Jim had thought of Waberski as the possible murderer if murder had been done—a murderer who, disappointed of his legacy, the profits of his murder, had carried on his villainy to blackmail and a false accusation. But he had not associated Ann Upcott with him until those moments on the Terrace Tower. Yet now memories began to crowd upon him. The letter to him, for instance. She had said that Waberski had claimed her support and ridiculed his claim. Might that letter not have been a blind and a rather cunning blind? Above all there was a scene passing vividly through his mind which was very different from the scene spread out before his eyes, a scene of lighted rooms and a crowd about a long green table, and a fair slender girl seated at the table, who lost and lost until the whole of her little pile of banknotes was swept in by the croupier’s rake, and then turned away with a high carriage but a quivering lip.
“Aha!” said Hanaud keenly. “You know something after all of Ann Upcott, my friend. What do you know?”
Jim hesitated. At one moment it did not seem fair to her that he should relate his story. Explained, it might wear so different a complexion. At another moment that it would be fairer to let her explain it. And there was Betty to consider. Yes, above all there was Betty to consider. He was in Dijon on her behalf.
“I will tell you,” he said to Hanaud. “When I saw you in Paris, I told you that I had never seen Ann Upcott in all my life. I believed it. It wasn’t until she danced into the library yesterday morning that I realised I had misled you. I saw Ann Upcott at the trente et quarante table at the Sporting Club in Monte Carlo in January of this year. I sat next to her. She was quite alone and losing her money. Nothing would go right for her. She bore herself proudly and well. The only sign I saw of distress was the tightening of her fingers about her little handbag, and a look of defiance thrown at the other players when she rose after her last coup, as though she dared them to pity her. I was on the other hand winning, and I slipped a thousand-franc note off the table on to the floor, keeping my heel firmly upon it as you can understand. And as the girl turned to move out from the crowd I stopped her. I said in English, for she was obviously of my race, ‘This is yours. You have dropped it on the floor.’ She gave me a smile and a little shake of the head. I think that for the moment she dared not trust her lips to speak, and in a second, of course, she was swallowed up in the crowd. I played for a little while longer. Then I too rose and as I passed the entrance to the bar on my way to get my coat, this girl rose up from one of the many little tables and spoke to me. She called me by my name. She thanked me very prettily and said that although she had lost that evening she was not really in any trouble. I doubted the truth of what she said. For she had not one ring upon any finger, not the tiniest necklace about her throat, not one ornament upon her dress or in her hair. She turned away from me at once and went back to the little table where she sat down again in the company of a man. The girl of course was Ann Upcott, the man Waberski. It was from him no doubt that she had got my name.”
“Did this little episode happen before Ann Upcott became a member of the household?” Hanaud asked.
“Yes,” replied Jim. “I think she joined Mrs. Harlowe and Betty at Monte Carlo. I think that she came with them back to Dijon.”
“No doubt,” said Hanaud. He sat for a little while in silence. Then he said softly, “That does not look so very well for Mademoiselle Ann.”
Jim had to admit that it did not.
“But consider this, Monsieur Hanaud,” he urged. “If Ann Upcott, which I will not believe, is mixed up in this affair, why should she of her own free will volunteer this story of what she heard upon the night of the twenty-seventh and invent that face which bent down over her in the darkness?”
“I have an idea about that,” Hanaud replied. “She told us this story—when? After I had said that we must have the seals broken this afternoon and the rooms thrown open. It is possible that we may come upon something in those rooms which makes it wise for her to divert suspicion upon some other woman in the house. Jeanne Baudin, or even Mademoiselle Harlowe’s maid Francine Rollard.”
“But not Mademoiselle Betty,” Jim interposed quickly.
“No, no!” Hanaud returned with a wave of his hand. “The clock upon the marquetry cabinet settled that. Mademoiselle Betty is out of the affair. Well, this afternoon we shall see. Meanwhile, my friend, you will be late for your luncheon.”
Hanaud rose from the bench and with a last look at the magical mountain, that outpost of France, they turned towards the city.
Jim Frobisher looked down upon tiny squares green with limes and the steep gaily-patterned roofs of ancient houses. About him the fine tapering spires leapt high like lances from the slates of its many
