oss the table at Ricardo with an expression
which the latter was at no loss to understand. Lovers were
impracticable people. But he--Hanaud--he knew the world. Women had
fooled men before today.

Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face.

"We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have happened at
the villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the man and woman who
committed the crime. It is for them we have to search."

"Yes; but except by asking ourselves questions, how shall we find them,
M. Wethermill?" said Hanaud. "Take the man! We know nothing of him. He
has left no trace. Look at this town of Aix, where people come and go
like a crowd about the baccarat-table! He may be at Marseilles today.
He may be in this very room where we are taking our luncheon. How shall
we find him?"

Wethermill nodded his head in a despairing assent.

"I know. But it is so hard to sit still and do nothing," he cried.

"Yes, but we are not sitting still," said Hanaud; and Wethermill looked
up with a sudden interest. "All the time that we have been lunching
here the intelligent Perrichet has been making inquiries. Mme. Dauvray
and Mlle. Celie left the Villa Rose at five, and returned on foot soon
after nine with the strange woman. And there I see Perrichet himself
waiting to be summoned."

Hanaud beckoned towards the sergent-de-ville.

"Perrichet will make an excellent detective," he said; "for he looks
more bovine and foolish in plain clothes than he does in uniform."

Perrichet advanced in his mufti to the table.

"Speak, my friend," said Hanaud.

"I went to the shop of M. Corval. Mlle. Celie was quite alone when she
bought the cord. But a few minutes later, in the Rue du Casino, she and
Mme. Dauvray were seen together, walking slowly in the direction of the
villa. No other woman was with them."

"That is a pity," said Hanaud quietly, and with a gesture he dismissed
Perrichet.

"You see, we shall find out nothing--nothing," said Wethermill, with a
groan.

"We must not yet lose heart, for we know a little more about the woman
than we do about the man," said Hanaud consolingly.

"True," exclaimed Ricardo. "We have Helene Vauquier's description of
her. We must advertise it."

Hanaud smiled.

"But that is a fine suggestion," he cried. "We must think over that,"
and he clapped his hand to his forehead with a gesture of
self-reproach. "Why did not such a fine idea occur to me, fool that I
am!