sparkle of anger in his eyes.

"And what do you wish me to do, monsieur?" he asked coldly.

"You are upon your holiday, M. Hanaud. I wish you--no, I implore you,"
Wethermill cried, his voice ringing with passion, "to take up this
case, to discover the truth, to find out what has become of Celia."

Hanaud leaned back in his chair with his hands upon the arms. He did
not take his eyes from Harry Wethermill, but the anger died out of them.

"Monsieur," he said, "I do not know what your procedure is in England.
But in France a detective does not take up a case or leave it alone
according to his pleasure. We are only servants. This affair is in the
hands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d'lnstruction of Aix."

"But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed," cried
Wethermill. "And to me that would mean so much. There would be no
bungling. There would be no waste of time. Of that one would be sure."

Hanaud shook his head gently. His eyes were softened now by a look of
pity. Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.

"You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case in
your breast-pocket."

Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed the
portrait to Hanaud. Hanaud looked at it carefully for a few moments.

"It was taken lately, here?" he asked.

"Yes; for me," replied Wethermill quietly.

"And it is a good likeness?"

"Very."

"How long have you known this Mlle. Celie?" he asked.

Wethermill looked at Hanaud with a certain defiance.

"For a fortnight."

Hanaud raised his eyebrows.

"You met her here?"

"Yes."

"In the rooms, I suppose? Not at the house of one of your friends?"

"That is so," said Wethermill quietly. "A friend of mine who had met
her in Paris introduced me to her at my request."

Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer to
Wethermill. His face had grown friendly. He spoke with a tone of
respect.

"Monsieur, I know something of you. Our friend, Mr. Ricardo, told me
your history; I asked him for it when I saw you at his dinner. You are
of those about whom one does ask questions, and I know that you are not
a romantic boy, but who shall say that he is safe from the appeal of
beauty? I have seen women, monsieur, for whose purity of soul I would
myself have stood security, condemned for complicity in brutal crimes
on evidence that could not be gainsaid; and I have known them turn
foul-mouthed, and hideous to look upon, the mom