“I ought not to have turned aside from what I was telling you,” he said, looking at Hanaud with some severity. “Yes, Evelyn Devenish shivered, and Joyce Whipple exclaimed, she, too, rather violently: ‘It’s no use looking at me, Evelyn. It’s not I who dispense the cold.’ It seemed to me that there was an under-stream of hysteria in both Evelyn and Joyce Whipple. Undoubtedly both of them were nervous—Joyce particularly. Her voice, which was naturally low and sweet, had roughened and was harsh. I couldn’t detect the least smallest reason for the excitement which was vibrating in those two young women. But it was evident suddenly, and as suddenly it passed—a zigzag of lightning. But the Abbé understood. He crossed himself secretly, and during the rest of dinner he spoke no more. Not a word! He just sat and watched with bright eyes ranging about the table—like—like—a bird’s!”
Hanaud patted his friend upon the knee; and sat with a frown upon his face.
“ ‘It is not I who dispense the cold,’ ” he repeated, and he looked up at Herbesthal. “Those are very strange words, Monsieur le Commissaire. Yet the old fox understood them. Well, we must understand them too. For I think they are the key to the whole affair.”
He stood up, as though all his business with the terrace and the garden was at an end. But before he could move away, he heard a motorcar approach and stop on the other side of the house.
“The wanderers have returned,” he said. He took out his watch and looked at the dial.
“Six o’clock!”
Time had passed swiftly for that party upon the terrace. Mr. Ricardo found it difficult to believe that the better part of three hours had slipped away since Diana Tasborough and Robin Webster had started out to send a telegram from Pauillac.
“They were very wise to take the air,” said Hanaud. He fetched a packet of black cigarettes in a wrapper of bright blue paper out of a pocket. He offered one to the Commissaire Herbesthal, who took it, and another to Mr. Ricardo, who did not. He struck a sulphur match, watched it fizzle into a flame, and with some ceremony lighted the Commissaire’s cigarette. Then he lit his own and, resuming his seat, began placidly to relate an ancient experience of the days when he was a novice in the police.
XIV
Hanaud Is Startled
He broke off as “the wanderers” came out upon the terrace, and had a smile of congratulation for Diana Tasborough, to whose face some tinge of her fresh colour had returned.
“That is better, mademoiselle,” he said. “You sent off your telegrams?”
“Yes,” and she added: “Mr. Webster persuaded me to prolong the drive.”
Robin Webster proceeded to justify his advice with that prim and exact articulation which never failed to strike Mr. Ricardo as a little incongruous in a young man of so much elegance.
“I argued that it would be of benefit to Miss Tasborough, that we should only hamper your investigations here by an immediate return, and that we might perhaps be a little useful to you ourselves, if we made some inquiries of our neighbours.”
Hanaud, who had been listening attentively, cried out with an explosive emphasis which the occasion did not seem to warrant:
“I am sure of it!” and noticing some surprise upon Robin Webster’s face, modified his tone. “You could have done nothing wiser. Did you get any satisfaction from your inquiries?”
Robin Webster shook his head.
“No one had seen Joyce Whipple.”
The mere pronunciation of her name made his voice shake and his cheek turn pale, and distress so clouded his eyes that Mr. Ricardo wished for words wherewith to comfort him. He was in love, this young man, and for young people in love Mr. Ricardo had always a tender corner of his heart. No doubt the candle burning late in his empty room had a suspicious look. That was not to be forgotten. But it might after all have been no more than a ruse to conceal a tryst with Joyce Whipple which she had not kept. Robin Webster might even have been searching for her desperately whilst the candle was burning down to its last fragment of wick. No doubt, too, Hanaud imagined that he had made yet another remarkable discovery in the chalet. Mr. Ricardo was not quite certain but that his sharp involuntary “I am sure” of a minute ago was a confirmation of that discovery. But Hanaud could blunder like everyone else. He could shout “Swan” when he saw a goose, as loudly as the rest of the world, and for tuppence Mr. Ricardo would tell him so. It seemed, however, that Hanaud had been impressed, too, by the sincerity of the young man’s emotion. For his voice when he spoke was pitiful.
“You must not lose heart. Monsieur Herbesthal’s men are searching the neighbourhood thoroughly, on the chance that this poor girl may, as it so often happens, have lost her memory. If on the other hand there has been foul play, I can tell you that not a motorcar, not a carriage, not even a cart will escape from the ring which has been drawn about this environment without such a search as will leave nothing undisclosed. Every road, every cart-track, every path is watched.”
Monsieur Herbesthal nodded his head.
“Ever since this morning that has been so.”
“Yes,” Diana agreed hopefully. “We ourselves were stopped all through this afternoon.”
Her hope was not shared by Robin Webster.
“That is all very well,” he said, staring miserably at Hanaud. “But what I am afraid of is that now not the whole French army encamped upon the roads could ever restore her to us. I fear—” but he choked upon the word and could not utter it.
“You fear murder,” said Hanaud.
A spasm of pain convulsed Robin Webster’s face.
“Yes,” he answered in a whisper.
Suddenly Hanaud rose up from the bench and astonished all who were about him on that terrace. Such a
