to him that the door which had
closed so gently was nearer than Helene Vauquier's door. It seemed to
him that the door was upon the first, not the second landing. But
Hanaud had noticed nothing strange; so it could not be. He greeted
Helene Vauquier with a smile as she came down the stairs.

"You are better, mademoiselle," he said politely.

"One can see that. There is more colour in your cheeks. A day or two,
and you will be yourself again."

He held the door open while she got into the cab. The nurse took her
seat beside her; Durette mounted on the box. The cab turned and went
down the drive.

"Goodbye, mademoiselle," cried Hanaud, and he watched until the high
shrubs hid the cab from his eyes. Then he behaved in an extraordinary
way. He turned and sprang like lightning up the stairs. His agility
amazed Ricardo. The others followed upon his heels. He flung himself at
Celia's door and opened it He burst into the room, stood for a second,
then ran to the window. He hid behind the curtain, looking out. With
his hand he waved to his companions to keep back. The sound of wheels
creaking and rasping rose to their ears. The cab had just come out into
the road. Durette upon the box turned and looked towards the house.
Just for a moment Hanaud leaned from the window, as Besnard, the
Commissaire, had done, and, like Besnard again, he waved his hand. Then
he came back into the room and saw, standing in front of him, with his
mouth open and his eyes starting out of his head, Perrichet--the
intelligent Perrichet.

"Monsieur," cried Perrichet, "something has been taken from this room."

Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.

"No," he said.

"But yes, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "Oh, but yes. See! Upon this
dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream. It stood here,
where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago. Now it is
gone."

Hanaud burst into a laugh.

"My friend Perrichet," he said ironically, "I will tell you the
newspaper did not do you justice. You are more intelligent. The truth,
my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you would find
it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us go. For in this
house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do."

He passed out of the room. Perrichet stood aside, his face crimson, his
attitude one of shame. He had been rebuked by the great M. Hanaud, and
justly rebuked. He knew it now. He had wished to display his
intelligence-