“The Diary of Casanova,” Hanaud read out. “The Ornaments of Ruysbroek, the Mystic, Mademoiselle de Maupin, The Imitatio Christi, Urn Burial and La Fille aux Yeux d’Or. A very interesting person, this Monsieur Webster! What a collection!”
He took the copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin into his hands and opened it at the flyleaf.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “ ‘Robin Webster.’ ”
He replaced the book and took at random one of the volumes of Casanova. That too bore the name of Robin Webster upon the flyleaf. The binding of the third book which he removed from its shelf was more used than the other bindings; at which Mr. Ricardo was surprised. For it was The Ornaments of Ruysbroek, the Mystic, and it seemed an unlikely book to find in frequent use in the bedroom of the manager of a vineyard. Hanaud opened it. The sewing of the leaves even was loose, and the flyleaf had disappeared altogether.
But Mr. Ricardo was now at Hanaud’s side, not looking over his shoulder—for that his stature prevented him from doing—but peeping round his elbow; and as Hanaud was closing the book he exclaimed in remonstrance at the detective’s carelessness:
“But, my friend, you don’t notice things any more! How is this?”
“Tell me! Tell me quick!” cried Hanaud in a voice of anguish at all the mistakes which he was committing.
“The flyleaf of that book was not lost because it was loose. Not at all. It was folded back and creased and then neatly and deliberately cut out.”
Hanaud’s voice grew strong again.
“I did notice that. Yes, yes. Some remnants of Hanaud’s once terrific acumen are still alive. The flyleaf has been cut out.”
“But why?” Mr. Ricardo cried triumphantly. “It is obvious. Robin Webster has changed his name.”
“I wonder,” Hanaud replied. He took down the Imitatio Christi. From that book too the flyleaf had been neatly removed. He stood and stared at it for an appreciable time. Then he slowly replaced it and as slowly observed:
“There is another explanation. I like it the better of the two. For it explains to me something about Robin Webster which has been puzzling me all this day.”
He resumed his searching, running through the drawers with the light touch of a woman and a swiftness which was all his own. An old chest remained, on the closed lid of which lay heaped a pipe or two, a tennis racket, a telephone book, a map, an American magazine, the miscellanies which a man collects. Hanaud swept them aside and burrowed in the chest. A travelling rug and a heavy overcoat were tossed upon the floor, and then Hanaud stood up, holding in his hands a little cheap oblong box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He shook the box and something within it rattled faintly. He tried the lid but it was locked down, and he seated himself at the table. The lock was as cheap as the box. Hanaud took from his pocket a bunch of tiny steel implements on a ring. He selected a forceps and in a trice the box was open.
“Oho!” said he, and he shook out on to the table some eight or ten letters—if letters they could be called. For even to the eyes of Mr. Ricardo, on the other side of the table, they had the appearance of notes, most of them in pencil and all scribbled off in a hurry. Hanaud read them quickly, and his face changed.
“Aha!” he said slowly, and looking up he nodded at Mr. Ricardo in confirmation of some suggestion which he had made.
“Yes, yes!” said Hanaud, which was pleasant for Mr. Ricardo as far as it went. But since Mr. Ricardo was not allowed to see even the signature to the letters, it did not go very far. Hanaud replaced the letters in the box and turned to Moreau.
“These must be photographed—now. It will be a matter of a few minutes for you.”
“I’ll fetch my camera and the little board to keep them flat,” said Moreau, making for the door. But he was recalled.
“No. Our friend the—” and Hanaud pulled himself up short. “Our friend, Mr. Robin, might hop in and make us leave the work unfinished. Better take them to our room, photograph them as quickly as you can and bring them back, if you’re in time. If you’re not, so much the worse for us. We keep the box and hope that its disappearance will not be discovered too soon.”
He spoke confidently enough, but he was certainly on the tenterhook during Moreau’s absence. He walked backwards and forwards between the table and the window, peering up the avenue, searching again some corner which he had already searched and betraying every sign of impatience. Finally he sat down again at the table and folded his hands.
“Why does a man keep letters from a woman in a locked box?” he asked suddenly. “Can you tell me that?”
Julius Ricardo smiled. The answer was obvious.
“Because he is in love,” he replied. “You will remember that I saw him leaning forward over the back of a chair. And my observation was confirmed by his outburst this morning when we discovered that Joyce Whipple had vanished.”
Hanaud looked curiously at Mr. Ricardo.
“Then those letters, notes, fragments of writing—call them what you will—were from Joyce Whipple?” he asked.
“I did not need to see the signatures you so carefully concealed to be aware of that, my friend,” said Mr. Ricardo in gentle reproach.
Hanaud turned abruptly to Herbesthal.
“And you, Monsieur le Commissaire? Why does a man keep letters from a lady in a locked box? Do you say the same? Is it because he is in love?”
“Probably,” replied the Commissaire with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Well, it may be,” said Hanaud doubtfully. “But again I
