“No,” replied Hanaud.  “There’s an historic crime in your own country, monsieur.  Cries for help were heard in a by-street of a town.  When people ran to answer them, a man was found kneeling by a corpse.  It was the kneeling man who cried for help, but it was also the kneeling man who did the murder.  I remembered that when I first began to suspect Harry Wethermill.”

Ricardo turned eagerly.

“And when—­when did you first begin to suspect Harry Wethermill?”

Hanaud smiled and shook his head.

“That you shall know in good time.  I am the captain of the ship.”  His voice took on a deeper note.  “But I prepare you.  Listen!  Daring and brains, those were the property of Harry Wethermill—­ yes.  But it is not he who is the chief actor in the crime.  Of that I am sure.  He was no more than one of the instruments.”

“One of the instruments?  Used, then, by whom?” asked Ricardo.

“By my Normandy peasant-woman, M. Ricardo,” said Hanaud.  “Yes, there’s the dominating figure—­cruel, masterful, relentless—­that strange woman, Helene Vauquier.  You are surprised?  You will see!  It is not the man of intellect and daring; it’s my peasant-woman who is at the bottom of it all.”

“But she’s free!” exclaimed Ricardo.  “You let her go free!”

“Free!” repeated Ricardo.  “She was driven straight from the Villa Rose to the depot.  She has been kept au secret ever since.”

Ricardo stared in amazement.

“Already you knew of her guilt?”

“Already she had lied to me in her description of Adele Rossignol.  Do you remember what she said—­a black-haired woman with beady eyes; and I only five minutes before had picked up from the table--this.”

He opened his pocket-book, and took from an envelope a long strand of red hair.

“But it was not only because she lied that I had her taken to the depot.  A pot of cold cream had disappeared from the room of Mlle Celie.”

“Then Perrichet after all was right.”

“Perrichet after all was quite wrong—­not to hold his tongue.  For in that pot of cold cream, as I was sure, were hidden those valuable diamond earrings which Mlle. Celie habitually wore.”

The two men had reached the square in front of the Etablissement des Bains.  Ricardo dropped on to a bench and wiped his forehead.

“But I am in a maze,” he cried.  “My head turns round.  I don’t know where I am.”

Hanaud stood in front of Ricardo, smiling.  He was not displeased with his companion’s bewilderment; it was all so much of tribute to himself.

“I am the captain of the ship,” he said.

His smile irritated Ricardo, who spoke impatiently.

“I should be very glad,” he said, “if you would tell me how you discovered all these things.  And what it was that the little salon on the first morning had to tell to you?  And why Celia Harland ran from the glass doors across the grass to the motor-car and again from the carriage into the house on the lake?  Why she did not resist yesterday evening?  Why she did not cry for help?  How much of Helene Vauquier’s evidence was true and how much false?  For what reason Wethermill concerned himself in this affair?  Oh! and a thousand things which I don’t understand.”