Part 4 (2/2)

”This is the Juge d'Instruction?” asked Hanaud.

”Yes; M. Fleuriot,” replied Louis Besnard in a whisper.

M. Fleuriot was occupied with his own thoughts, and it was not until Besnard stepped forward noisily on the gravel that he became aware of the group in the garden.

”This is M. Hanaud, of the Surete in Paris,” said Louis Besnard.

M. Fleuriot bowed with cordiality.

”You are very welcome, M. Hanaud. You will find that nothing at the villa has been disturbed. The moment the message arrived over the telephone that you were willing to a.s.sist us I gave instructions that all should be left as we found it. I trust that you, with your experience, will see a way where our eyes find none.”

Hanaud bowed in reply.

”I shall do my best, M. Fleuriot. I can say no more,” he said.

”But who are these gentlemen?” asked Fleuriot, waking, it seemed, now for the first time to the presence of Harry Wethermill and Mr. Ricardo.

”They are both friends of mine,” replied Hanaud. ”If you do not object I think their a.s.sistance may be useful. Mr. Wethermill, for instance, was acquainted with Celia Harland.”

”Ah!” cried the judge; and his face took on suddenly a keen and eager look. ”You can tell me about her perhaps?”

”All that I know I will tell readily,” said Harry Wethermill.

Into the light eyes of M. Fleuriot there came a cold, bright gleam. He took a step forward. His face seemed to narrow to a greater sharpness.

In a moment, to Mr. Ricardo's thought, he ceased to be the judge; he dropped from his high office; he dwindled into a fanatic.

”She is a Jewess, this Celia Harland?” he cried.

”No, M. Fleuriot, she is not,” replied Wethermill. ”I do not speak in disparagement of that race, for I count many friends amongst its members. But Celia Harland is not one of them.”

”Ah!” said Fleuriot; and there was something of disappointment, something, too, of incredulity, in his voice. ”Well, you will come and report to me when you have made your investigation.” And he pa.s.sed on without another question or remark.

The group of men watched him go, and it was not until he was out of earshot that Besnard turned with a deprecating gesture to Hanaud.

”Yes, yes, he is a good judge, M. Hanaud--quick, discriminating, sympathetic; but he has that bee in his bonnet, like so many others.

Everywhere he must see l'affaire Dreyfus. He cannot get it out of his head. No matter how insignificant a woman is murdered, she must have letters in her possession which would convict Dreyfus. But you know!

There are thousands like that--good, kindly, just people in the ordinary ways of life, but behind every crime they see the Jew.”

Hanaud nodded his head.

”I know; and in a Juge d'Instruction it is very embarra.s.sing. Let us walk on.”

Half-way between the gate and the villa a second carriage-road struck off to the left, and at the entrance to it stood a young, stout man in black leggings.

”The chauffeur?” asked Hanaud. ”I will speak to him.”

The Commissaire called the chauffeur forward.

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