At the Villa Rose

as a glove. Jeanne hurried her down the stairs into the little parlour at the back of the house, where supper was laid, and pushed her into a chair. Celia let her arms fall forward on the table. She had no hope now. She was friendless and alone in a den of murderers, who meant first to torture, then to kill her. She would be held up to execration as a murderess. No one would know how she had died or what she had suffered. She was in pain, and her throat burned. She buried her face in her arms and sobbed. All her body shook with her sobbing. Jeanne Rossignol took no notice. She treated Célie just as the others had done. Celia was la petite, against whom she had no animosity, by whom she was not to be touched to any tenderness. la petite had unconsciously played her useful part in their crime. But her use was ended now, and they would deal with her accordingly. She removed the girl’s hat and cloak and tossed them aside.

“Now stay quiet until we are ready for you,” she said. And Celia, lifting her head, said in a whisper:

“Water!”

The old woman poured some from a jug and held the glass to Celia’s lips.

“Thank you,” whispered Celia gratefully, and Adèle came into the room. She told the story of the night to Jeanne, and afterwards to Hippolyte when he joined them.

“And nothing gained!” cried the older woman furiously. “And we have hardly a five-franc piece in the house.”

“Yes, something,” said Adèle. “A necklace⁠—a good one⁠—some good rings, and bracelets. And we shall find out where the rest is hid⁠—from her.” And she nodded at Celia.

The three people ate their supper, and, while they ate it, discussed Celia’s fate. She was lying with her head bowed upon her arms at the same table, within a foot of them. But they made no more of her presence than if she had been an old shoe. Only once did one of them speak to her.

“Stop your whimpering,” said Hippolyte roughly. “We can hardly hear ourselves talk.”

He was for finishing with the business altogether tonight.

“It’s a mistake,” he said. “There’s been a bungle, and the sooner we are rid of it the better. There’s a boat at the bottom of the garden.”

Celia listened and shuddered. He would have no more compunction over drowning her than he would have had over drowning a blind kitten.

“It’s cursed luck,” he said. “But we have got the necklace⁠—that’s something. That’s our share, do you see? The young spark can look for the rest.”

But Hélène Vauquier’s wish prevailed. She was the leader. They would keep the girl until she came to Geneva.

They took her upstairs into the big bedroom overlooking the lake. Adèle opened the door of the closet, where a truckle-bed stood, and thrust the girl in.

“This is my room,” she said warningly, pointing to the bedroom. “Take care I hear no noise. You might shout yourself hoarse, my pretty one; no one else would hear you. But I should, and afterwards⁠—we should no longer be able to call you ‘my pretty one,’ eh?”

And with a horrible playfulness she pinched the girl’s cheek.

Then with old Jeanne’s help she stripped Celia and told her to get into bed.

“I’ll give her something to keep her quiet,” said Adèle, and she fetched her morphia-needle and injected a dose into Celia’s arm.

Then they took her clothes away and left her in the darkness. She heard the key turn in the lock, and a moment after the sound of the bedstead being drawn across the doorway. But she heard no more, for almost immediately she fell asleep.

She was awakened some time the next day by the door opening. Old Jeanne Tacé brought her in a jug of water and a roll of bread, and locked her up again. And a long time afterwards she brought her another supply. Yet another day had gone, but in that dark cupboard Celia had no means of judging time. In the afternoon the newspaper came out with the announcement that Mme. Dauvray’s jewellery had been discovered under the boards. Hippolyte brought in the newspaper, and, cursing their stupidity, they sat down to decide upon Celia’s fate. That, however, was soon arranged. They would dress her in everything which she wore when she came, so that no trace of her might be discovered. They would give her another dose of morphia, sew her up in a sack as soon as she was unconscious, row her far out on to the lake, and sink her with a weight attached. They dragged her out from the cupboard, always with the threat of that bright aluminium flask before her eyes. She fell upon her knees, imploring their pity with the tears running down her cheeks; but they sewed the strip of sacking over her face so that she should see nothing of their preparations. They flung her on the sofa, secured her as Hanaud had found her, and, leaving her in the old woman’s charge, sent down Adèle for her needle and Hippolyte to get ready the boat. As Hippolyte opened the door he saw the launch of the Chef de la Sûreté glide along the bank.

XXI

Hanaud Explains

This is the story as Mr. Ricardo wrote it out from the statement of Celia herself and the confession of Adèle Rossignol. Obscurities which had puzzled him were made clear. But he was still unaware how Hanaud had worked out the solution.

“You promised me that you would explain,” he said, when they were both together after the trial was over at Aix. The two men had just finished luncheon at the Cercle and were sitting over their coffee. Hanaud lighted a cigar.

“There were difficulties, of course,” he said; “the crime was so carefully planned. The little details, such as the footprints, the absence of any mud from the girl’s shoes in the carriage