” cried Hanaud in a voice which shook—­ surely with emotion.  He wrung Ricardo’s hand.  He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.