“Now we have got you back home and within the Maison Grenelle before half past one in the morning,” resumed Hanaud. “What did you do then?”
“I went straight upstairs to my bedroom,” said Betty.
“Was your maid waiting up for you, Mademoiselle?”
“No; I had told her that I should be late and that I could undress myself.”
“You are considerate, Mademoiselle. No wonder that your servants were pleased that you should have a little gaiety.”
Even that advance did not appease the offended girl.
“Yes?” she asked with a sort of silky sweetness which was more hostile than any acid rejoinder. But it did not stir Hanaud to any resentment.
“When, then, did you first hear of Madame Harlowe’s death?” was asked.
“The next morning my maid Francine came running into my room at seven o’clock. The nurse Jeanne had just discovered it. I slipped on my dressing-gown and ran downstairs. As soon as I saw that it was true, I rang up the two doctors who were in the habit of attending here.”
“Did you notice the glass of lemonade?”
“Yes. It was empty.”
“Your maid is still with you?”
“Yes—Francine Rollard. She is at your disposal.”
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders and smiled doubtfully.
“That, if it is necessary at all, can come later. We have the story of your movements now from you, Mademoiselle, and that is what is important.”
He rose from his chair.
“I have been, I am afraid, a very troublesome person, Mademoiselle Harlowe,” he said with a bow. “But it is very necessary for your own sake that no obscurities should be left for the world’s suspicions to play with. And we are very close to the end of this ordeal.”
Jim had nursed a hope the moment Hanaud rose that this wearing interview had already ended. Betty, for her part, was indifferent.
“That is for you to say, Monsieur,” she said implacably.
“Just two points then, and I think, upon reflection, you will understand that I have asked you no question which is unfair.”
Betty bowed.
“Your two points, Monsieur.”
“First, then. You inherit, I believe, the whole fortune of Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect to inherit it all? Did you know of her will?”
“No. I expected that a good deal of the money would be left to Monsieur Boris. But I don’t remember that she ever told me so. I expected it, because Monsieur Boris so continually repeated that it was so.”
“No doubt,” said Hanaud lightly. “As to yourself, was Madame generous to you during her life.”
The hard look disappeared from Betty’s face. It softened to sorrow and regret.
“Very,” she answered in a low voice. “I had one thousand pounds a year as a regular allowance, and a thousand pounds goes a long way in Dijon. Besides, if I wanted more, I had only to ask for it.”
Betty’s voice broke in a sob suddenly and Hanaud turned away with a delicacy for which Jim was not prepared. He began to look at the books upon the shelves, that she might have time to control her sorrow, taking down one here, one there, and speaking of them in a casual tone.
“It is easy to see that this was the library of Monsieur Simon Harlowe,” he said, and was suddenly brought to a stop. For the door was thrown open and a girl broke into the room.
“Betty,” she began, and stood staring from one to another of Betty’s visitors.
“Ann, this is Monsieur Hanaud,” said Betty with a careless wave of her hand, and Ann went white as a sheet.
Ann! Then this girl was Ann Upcott, thought Jim Frobisher, the girl who had written to him, the girl, all acquaintanceship with whom he had twice denied, and he had sat side by side with her, he had even spoken to her. She swept across the room to him.
“So you have come!” she cried. “But I knew that you would!”
Jim was conscious of a mist of shining yellow hair, a pair of sapphire eyes, and of a face impertinently lovely and most delicate in its colour.
“Of course I have come,” he said feebly, and Hanaud looked on with a smile. He had an eye on Betty Harlowe, and the smile said as clearly as words could say, “That young man is going to have a deal of trouble before he gets out of Dijon.”
VI
Jim Changes His Lodging
The library was a big oblong room with two tall windows looking into the court, and the observation window thrown out at the end over the footway of the street. A door in the inner wall close to this window led to a room behind, and a big open fireplace faced the windows on the court. For the rest, the walls were lined with high bookshelves filled with books, except for a vacant space here and there where a volume had been removed. Hanaud put back in its place the book which he had been holding in his hand.
“One can easily see that this is the library of Simon Harlowe, the collector,” he said. “I have always thought that if one only had the time to study and compare the books which a man buys and reads, one would more surely get the truth of him than in any other way. But alas! one never has the time.” He turned towards Jim Frobisher regretfully. “Come and stand with me, Monsieur Frobisher. For even a glance at the backs of them tells one something.”
Jim took his place by Hanaud’s side.
“Look, here is a book on Old English Gold Plate, and another—pronounce that title for me, if you please.”
Jim read the title of the book on which Hanaud’s finger was placed.
“Marks and Monograms on Pottery and Porcelain.”
Hanaud repeated the inscription and moved along. From a shelf at the level of his breast and just to the left of the window in which Betty was sitting, he took a large, thinnish volume in a paper cover, and turned over
