Hanaud was the first to break it.
“Ahaha! There are other points of difference in this room, Marianne, besides the clothes,” he cried, looking about him; and indeed where all had been tidiness in Evelyn Devenish’s room, here all was disorder. The silver dress which Joyce Whipple had worn was flung carelessly across a chair; her silver slippers lay one kicked into one corner, another in the middle of the room; her stockings had been tossed in a bundle on to a second chair. It was clear that upon coming up from the drawing-room Joyce had changed her dress even to her shoes and stockings in a great haste.
Hanaud opened a wardrobe which stood against the right-hand wall of the room. It was full of dresses and tailored suits all hanging orderly.
“There are others in the lowest drawer,” said Marianne, pointing to a tall chest of drawers against the back wall by the side of the door. Hanaud stooped and drew it open. Certainly some other skirts and coats lay there, but they were all neatly folded. Hanaud turned to Marianne and spoke abruptly and with authority.
“You have been very amusing, Marianne, no doubt. But we are not here to amuse ourselves. You will now tell me plainly, whether to your knowledge any dress is missing from the wardrobe or the drawer.”
“I do not know,” Marianne replied without budging an inch.
“Or any cloak.”
“I do not know. Mademoiselle has been at the Château Suvlac for a fortnight, and once or twice she has put on a wrap in the evening when she has been out of doors on the terrace.” She went to the wardrobe and examined the clothes hung up there. “Yes, it has always been this one,” and she touched a glittering cloak of gold lamé.
“Thank you,” said Hanaud. “I need not keep you any longer from your service.”
Marianne closed the door of the wardrobe and went out of the room. Hanaud walked over to the bed which stood against the wall opposite to the wardrobe with the foot of it stretching out into the room. The bedclothes were tumbled, the pyjamas crumpled up, the pillow flung aside. Hanaud threw the bedclothes back. The lower sheet was flat and tightly stretched over the mattress without a wrinkle on its surface.
“Yes, it is clear,” said the Commissaire. “No body has lain in that bed since it was made.”
Hanaud called Mr. Ricardo to his side.
“Let us now put quite clearly, my friend, the question you approached. Madame Devenish retires to her room. She stops for a moment at her dressing table to touch her hair, powder her face, and repair the little disorders of the evening. She puts on her cloak of brown satin, opens her window and slips out. Whither she is bound we do not know. But she does not tumble her bed. No! Why should she? If she does not mean to come back, there is no reason why she should pretend to have slept in it. If she does, there is still less reason, for she means to sleep in it on her return. That is clear, eh?”
“Yes,” Mr. Ricardo agreed.
“But now consider the case of Joyce Whipple! She too retires to her room. She changes her clothes in a great haste, and then”—he flung his arms out wide—“she too is gone. But her bed is tumbled. If she meant to come back and sleep in it, again I ask you, why should she tumble it? If she did not mean to come back, what is the use of pretending that she has slept in it? There is a notice on the door … ‘Do not wake me, Marianne!’ If she does not mean to come back, she has taken her precautions. She will not be missed until the hour of luncheon. Why should she tumble her bed any more than the unhappy Madame Devenish? So you see your question, plain and clear now.”
Mr. Ricardo had not one idea of the nature of the famous question which he was supposed to have put, but he nodded his head vigorously and sagely.
“Of course,” he said.
“Did Mademoiselle Whipple go out of this room of her own accord?” Hanaud went on to Ricardo’s amazement. “Yes, that is the question.”
“But there was no noise,” Ricardo objected.
“No, there was no noise that anyone could hear, and yet I ask myself that question. She meant to go somewhere—that is clear from the fact that she changed her clothes in so much haste. Oh, there are a hundred questions. Did she mean to go with the woman Devenish? Did she mean to follow her? Was it by an accident that she meant to go where she meant to go on the same night that Evelyn Devenish went? But more important than all these questions is this one. Did she actually in the end go of her own accord? Suppose that she was taken away—”
“By force?” interrupted Mr. Ricardo.
“And by some persons who had not noticed that writing on the door, because they are in the dark and in a hurry! If they tumble the bed they may win some hours before it is discovered that the young lady has disappeared. Marianne finds the bed in disorder. Very well. Then mademoiselle has risen early. She may be amongst the vines.” He
