“Aha!” said Hanaud. “It is unlocked. We have something, after all, Monsieur Frobisher. Here is a jewel-case unlocked, and jewel-cases do not unlock themselves. It was here?”
He looked towards the cupboard in the wall, of which the door stood open.
“Yes,” said Betty. “I opened the door, and took the case out by the side handles. The lid came open when I touched it.”
“Will you look through it, please, and see whether anything is missing?”
While Betty began to examine the contents of the jewel-case, Hanaud went to Francine, who stood apart. He took her by the arm and led her to the door.
“I am sorry if I frightened you, Francine,” he said. “But, after all, we are not such alarming people, the Police, eh? No, so long as good little maids hold their good little tongues, we can be very good friends. Of course, if there is chatter, little Francine, and gossip, little Francine, and that good-looking baker’s boy is tomorrow spreading over Dijon the story of Hanaud’s little experiment, Hanaud will know where to look for the chatterers.”
“Monsieur, I shall not say one word,” cried Francine.
“And how wise that will be, little Francine!” Hanaud rejoined in a horribly smooth and silky voice. “For Hanaud can be the wickedest of wicked Uncles to naughty little chatterers. Ohhoho, yes! He seizes them tight—so—and it will be ever so long before he says to them ‘That—will—do—now!’ ”
He rounded off his threats with a quite friendly laugh and gently pushed Francine Rollard from the room. Then he returned to Betty, who had lifted the tray out of the box and was opening some smaller cases which had been lying at the bottom. The light danced upon pendant and bracelet, buckle and ring, but Betty still searched.
“You miss something, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes.”
“It was, after all, certain that you would,” Hanaud continued. “If murders are committed, there will be some reason. I will even venture to guess that the jewel which you miss is of great value.”
“It is,” Betty admitted. “But I expect it has only been mislaid. No doubt we shall find it somewhere, tucked away in a drawer.” She spoke with very great eagerness, and a note of supplication that the matter should rest there. “In any case, what has disappeared is mine, isn’t it? And I am not going to imitate Monsieur Boris. I make no complaint.”
Hanaud shook his head.
“You are very kind, Mademoiselle. But we cannot, alas! say here ‘That will do now.’ ” It was strange to Jim to notice how he kept harping upon the words of that whisper. “We are not dealing with a case of theft, but with a case of murder. We must go on. What is it that you miss?”
“A pearl necklace,” Betty answered reluctantly.
“A big one?”
It was noticeable that as Betty’s reluctance increased Hanaud became more peremptory and abrupt.
“Not so very.”
“Describe it to me, Mademoiselle!”
Betty hesitated. She stood with a troubled face looking out upon the garden. Then with a shrug of resignation she obeyed.
“There were thirty-five pearls—not so very large, but they were perfectly matched and of a beautiful pink. My uncle took a great deal of trouble and some years to collect them. Madame told me herself that they actually cost him nearly a hundred thousand pounds. They would be worth even more now.”
“A fortune, then,” cried Hanaud.
Not a person in that room had any belief that the necklace would be found, laid aside somewhere by chance. Here was Hanaud’s case building itself up steadily. Another storey was added to it this afternoon. This or that experiment might fail. What did that matter? A motive for the murder came to light now. Jim had an intuition that nothing now could prevent a definite result; that the truth, like a beam of light that travels for a million of years, would in the end strike upon a dark spot, and that someone would stand helpless and dazzled in a glare—the criminal.
“Who knew of this necklace of yours, Mademoiselle, beside yourself?” Hanaud asked.
“Everyone in the house, Monsieur. Madame wore it nearly always.”
“She wore it, then, on the day of her death?”
“Yes, I—” Betty began, and she turned towards Ann for confirmation, and then swiftly turned away again. “I think so.”
“I am sure of it,” said Ann steadily, though her face had grown rather white and her eyes anxious.
“How long has Francine Rollard been with you?” Hanaud asked of Betty.
“Three years. No—a little more. She is the only maid I have ever had,” Betty answered with a laugh.
“I see,” Hanaud said thoughtfully; and what he saw, it seemed to Jim Frobisher that everyone else in that room saw too. For no one looked at Ann Upcott. Old servants do not steal valuable necklaces: Ann Upcott and Jeanne Baudin, the nurse, were the only newcomers to the Maison Grenelle these many years; and Jeanne Baudin had the best of characters. Thus the argument seemed to run though no one expressed it in words.
Hanaud turned his attention to the lock of the cupboard, and shook his head over it. Then he crossed to the dressing-table and the morocco case.
“Aha!” he said with a lively interest. “This is a different affair;” and he bent down closely over it.
The case was not locked with a key at all. There were three small gilt knobs in the front of the case, and the lock was set by the number of revolutions given to each knob. These, of course, could be varied with each knob, and all must be known before the case could be opened—Mrs. Harlowe’s jewels had been guarded by a formula.
“There has been no violence used here,” said Hanaud, standing up again.
“Of course my aunt may have forgotten to lock the case,” said Betty.
“Of course that’s possible,” Hanaud agreed.
“And of course this room was open to anyone between the time of my
