At the Villa Rose

a drawer, and I took out a dress and shook it, thinking that she may have wished to hide something. But nothing fell out. On the other hand, however, I saw some quite fresh grease-marks, made by fingers, and the marks were wet. I began to ask myself how it was that Hélène Vauquier, who had just been helped to dress by the nurse, had grease upon her fingers. Then I looked at a drawer which she had examined first of all. There were no grease-marks on the clothes she had turned over before the Commissaire leaned out of the window. Therefore it followed that during the few seconds when he was watching me she had touched grease. I looked about the room, and there on the dressing-table close by the chest of drawers was a pot of cold cream. That was the grease Hélène Vauquier had touched. And why⁠—if not to hide some small thing in it which, firstly, she dared not keep in her own room; which, secondly, she wished to hide in the room of Mlle. Célie; and which, thirdly, she had not had an opportunity to hide before? Now bear those three conditions in mind, and tell me what the small thing was.”

Mr. Ricardo nodded his head.

“I know now,” he said. “You told me. The earrings of Mlle. Célie. But I should not have guessed it at the time.”

“Nor could I⁠—at the time,” said Hanaud. “I kept my open mind about Hélène Vauquier; but I locked the door and took the key. Then we went and heard Vauquier’s story. The story was clever, because so much of it was obviously, indisputably true. The account of the séances, of Mme. Dauvray’s superstitions, her desire for an interview with Mme. de Montespan⁠—such details are not invented. It was interesting, too, to know that there had been a séance planned for that night! The method of the murder began to be clear. So far she spoke the truth. But then she lied. Yes, she lied, and it was a bad lie, my friend. She told us that the strange woman Adèle had black hair. Now I carried in my pocketbook proof that that woman’s hair was red. Why did she lie, except to make impossible the identification of that strange visitor? That was the first false step taken by Hélène Vauquier.

“Now let us take the second. I thought nothing of her rancour against Mlle. Célie. To me it was all very natural. She⁠—the hard peasant woman no longer young, who had been for years the confidential servant of Mme. Dauvray, and no doubt had taken her levy from the impostors who preyed upon her credulous mistress⁠—certainly she would hate this young and pretty outcast whom she has to wait upon, whose hair she has to dress. Vauquier⁠—she would hate her. But if by any chance she were in the plot⁠—and the lie seemed to show she was⁠—then the séances showed me new possibilities. For Hélène used to help Mlle. Célie. Suppose that the séance had taken place, that this sceptical visitor with the red hair professed herself dissatisfied with Vauquier’s method of testing the medium, had suggested another way, Mlle. Célie could not object, and there she would be neatly and securely packed up beyond the power of offering any resistance, before she could have a suspicion that things were wrong. It would be an easy little comedy to play. And if that were true⁠—why, there were my sofa cushions partly explained.”

“Yes, I see!” cried Ricardo, with enthusiasm. “You are wonderful.”

Hanaud was not displeased with his companion’s enthusiasm.

“But wait a moment. We have only conjectures so far, and one fact that Hélène Vauquier lied about the colour of the strange woman’s hair. Now we get another fact. Mlle. Célie was wearing buckles on her shoes. And there is my slit in the sofa cushions. For when she is flung on to the sofa, what will she do? She will kick, she will struggle. Of course it is conjecture. I do not as yet hold pigheadedly to it. I am not yet sure that Mlle. Célie is innocent. I am willing at any moment to admit that the facts contradict my theory. But, on the contrary, each fact that I discover helps it to take shape.

“Now I come to Hélène Vauquier’s second mistake. On the evening when you saw Mlle. Célie in the garden behind the baccarat-rooms you noticed that she wore no jewellery except a pair of diamond eardrops. In the photograph of her which Wethermill showed me, again she was wearing them. Is it not, therefore, probable that she usually wore them? When I examined her room I found the case for those earrings⁠—the case was empty. It was natural, then, to infer that she was wearing them when she came down to the séance.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I read a description⁠—a carefully written description⁠—of the missing girl, made by Hélène Vauquier after an examination of the girl’s wardrobe. There is no mention of the earrings. So I asked her⁠—‘Was she not wearing them?’ Hélène Vauquier was taken by surprise. How should I know anything of Mlle. Célie’s earrings? She hesitated. She did not quite know what answer to make. Now, why? Since she herself dressed Mlle. Célie, and remembers so very well all she wore, why does she hesitate? Well, there is a reason. She does not know how much I know about those diamond eardrops. She is not sure whether we have not dipped into that pot of cold cream and found them. Yet without knowing she cannot answer. So now we come back to our pot of cold cream.”

“Yes!” cried Mr. Ricardo. “They were there.”

“Wait a bit,” said Hanaud. “Let us see how it works out. Remember the conditions. Vauquier has some small thing which she must hide, and which she wishes to hide in Mlle. Célie’s room. For she admitted that it was her suggestion that she should look through mademoiselle’s wardrobe. For what reason does she