"Now I understand!" he cried. "Good God! That's horrible."
It was well, Mr. Ricardo thought, that some one understood. For
himself, he frankly admitted that he did not. Indeed, in his view the
first principles of reasoning seemed to be set at naught. It was
obvious from the solicitude with which Celia Harland was surrounded
that every one except himself was convinced of her innocence. Yet it
was equally obvious that any one who bore in mind the eight points he
had tabulated against her must be convinced of her guilt. Yet again, if
she were guilty, how did it happen that she had been so mishandled by
her accomplices? He was not allowed however, to reflect upon these
remarkable problems. He had too busy a time of it. At one moment he was
running to fetch water wherewith to bathe Celia's forehead. At another,
when he had returned with the water, he was distracted by the
appearance of Durette, the inspector from Aix, in the doorway.
"We have them both," he said—"Hippolyte and the woman. They were
hiding in the garden."
"So I thought," said Hanaud, "when I saw the door open downstairs, and
the morphia-needle on the table."
Lemerre turned to one of the officers.
"Let them be taken with old Jeanne in cabs to the depot."
And when the man had gone upon his errand Lemerre spoke to Hanaud.
"You will stay here tonight to arrange for their transfer to Aix?"
"I will leave Durette behind," said Hanaud. "I am needed at Aix. We
will make a formal application for the prisoners." He was kneeling by
Celia's side and awkwardly dabbing her forehead with a wet
handkerchief. He raised a warning hand. Celia Harland moved and opened
her eyes. She sat up on the sofa, shivering, and looked with dazed and
wondering eyes from one to another of the strangers who surrounded her.
She searched in vain for a familiar face.
"You are amongst good friends. Mlle. Celie," said Hanaud with great
gentleness.
"Oh, I wonder! I wonder!" she cried piteously.
"Be very sure of it," he said heartily, and she clung to the sleeve of
his coat with desperate hands.
"I suppose you are friends," she said; "else why—?" and she moved her
numbed limbs to make certain that she was free. She looked about the
room. Her eyes fell upon the sack and widened with terror.
"They came to me a little while ago in that cupboard there—Adele and
the old woman Jeanne. They made me get up. They told me they were going
to take me away. They brought my clothes and dressed me in everything I
wore when I came, so that no single trace of me might be left behind.
Then they tied me." She tore off her gloves and showed them her
lacerated wrists. "I think they meant to kill me—horribly." And she
caught her breath and whimpered like a child. Her spirit was broken.
"My poor girl, all that is over," said Hanaud. And he stood up.
But at the first movement he made she cried incisively, "No," and
tightened the clutch of her fingers upon his sleeve.
"But, mademoiselle, you are safe," he said, with a smile. She stared at
him stupidly. It seemed the words had no meaning for her. She would not
let him go. It was only the feel of his coat within the clutch of her
fingers which gave her any comfort.
"I want to be sure that I am safe," she said, with a wan little smile.
"Tell me, mademoiselle, what have you had to eat and drink during the
last two days?"
"Is it two days?" she asked. "I was in the dark there. I did not know.
A little bread, a little water."
"That's what is wrong," said Hanaud. "Come, let us go from here!"
"Yes, yes!" Celia cried eagerly. She rose to her feet, and tottered.
Hanaud put his arm about her. "You are very kind," she said in a low
voice, and again doubt looked out from her face and disappeared. "I am
sure that I can trust you."
Ricardo fetched her cloak and slipped it on her shoulders. Then he
brought her hat, and she pinned it on. She turned to Hanaud;
unconsciously familiar words rose to her lips.
"Is it straight?" she asked. And Hanaud laughed outright, and in a
moment Celia smiled herself.
Supported by Hanaud she stumbled down the stairs to the garden. As they
passed the open door of the lighted parlour at the back of the house
Hanaud turned back to Lemerre and pointed silently to the
morphia-needle and the phial. Lemerre nodded his head, and going into
the room took them away. They went out again into the garden. Celia
Harland threw back her head to the stars and drew in a deep breath of
the cool night air.
"I did not think," she said in a low voice, "to see the stars again."
They walked slowly down the length of the garden, and Hanaud lifted her
into the launch. She turned and caught his coat.
"You must come too," she said stubbornly.
Hanaud sprang in beside her.
"For tonight," he said gaily, "I am your papa!"
Ricardo and the others followed, and the launch moved out over the lake
under the stars. The bow was turned towards Geneva, the water tumbled
behind them like white fire, the night breeze blew fresh upon their
faces. They disembarked at the landing-stage, and then Lemerre bowed to
Celia and took his leave. Hanaud led Celia up on to the balcony of the
restaurant and ordered supper. There were people still dining at the
tables.
