For a little while Jim could see nothing but that screen. Then the hall swam gradually within his vision. He saw the heads of people like great bullets and a wider central corridor where waitresses with white aprons moved. Jim walked up the corridor and turned off to the left between the tables. When he reached the wall he went forward again towards the top of the hall. On his left the hall fell back, and in the recess were two large cubicles in which billiard tables were placed. Against the wall of the first of these a young man was leaning with his eyes fixed upon the screen. Jim fancied that he recognised Maurice Thevenet, and nodded to him as he passed. A little further on a big man with a soft felt hat was seated alone, with a Bock in front of him—Hanaud. Jim slipped into a seat at his side.
“You?” Hanaud exclaimed in surprise.
“Why not? You told me this is where you would be at this hour,” replied Jim, and some note of discouragement in his voice attracted Hanaud’s attention.
“I didn’t think that those two young ladies would let you go,” he said.
“On the contrary,” Jim replied with a short laugh. “They didn’t want me at all.”
He began to say something more, but thought better of it, and called to a waitress.
“Two Bocks, if you please,” he ordered, and he offered Hanaud a cigar.
When the Bocks were brought, Hanaud said to him:
“It will be well to pay at once, so that we can slip away when we want.”
“We have something to do tonight?” Jim asked.
“Yes.”
He said no more until Jim had paid and the waitress had turned the two little saucers on which she had brought the Bocks upside down and had gone away. Then he leaned towards Jim and lowered his voice.
“I am glad that you came here. For I have a hope that we shall get the truth tonight, and you ought to be present when we do get it.”
Jim lit his own cigar.
“From whom do you hope to get it?”
“Jean Cladel,” Hanaud answered in a whisper. “A little later when all the town is quiet we will pay a visit to the street of Gambetta.”
“You think he’ll talk?”
Hanaud nodded.
“There is no charge against Cladel in this affair. To make a solution of that poison paste is not an offence. And he has so much against him that he will want to be on our side if he can. Yes, he will talk I have no doubt.”
There would be an end of the affair then, tonight. Jim Frobisher was glad with an unutterable gladness. Betty would be free to order her life as she liked, and where she liked, to give to her youth its due scope and range, to forget the terror and horror of these last weeks, as one forgets old things behind locked doors.
“I hope, however,” he said earnestly to Hanaud, “and I believe, that you will be found wrong, that if there was a murder Ann Upcott had nothing to do with it. Yes, I believe that.” He repeated his assertion as much to convince himself as to persuade Hanaud.
Hanaud touched his elbow.
“Don’t raise your voice too much, my friend,” he said. “I think there is someone against the wall who is honouring us with his attention.”
Jim shook his head.
“It is only Maurice Thevenet,” he said.
“Oho?” answered Hanaud in a voice of relief. “Is that all? For a moment I was anxious. It seemed that there was a sentinel standing guard over us.” He added in a whisper, “I, too, hope from the bottom of my heart that I may be proved wrong. But what of that arrow head in the pen tray? Eh? Don’t forget that!” Then he fell into a muse.
“What happened on that night in the Maison Grenelle?” he said. “Why was that communicating door thrown open? Who was to be stripped to the skin by that violent woman? Who whispered ‘That will do now’? Is Ann Upcott speaking the truth, and was there some terrible scene taking place before she entered so unexpectedly the treasure room—some terrible scene which ended in that dreadful whisper? Or is Ann Upcott lying from beginning to end? Ah, my friend, you wrote some questions down upon your memorandum this afternoon. But these are the questions I want answered, and where shall I find the answers?”
Jim had never seen Hanaud so moved. His hands were clenched, and the veins prominent upon his forehead, and though he whispered his voice shook.
“Jean Cladel may help,” said Jim.
“Yes, yes, he may tell us something.”
They sat through an episode of the film, and saw the lights go up and out again, and then Hanaud looked eagerly at his watch and put it back again into his pocket with a gesture of annoyance.
“It is still too early?” Jim asked.
“Yes. Cladel has no servant and takes his meals abroad. He has not yet returned home.”
A little before ten o’clock a man strolled in, and seating himself at a table behind Hanaud twice scraped a match upon a matchbox without getting a light. Hanaud, without moving, said quietly to Frobisher:
“He is at home now. In a minute I shall go. Give me five minutes and follow.”
Jim nodded.
“Where shall we meet?”
“Walk straight along the Rue de la Liberté, and I will see to that,” said Hanaud.
He pulled his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, put one between his lips, and took his time in lighting it. Then he got up, but to his annoyance Maurice Thevenet recognised him and came forward.
“When Monsieur Frobisher wished me good evening and joined you I thought it was you, Monsieur Hanaud. But I had not the presumption to recall myself to your notice.”
“Presumption! Monsieur, we are of the same service, only you have the
