“Now, mademoiselle, we will wrap you up in M. Ricardo’s spare motor-coat and cover your knees with a rug and put you between us, and then you can go to sleep.”
The car sped through the streets of Geneva. Celia Harland, with a little sigh of relief, nestled down between the two men.
“If I knew you better,” she said to Hanaud, “I should tell you—what, of course, I do not tell you now—that I feel as if I had a big Newfoundland dog with me.”
“Mlle. Célie,” said Hanaud, and his voice told her that he was moved, “that is a very pretty thing which you have said to me.”
The lights of the city fell away behind them. Now only a glow in the sky spoke of Geneva; now even that was gone and with a smooth continuous purr the car raced through the cool darkness. The great head lamps threw a bright circle of light before them and the road slipped away beneath the wheels like a running tide. Celia fell asleep. Even when the car stopped at the Pont de La Caille she did not waken. The door was opened, a search for contraband was made, the book was signed, still she did not wake. The car sped on.
“You see, coming into France is a different affair,” said Hanaud.
“Yes,” replied Ricardo.
“Still, I will own it, you caught me napping yesterday.”
“I did?” exclaimed Ricardo joyfully.
“You did,” returned Hanaud. “I had never heard of the Pont de La Caille. But you will not mention it? You will not ruin me?”
“I will not,” answered M. Ricardo, superb in his magnanimity. “You are a good detective.”
“Oh, thank you! thank you!” cried Hanaud in a voice which shook—surely with emotion. He wrung Ricardo’s hand. He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.
And still Celia slept. M. Ricardo looked at her. He said to Hanaud in a whisper:
“Yet I do not understand. The car, though no serious search was made, must still have stopped at the Pont de La Caille on the Swiss side. Why did she not cry for help then? One cry and she was safe. A movement even was enough. Do you understand?”
Hanaud nodded his head.
“I think so,” he answered, with a very gentle look at Celia. “Yes, I think so.”
When Celia was aroused she found that the car had stopped before the door of an hotel, and that a woman in the dress of a nurse was standing in the doorway.
“You can trust Marie,” said Hanaud. And Celia turned as she stood upon the ground and gave her hands to the two men.
“Thank you! Thank you both!” she said in a trembling voice. She looked at Hanaud and nodded her head. “You understand why I thank you so very much?”
“Yes,” said Hanaud. “But, mademoiselle”—and he bent over the car and spoke to her quietly, holding her hand—“there is always a big Newfoundland dog in the worst of troubles—if only you will look for him. I tell you so—I, who belong to the Sûreté in Paris. Do not lose heart!” And in his mind he added: “God forgive me for the lie.” He shook her hand and let it go; and gathering up her skirt she went into the hall of the hotel.
Hanaud watched her as she went. She was to him a lonely and pathetic creature, in spite of the nurse who bore her company.
“You must be a good friend to that young girl, M. Ricardo,” he said. “Let us drive to your hotel.”
“Yes,” said Ricardo. And as they went the curiosity which all the way from Geneva had been smouldering within him burst into flame.
“Will you explain to me one thing?” he asked. “When the scream came from the garden you were not surprised. Indeed, you said that when you saw the open door and the morphia-needle on the table of the little room downstairs you thought Adèle and the man Hippolyte were hiding in the garden.”
“Yes, I did think so.”
“Why? And why did the publication that the jewels had been discovered so alarm you?”
“Ah!” said Hanaud. “Did not you understand that? Yet it is surely clear and obvious, if you once grant that the girl was innocent, was a witness of the crime, and was now in the hands of the criminals. Grant me those premises, M. Ricardo, for a moment, and you will see that we had just one chance of finding the girl alive in Geneva. From the first I was sure of that. What was the one chance? Why, this! She might be kept alive on the chance that she could be forced to tell what, by the way, she did not know, namely, the place where Mme. Dauvray’s valuable jewels were secreted. Now, follow this. We, the police, find the jewels and take charge of them. Let that news reach the house in Geneva, and on the same night Mlle. Célie loses her life, and not—very pleasantly. They have no further use for her. She is merely a danger to them. So I take my precautions—never mind for the moment what they were. I take care that if the murderer is in Aix and gets wind of our discovery he shall not be able to communicate his news.”
“The Post Office would have stopped letters or telegrams,” said Ricardo. “I understand.”
“On the contrary,” replied Hanaud. “No, I took my precautions, which were of quite a different kind, before I knew the house in Geneva or the name of Rossignol. But one way of communication I did not think of. I did not think of the possibility that the news might be sent to a newspaper, which of course would publish
