little one. It is regrettable that she has lost." 

Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than he usually employed. 

"And Mme. Dauvray?" he asked. "She was the stout woman with whom your young friend went away?" 

"Yes," said Wethermill. 

Ricardo turned round from the mirror. "What do you want me to do?" 

"Hanaud is at Aix. He is the cleverest of the French detectives. You know him. He dined with you once." 

It was Mr. Ricardo's practice to collect celebrities round his dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had been present together. 

"You wish me to approach him?" 

"At once." 

"It is a delicate position," said Ricardo. "Here is a man in charge of a case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him--" 

To his relief Wethermill interrupted him. 

"No, no," he cried; "he is not in charge of the case. He is on his holiday. I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper. It was stated that he came for rest. What I want is that he should take charge of the case." 

The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment, but his recollections were too clear. 

"You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of French detectives in search of this girl. Are you wise, Wethermill?" 

Wethermill sprang up from his chair in desperation. "You, too, think her guilty! You have seen her. You think her guilty--like this detestable newspaper, like the police." 

"Like the police?" asked Ricardo sharply. 

"Yes," said Harry Wethermill sullenly. "As soon as I saw that rag I ran down to the villa. The police are in possession. They would not let me into the garden. But I talked with one of them. They, too, think that she let in the murderers." 

Ricardo took a turn across the room. Then he came to a stop in front of Wethermill. "Listen to me," 

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