e cried.

"Ah, yes!" Hanaud agreed. "But it was only sent off at a quarter to
one. It was delivered to Wethermill and a copy was sent to the
Prefecture, but the telegram was delivered first."

"When was it delivered to Wethermill?" asked Ricardo.

"At three. We had already left for the station. Wethermill was sitting
on the verandah. The telegram was brought to him there. It was brought
by a waiter in the hotel who remembers the incident very well.
Wethermill has seven minutes and the time it will take for Marthe Gobin
to drive from the station to the Majestic. What does he do? He runs up
first to your rooms, very likely not yet knowing what he must do. He
runs up to verify his telegram."

"Are you sure of that?" cried Ricardo. "How can you be? You were at the
station with me. What makes you sure?"

Hanaud produced a brown kid glove from his pocket.

"This."

"That is your glove; you told me so yesterday."

"I told you so," replied Hanaud calmly; "but it is not my glove. It is
Wethermill's; there are his initials stamped upon the lining--see? I
picked up that glove in your room, after we had returned from the
station. It was not there before. He went to your rooms. No doubt he
searched for a telegram. Fortunately he did not examine your letters,
or Marthe Gobin would never have spoken to us as she did after she was
dead."

"Then what did he do?" asked Ricardo eagerly; and, though Hanaud had
been with him at the entrance to the station all this while, he asked
the question in absolute confidence that the true answer would be given
to him.

"He returned to the verandah wondering what he should do. He saw us
come back from the station in the motor-car and go up to your room. We
were alone. Marthe Gobin, then, was following. There was his chance.
Marthe Gobin must not reach us, must not tell her news to us. He ran
down the garden steps to the gate. No one could see him from the hotel.
Very likely he hid behind the trees, whence he could watch the road. A
cab comes up the hill; there's a woman in it--not quite the kind of
woman who stays at your hotel, M. Ricardo. Yet she must be going to
your hotel, for the road ends. The driver is nodding on his box,
refusing to pay any heed to his fare lest again she should bid him
hurry. His horse is moving at a walk. Wethermill puts his head in at
the window and asks if she has come to see M. Ricardo. Anxious for her
four thousand francs, she answers 'Yes.' Perhaps he steps