“It is my profession to remember people,” said Hanaud, with a laugh.  “You were at that amusing dinner-party of Mr. Ricardo’s in Grosvenor Square.”

“Monsieur,” said Wethermill, “I have come to ask your help.”

The note of appeal in his voice was loud.  M. Hanaud drew up a chair by the window and motioned to Wethermill to take it.  He pointed to another, with a bow of invitation to Mr. Ricardo.

“Let me hear,” he said gravely.

“It is the murder of Mme. Dauvray,” said Wethermill.

Hanaud started.

“And in what way, monsieur,” he asked, “are you interested in the murder of Mme. Dauvray?”

“Her companion,” said Wethermill, “the young English girl—­she is a great friend of mine.”

Hanaud’s face grew stern.  Then came a sparkle of anger in his eyes.

“And what do you wish me to do, monsieur?” he asked coldly.

“You are upon your holiday, M. Hanaud.  I wish you—­no, I implore you,” Wethermill cried, his voice ringing with passion, “to take up this case, to discover the truth, to find out what has become of Celia.”

Hanaud leaned back in his chair with his hands upon the arms.  He did not take his eyes from Harry Wethermill, but the anger died out of them.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I do not know what your procedure is in England.  But in France a detective does not take up a case or leave it alone according to his pleasure.  We are only servants.  This affair is in the hands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d’lnstruction of Aix.”

“But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed,” cried Wethermill.  “And to me that would mean so much.  There would be no bungling.  There would be no waste of time.  Of that one would be sure.”

Hanaud shook his head gently.  His eyes were softened now by a look of pity.  Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.

“You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case in your breast-pocket.”

Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed the portrait to Hanaud.  Hanaud looked at it carefully for a few moments.

“It was taken lately, here?” he asked.

“Yes; for me,” replied Wethermill quietly.

“And it is a good likeness?”

“Very.”

“How long have you known this Mlle. Celie?” he asked.

Wethermill looked at Hanaud with a certain defiance.

“For a fortnight.”

Hanaud raised his eyebrows.

“You met her here?”

“Yes.”

“In the rooms, I suppose?  Not at the house of one of your friends?”

“That is so,” said Wethermill quietly.  “A friend of mine who had met her in Paris introduced me to her at my request.”

Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer to Wethermill.  His face had grown friendly.  He spoke with a tone of respect.