ster, not an
instrument.

In the small cafe on that afternoon of July Helene Vauquier instructed
her accomplices, quietly and methodically, as though what she proposed
was the most ordinary stroke of business. Once or twice subsequently
Wethermill, who was the only safe go-between, went to the house in
Geneva, altering his hair and wearing a moustache, to complete the
arrangements. He maintained firmly at his trial that at none of these
meetings was there any talk of murder.

"To be sure," said the judge, with a savage sarcasm. "In decent
conversation there is always a reticence. Something is left to be
understood."

And it is difficult to understand how murder could not have been an
essential part of their plan, since---But let us see what happened.

CHAPTER XVI

THE FIRST MOVE

On the Friday before the crime was committed Mme. Dauvray and Celia
dined at the Villa des Fleurs. While they were drinking their coffee
Harry Wethermill joined them. He stayed with them until Mme. Dauvray
was ready to move, and then all three walked into the baccarat rooms
together. But there, in the throng of people, they were separated.

Harry Wethermill was looking carefully after Celia, as a good lover
should. He had, it seemed, no eyes for any one else; and it was not
until a minute or two had passed that the girl herself noticed that
Mme. Dauvray was not with them.

"We will find her easily," said Harry.

"Of course," replied Celia.

"There is, after all, no hurry," said Wethermill, with a laugh; "and
perhaps she was not unwilling to leave us together."

Celia dimpled to a smile.

"Mme. Dauvray is kind to me," she said, with a very pretty timidity.

"And yet more kind to me," said Wethermill in a low voice which brought
the blood into Celia's cheeks.

But even while he spoke he soon caught sight of Mme. Dauvray standing
by one of the tables; and near to her was Adele Tace. Adele had not yet
made Mme. Dauvray's acquaintance; that was evident. She was apparently
unaware of her; but she was gradually edging towards her. Wethermill
smiled, and Celia caught the smile.

"What is it?" she asked, and her head began to turn in the direction of
Mme. Dauvray.

"Why, I like your frock--that's all," said Wethermill at once; and
Celia's eyes went down to it.

"Do you?" she said, with a pleased smile. It was a dress of dark blue
which suited her well. "I am glad. I think it is pretty." And they
passed on.

Wethermill s