Part 17 (1/2)

Hanaud turned with a smile to Harry Wethermill.

”Did Helene Vauquier, then, speak the truth?” he asked. ”No; the woman who was in the salon last night, who returned home with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie, was not a woman with black hair and bright black eyes.

Look!” And, fetching his pocket-book from his pocket, he unfolded a sheet of paper and showed them, lying upon its white surface a long red hair.

”I picked that up on the table-the round satinwood table in the salon.

It was easy not to see it, but I did see it. Now, that is not Mlle.

Celie's hair, which is fair; nor Mme. Dauvray's, which is dyed brown; nor Helene Vauquier's, which is black; nor the charwoman's, which, as I have taken the trouble to find out, is grey. It is therefore from the head of our unknown woman. And I will tell you more. This woman with the red hair--she is in Geneva.”

A startled exclamation burst from Ricardo. Harry Wethermill sat slowly down. For the first time that day there had come some colour into his cheeks, a sparkle into his eye.

”But that is wonderful!” he cried. ”How did you find that out?”

Hanaud leaned back in his chair and took a pull at his cigar. He was obviously pleased with Wethermill's admiration.

”Yes, how did you find it out?” Ricardo repeated.

Hanaud smiled.

”As to that,” he said, ”remember I am the captain of the s.h.i.+p, and I do not show you my observation.” Ricardo was disappointed. Harry Wethermill, however, started to his feet.

”We must search Geneva, then,” he cried. ”It is there that we should be, not here drinking our coffee at the Villa des Fleurs.”

Hanaud raised his hand.

”The search is not being overlooked. But Geneva is a big city. It is not easy to search Geneva and find, when we know nothing about the woman for whom we are searching, except that her hair is red, and that probably a young girl last night was with her. It is rather here, I think--in Aix--that we must keep our eyes wide open.”

”Here!” cried Wethermill in exasperation. He stared at Hanaud as though he were mad.

”Yes, here; at the post office--at the telephone exchange. Suppose that the man is in Aix, as he may well be; some time he will wish to send a letter, or a telegram, or a message over the telephone. That, I tell you, is our chance. But here is news for us.”

Hanaud pointed to a messenger who was walking towards them. The man handed Hanaud an envelope.

”From M. le Commissaire,” he said; and he saluted and retired. ”From M.

le Commissaire?” cried Ricardo excitedly.

But before Hanaud could open the envelope Harry Wethermill laid a hand upon his sleeve.

”Before we pa.s.s to something new, M. Hanaud,” he said, ”I should be very glad if you would tell me what made you s.h.i.+ver in the salon this morning. It has distressed me ever since. What was it that those two cus.h.i.+ons had to tell you?”

There was a note of anguish in his voice difficult to resist. But Hanaud resisted it. He shook his head.

”Again,” he said gravely, ”I am to remind you that I am captain of the s.h.i.+p and do not show my observation.”

He tore open the envelope and sprang up from his seat.

”Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has been found,” he cried. ”Let us go!”