“We shall take no notice of them, eh?” said Hanaud. “Not a glance! Not even at those slim young legs. No! We leave them to talk and I tell you they will not talk about dead kings. No, Gorblimey!”
Julius Ricardo let the uncouth phrase pass without a reprimand. If Hanaud had the ambition to talk like a chauffeur, that was his affair. Ricardo would not interfere. He was suddenly in pain. He had been pierced by the injustice of his friends. There was Joyce Whipple at the table across the restaurant, her eyes shining, dimples coming and going in her cheeks, and not a thought for him. Had she or had she not told the story of her adventures that morning? Yes, she had. And Hanaud knew that story? He did. He had no doubt taken some action upon it? He had. Well, then! Here was the man who had helped kept in the dark. What a scandal!
“I do not even know who killed Evelyn Devenish,” he exclaimed, spreading out his hands.
“To that I can answer,” Hanaud replied gravely, “this: Robin Webster was arrested at eleven o’clock this morning on a charge of murder.”
“And Diana Tasborough?” Mr. Ricardo asked.
“Oh, no, no, my friend. That young lady had nothing to do with it.”
“In spite of that obsession?”
“Because of that obsession,” replied Mr. Hanaud, and Mr. Ricardo was conscious of an immense relief.
“And the old lady on the throne?” he pursued.
“Still on the throne,” answered Hanaud, and Mr. Ricardo, to his shame, had no feelings of relief or otherwise.
But at last he had persuaded Hanaud into a mood of disclosure, and his questions tumbled out of him, leaping and clashing and swirling like a millrace through a half-opened sluice.
“Why did Robin Webster kill Evelyn Devenish? And where? And what did Joyce Whipple mean when she cried: ‘It is not I who dispense the cold?’ And why did the Abbé Fauriel cross himself and creep about so furtively afterwards? And what was it that you, Hanaud, discovered in Diana Tasborough’s room? And where was Diana when Joyce Whipple snapped off the light and I rapped upon the glass door? And how did the mask come to be caught up in the tree? Yes, and a word about that tumbled bed, if you please. And how, in spite of your fine cordon of police, was Joyce brought to the Rue Grégoire? And how did you learn of her coming? And why did you seal up an empty cupboard, and a room with nothing in it but for a few chairs and tables? Yes, and since we are talking of the Château Mirandol, who spread the mustard gas upon the gate and why? Give me an answer to some of these perplexities and then I have a hundred other questions for you. For instance, how did Joyce Whipple’s bracelet find itself in the basket? And how—”
But at this point Hanaud clutched his forehead with his hands in so desperate a frenzy that Mr. Ricardo faltered.
“If you continue,” Hanaud warned him, “in one minute I go ca-ca.”
“Gaga, one word,” Mr. Ricardo corrected, the habit of accuracy reasserting its authority.
“Well, gaga, then, if you insist—though I should have said—well, let it go. More of your questions and I am gaga. Yes, for just at this moment I cannot answer half of them. In two days’ time, perhaps. Oh, you shall know all, my friend, never fear, but first let me get smooth and straight the history of this dark and lawless business.”
He sat and smoothed out the white tablecloth with gentle sweeping movements of his palms, as if he were wiping away the creases and folds in the record of the amazing crime. Then he smiled a little and raised his eyes to his companion’s face.
“Meanwhile I give you an answer to two questions you have not asked. Why was there something familiar and precise and pedantic in the utterance of Robin Webster? Aha! You jump. Yes, you had forgotten. And why was the flyleaf torn from some of the volumes in that queer little collection at the head of his bed? Aha! You jump again. Good! You do well to jump. The answer to both those questions is the same: Robin Webster is a renegade priest.”
If Ricardo had jumped a little at the questions, he rose clean out of his chair at the answer. For a moment he felt his hair stirring upon his scalp. Then he slowly let himself down again.
“Of course,” he said in a whisper. Then he lifted his eyes in a piteous appeal. “When I read a book, I must first of all look at the last page. I cannot bear it unless I do.”
Hanaud smiled.
“You have only, I think, to look across the room to see the last page of this book,” he said. But he started as he spoke, and directed a warning glance at his companion. For Joyce Whipple and Bryce Carter were crossing to their table. Joyce held out a hand to each of the two men.
“I have only this instant seen you. How shall I thank you?” she asked in a low voice, but tears sprang into her eyes, and to both of them they were thanks enough.
“I shall tell you how,” Hanaud replied. “You shall sit down and take your coffee with us.”
But Joyce shook her head. “We hurried over our coffee, because I want to get back to my bed. I could sleep for two days,” and though she laughed, she delicately yawned. It was as much as she could do to keep her eyes open.
“I have an idea,” cried Hanaud. “You shall sleep for two days, mademoiselle. That is the time I want. And in two days’ time we dine together, the four of us, at my little hotel on the Place des Quinconces, and then we tell, each in turn, what each one knows, and then this poor Mr. Ricardo will be able
