e came yet
other questions to amuse him.

"Why," he asked, "could neither Celia nor madame come to the Villa des
Fleurs tomorrow night? What are the plans they have made? And what was
it in those plans which had brought the sudden gravity and reluctance
into Celia's face?"

Ricardo had reason to remember those questions during the next few
days, though he only idled with them now.

CHAPTER II

A CRY FOR HELP

It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and the
girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the rooms
alone and had some talk with him.

Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the two
men left the Villa des Fleurs together.

"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.

"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.

"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young man,
and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was dying to put
some questions about Wethermill's young friend of the night before, but
discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They chatted for a few moments
in the hall upon indifferent topics and so separated for the night. Mr.
Ricardo, however, was to learn something more of Celia the next
morning; for while he was fixing his tie before the mirror Wethermill
burst into his dressing-room. Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the
surge of his indignation. Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage
upon the gentle tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette
was sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.
Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded the
door like the custodian of a chapel?

"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.
Ricardo, sternly.

But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.

"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to see
you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo--you must, indeed!"

Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the help
wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance at
Wethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in his
voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo slipped out of
his affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has happened?" he asked
quietly.

"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a
newspaper. "Read it," he said.

It was a special edition of a local ne