“The Post Office would have stopped letters or telegrams,” said Ricardo.  “I understand.”

“On the contrary,” replied Hanaud.  “No, I took my precautions, which were of quite a different kind, before I knew the house in Geneva or the name of Rossignol.  But one way of communication I did not think of.  I did not think of the possibility that the news might be sent to a newspaper, which of course would publish it and cry it through the streets of Geneva.  The moment I heard the news I knew we must hurry.  The garden of the house ran down to the lake.  A means of disposing of Mlle. Celie was close at hand.  And the night had fallen.  As it was, we arrived just in time, and no earlier than just in time.  The paper had been bought, the message had reached the house, Mlle. Celie was no longer of any use, and every hour she stayed in that house was of course an hour of danger to her captors.”

“What were they going to do?” asked Ricardo.

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not pretty—­what they were going to do.  We reach the garden in our launch.  At that moment Hippolyte and Adele, who is most likely Hippolyte’s wife, are in the lighted parlour on the basement floor.  Adele is preparing her morphia-needle.  Hippolyte is going to get ready the rowing-boat which was tied at the end of the landing-stage.  Quietly as we came into the bank, they heard or saw us.  They ran out and hid in the garden, having no time to lock the garden door, or perhaps not daring to lock it lest the sound of the key should reach our ears.  We find that door upon the latch, the door of the room open; on the table lies the morphia-needle.  Upstairs lies Mlle. Celie—­she is helpless, she cannot see what they are meaning to do.”

“But she could cry out,” exclaimed Ricardo.  “She did not even do that!”

“No, my friend, she could not cry out,” replied Hanaud very seriously.  “I know why.  She could not.  No living man or woman could.  Rest assured of that!”

Ricardo was mystified; but since the captain of the ship would not show his observation, he knew it would be in vain to press him.

“Well, while Adele was preparing her morphia-needle and Hippolyte was about to prepare the boat, Jeanne upstairs was making her preparation too.  She was mending a sack.  Did you see Mlle. Celie’s eyes and face when first she saw that sack?  Ah! she understood!  They meant to give her a dose of morphia, and, as soon as she became unconscious, they were going perhaps to take some terrible precaution—­” Hanaud paused for a second.  “I only say perhaps as to that.  But certainly they were going to sew her up in that sack, row her well out across the lake, fix a weight to her feet, and drop her quietly overboard.  She was to wear everything which she had brought with her to the house.  Mlle. Celie would have disappeared for ever, and left not even a ripple upon the water to trace her by!”