One party indeed sitting late over their coffee Ricardo recognised with
a kind of shock. They had taken their places, the very places in which
they now sat, before he and Hanaud and Lemerre had left the restaurant
upon their expedition of rescue. Into that short interval of time so
much that was eventful had been crowded.
Hanaud leaned across the table to Celia and said in a low voice:
"Mademoiselle, if I may suggest it, it would be as well if you put on
your gloves; otherwise they may notice your wrists."
Celia followed his advice. She ate some food and drank a glass of
champagne. A little colour returned to her cheeks.
"You are very kind to me, you and monsieur your friend," she said, with
a smile towards Ricardo. "But for you—" and her voice shook.
"Hush!" said Hanaud—"all that is over; we will not speak of it."
Celia looked out across the road on to the trees, of which the dark
foliage was brightened and made pale by the lights of the restaurant.
Out on the water some one was singing.
"It seems impossible to me," she said in a low voice, "that I am here,
in the open air, and free."
Hanaud looked at his watch.
"Mlle. Celie, it is past ten o'clock. M. Ricardo's car is waiting there
under the trees. I want you to drive back to Aix. I have taken rooms
for you at an hotel, and there will be a nurse from the hospital to
look after you."
"Thank you, monsieur," she said; "you have thought of everything. But I
shall not need a nurse."
"But you will have a nurse," said Hanaud firmly. "You feel stronger
now—yes, but when you lay your head upon your pillow, mademoiselle, it
will be a comfort to you to know that you have her within call. And in
a day or two," he added gently, "you will perhaps be able to tell us
what happened on Tuesday night at the Villa Rose?"
Celia covered her face with her hands for a few moments. Then she drew
them away and said simply:
"Yes, monsieur, I will tell you."
Hanaud bowed to her with a genuine deference.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, and in his voice there was a strong
ring of sympathy.
They went downstairs and entered Ricardo's motor car.
"I want to send a telephone message," said Hanaud, "if you will wait
here."
"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 contraband 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.
And still Celia slept. M. Ricardo looked at her. He said to Hanaud in a
whisper:
"Yet I do not understand. The car, though no serious search was made,
must still have stopped at the Pont de La Caille on the Swiss side. Why
did she not cry for help then? One cry and she was safe. A movement
even was enough. Do you understand?"
Hanaud nodded his head.
"I think so," he answered, with a very gentle look at Celia. "Yes, I
think so."
When Celia was aroused she found that the car had stopped before the
door of an hotel, and that a woman in the dress of a nurse was standing
in the doorway.
"You can trust Marie," said Hanaud. And Celia turned as she stood upon
the ground and gave her hands to the two men.
"Thank you! Thank you both!" she said in a trembling voice. She looked
at Hanaud and nodded her head. "You understand why I thank you so very
much?"
"Yes," said Hanaud. "But, mademoiselle"—and he bent over the car and
spoke to her quietly, holding her hand—"there is ALWAYS a big
Newfoundland dog in the worst of troubles—if only you will look for
him. I tell you so—I, who belong to the Surete in Paris. Do not lose
heart!" And in his mind he added: "God forgive me for the lie." He
shook her hand and let it go; and gathering up her skirt she went into
the hall of the hotel.
Hanaud watched her as she went. She was to him a lonely and pathetic
creature, in spite of the nurse who bore her company.
"You must be a good friend to that young girl, M. Ricardo," he said.
"Let us drive to your hotel."
"Yes," said Ricardo. And as they went the curiosity which all the way
from Geneva had been smouldering within him burst into flame.
"Will you explain to me one thing?" he asked. "When the scream came
from the garden you were not surprised. Indeed, you said that when you
saw the open door and the morphia-needle on the table of the little
room downstairs you thought Adele and the man Hippolyte were hiding in
the garden."
"Yes, I did think so."
"Why? And why did the publication that the jewels had been discovered
so alarm you?"
"Ah!" said Hanaud. "Did not you understand that? Yet it is surely clear
and obvious, if you once grant that the girl was innocent, was a
witness of the crime, and was now in the hands of the criminals. Grant
me those premisses, M. Ricardo, for a moment, and you will see that we
had just one chance of finding the girl alive in Geneva. From the first
I was sure of that. What was the one chance? Why, this! She might be
kept alive on the chance that she could be forced to tell what, by the
way, she did not know, namely, the place where Mme. Dauvray's valuable
jewels were secreted. Now, follow this. We, the police, find the jewels
and take charge of them. Let that news reach the house in Geneva, and
on the same night Mlle. Celie loses her life, and not—very pleasantly.
They have no further use for her. She is merely a danger to them. So I
take my precautions—never mind for the moment what they were. I take
care that if the murderer is in Aix and gets wind of our discovery he
shall not be able to communicate his news."
"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."