The House of the Arrow

took up his own memorandum which Hanaud had just laid aside out of his file. He laid it on the table in front of him and added two new questions to those which he had already written out. Thus:

1. What was the exact message telephoned from Paris to the Prefecture and hidden away in an envelope marked by Hanaud: “Address”?

2. When and where and why was the white tablet picked up, and what, in the name of all the saints, does it mean?

With another laugh Frobisher tossed the memorandum back to Hanaud. Hanaud, however, read them slowly and thoughtfully. “I had hoped to answer all your questions tonight,” he said dispiritedly. “But you see! We break down at every corner, and the question must wait.”

He was fitting methodically the memorandum back into the file when a look of extreme surprise came over Frobisher’s face. He pointed a finger at the file.

“That telegram!”

There was a telegram pinned to the three anonymous letters which Hanaud had in the file⁠—the two which Hanaud had shown to Frobisher in Paris and the third which Betty Harlowe had given to him that very afternoon. And the telegram was pieced together by two strips of stamp-paper in a cross.

“That’s our telegram. The telegram sent to my firm by Miss Harlowe on Monday⁠—yes, by George, this last Monday.”

It quite took Jim’s breath away, so crowded had his days been with fears and reliefs, excitements and doubts, discoveries and disappointments, to realise that this was only the Friday night; that at so recent a date as Wednesday he had never seen or spoken with Betty Harlowe. “The telegram announcing to us in London that you were engaged upon the case.”

Hanaud nodded in assent.

“Yes. You gave it to me.”

“And you tore it up.”

“I did. But I picked it out of the wastepaper basket afterwards and stuck it together.” Hanaud explained, in no wise disconcerted by Jim Frobisher’s attack of perspicacity. “I meant to make some trouble here with the Police for letting out the secret. I am very glad now that I did pick it out. You yourself must have realised its importance the very next morning before I even arrived at the Maison Grenelle, when you told Mademoiselle that you had shown it to me.”

Jim cast his memory back. He had a passion for precision and exactness which was very proper in one of his profession.

“It was not until you came that I learnt Miss Harlowe had the news by an anonymous letter,” he said.

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” Hanaud interposed a trifle quickly. “The point of importance to me is that when the case is done with, and I have a little time to devote to these letters, the telegram may be of value.”

“Yes, I see,” said Jim. “I see that,” he repeated, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair; and opened his mouth and closed it again; and remained suspended between speech and silence, whilst Hanaud read through his file and contemplated his exhibits and found no hope in them.

“They lead me nowhere!” he cried violently; and Jim Frobisher made up his mind.

“Monsieur Hanaud, you do not share your thoughts with me,” he said rather formally, “but I will deal with you in a better way; apart from this crime in the Maison Grenelle, you have the mystery of these anonymous letters to solve. I can help you to this extent. Another of them has been received.”

“When?”

“Tonight, whilst we sat at dinner.”

“By whom?”

“Ann Upcott.”

“What!”

Hanaud was out of his chair with a cry, towering up, his face white as the walls of the room, his eyes burning upon Frobisher. Never could news have been so unexpected, so startling.

“You are sure?” he asked.

“Quite. It came by the evening post⁠—with others. Gaston brought them into the dining-room. There was one for me from my firm in London, a couple for Betty, and this one for Ann Upcott. She opened it with a frown, as though she did not know from whom it came. I saw it as she unfolded it. It was on the same common paper⁠—typewritten in the same way⁠—with no address at the head of it. She gasped as she looked at it, and then she read it again. And then with a smile she folded it and put it away.”

“With a smile?” Hanaud insisted.

“Yes. She was pleased. The colour came into her face. The distress went out of it.”

“She didn’t show it to you, then?”

“No.”

“Nor to Mademoiselle Harlowe?”

“No.”

“But she was pleased, eh?” It seemed that to Hanaud this was the most extraordinary feature of the whole business. “Did she say anything?”

“Yes,” answered Jim. “She said ‘He has been always right, hasn’t he?’ ”

“She said that! ‘He has been always right, hasn’t he?’ ” Hanaud slowly resumed his seat, and sat like a man turned into stone. He looked up in a little while.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“Nothing until dinner was over. Then she picked up her letter and beckoned with her head to Miss Betty, who said to me: ‘We shall have to leave you to take your coffee alone.’ They went across the hall to Betty’s room. The treasure-room. I was a little nettled. Ever since I have been in Dijon one person after another has pushed me into a corner with orders to keep quiet and not interfere. So I came to find you at the Grande Taverne.”

At another moment Jim’s eruption of injured vanity would have provoked Hanaud to one of his lamentable exhibitions, but now he did not notice it at all.

“They went away to talk that letter over together,” said Hanaud. “And that young lady was pleased, she who was so distressed this afternoon. A way out, then!” Hanaud was discussing his problem with himself, his eyes upon the table. “For once the Scourge is kind? I wonder! It baffles me!” He rose to his feet and walked once or twice across the room. “Yes, I the old bull of a hundred corridas, I, Hanaud, am baffled!”

He was not posturing now. He was frankly and simply