happen in that little pretty room, just twelve hours
ago?" he repeated. "When no sunlight blazed upon the lawn, and all the
birds were still, and all the windows shuttered and the world dark,
what happened? What dreadful things happened? We have not much to go
upon. Let us formulate what we know. We start with this. The murder was
not the work of a moment. It was planned with great care and cunning,
and carried out to the letter of the plan. There must be no noise, no
violence. On each side of the Villa Rose there are other villas; a few
yards away the road runs past. A scream, a cry, the noise of a
struggle--these sounds, or any one of them, might be fatal to success.
Thus the crime was planned; and there WAS no scream, there WAS no
struggle. Not a chair was broken, and only a chair upset. Yes, there
were brains behind that murder. We know that. But what do we know of
the plan? How far can we build it up? Let us see. First, there was an
accomplice in the house--perhaps two."

"No!" cried Harry Wethermill.

Hanaud took no notice of the interruption.

"Secondly the woman came to the house with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie
between nine and half-past nine. Thirdly, the man came afterwards, but
before eleven, set open the gate, and was admitted into the salon,
unperceived by Mme. Dauvray. That also we can safely assume. But what
happened in the salon? Ah! There is the question." Then he shrugged his
shoulders and said with the note of raillery once more in his voice:

"But why should we trouble our heads to puzzle out this mystery, since
M. Ricardo knows?"

"I?" cried Ricardo in amazement.

"To be sure," replied Hanaud calmly. "For I look at another of your
questions. 'WHAT DID THE TORN-UP SCRAP OF WRITING MEAN?' and you add:
'Probably spirit-writing.' Then there was a seance held last night in
the little salon! Is that so?"

Harry Wethermill started. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss.

"I had not followed my suggestion to its conclusion," he admitted
humbly.

"No," said Hanaud. "But I ask myself in sober earnest, 'Was there a
seance held in the salon last night?' Did the tambourine rattle in the
darkness on the wall?"

"But if Helene Vauquier's story is all untrue?" cried Wethermill, again
in exasperation.

"Patience, my friend. Her story was not all untrue. I say there were
brains behind this crime; yes, but brains, even the cleverest, would
not have invented this queer, strange story of the seances and of Mme.
de