as to be his. Startling facts would come
to light elicited by his deft questions. Hanaud need not fear. He would
not frighten her. He would be gentle, he would be cunning. Softly and
delicately he would turn this good woman inside out, like a glove.
Every artistic fibre in his body vibrated to the dramatic situation.

Suddenly Hanaud leaned out of the window.

"It comes! it comes!" he said in a quick, feverish whisper. "I can see
the cab between the shrubs of the drive."

"Let it come!" said Mr. Ricardo superbly.

Even as he sat he could hear the grating of wheels upon the drive. He
saw Hanaud lean farther from the window and stamp impatiently upon the
floor.

"There it is at the door," he said; and for a few seconds he spoke no
more. He stood looking downwards, craning his head, with his back
towards Ricardo.

Then, with a wild and startled cry, he staggered back into the room.
His face was white as wax, his eyes full of horror, his mouth open.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ricardo, springing to his feet.

"They are lifting her out! She doesn't move! They are lifting her out!"

For a moment he stared into Ricardo's face--paralysed by fear. Then he
sprang down the stairs. Ricardo followed him.

There was confusion in the corridor. Men were running, voices were
crying questions. As they passed the window they saw Wethermill start
up, aroused from his lethargy. They knew the truth before they reached
the entrance of the hotel. A cab had driven up to the door from the
station; in the cab was an unknown woman stabbed to the heart.

"She should have come by the omnibus," Hanaud repeated and repeated
stupidly. For the moment he was off his balance.

CHAPTER XI

THE UNOPENED LETTER

The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance from
the corridor a porter barred the way.

"No one can pass," said he.

"I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From the
Surete at Paris."

He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground lay
Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a doctor was
on his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager.

"You have sent word to the police?"

"Yes," said the manager.

"And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the
doctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and there
was very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said Hanaud--"some
tiny bullet from an air-pistol.