It’s intolerable. I don’t want to threaten but you have got to do what I want. My necklace has gone and you know where and why. You won’t find it difficult to arrange. I don’t believe for a moment that she’s going to America. She’s spying. I am sure of it. I have watched her listening. She means to use her journey to America as an excuse to get away when she has found out what she wants, and then she’s going to make all the trouble she can to save Diana. I am sure of it. But you can use the journey to America as an excuse. She is going from Bordeaux to Cherbourg, she says. You can drive her into Bordeaux the night before she goes. She hasn’t any friends there to see her off. You must fix it up or I’ll do what she’s meaning to do. Yes, I will. The whole story—the Black Mass, our plan concerning Diana—yes, I’d rather pull the whole neighbourhood down with a crash and go down with it myself than allow things to go on as they are going. Do you know I went to the Cave of the Mummies today? You remember that boy? I dream of that—just that for her! It would serve her right for interfering—for throwing herself at you. You needn’t think she cares for you. You don’t mean the least little thing to her. We shall all be at Mirandol on Tuesday night.
You can arrange the little that is left to be arranged there, and then on Thursday—she can go with you to Bordeaux.
This was the last extract to which Hanaud called Mr. Ricardo’s attention. He took back the copies of the letters and, replacing them in his portfolio, locked it.
“So there’s the history of this crime up to the point where Joyce Whipple begins her story,” he said. “Evelyn Devenish demanding the murder of Joyce Whipple under the threat of a complete exposure; Diana Tasborough in a maze of fear and excitement; Robin Webster at his wits’ ends, desiring Joyce as he had never desired anyone, and solving his dilemma as he thought by one swift blow which would implicate everyone, you understand—Diana, the Judge, Cassandre de Mirandol. Not one would be able to lift a finger against him. Not one but must conspire to bury that crime amongst the mysteries which have baffled the police. Yes, and he would have succeeded—but for the audacity and the devotion of your little friend, Joyce Whipple.”
He stood up as he ended his speech and reached for his hat. Mr. Ricardo, however, did not move. He looked about the room rather sadly.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I had a hope that Diana, somehow, would be found quite outside the crime. But since she was here upon that night—here in this room all ablaze with light—” he did not finish the sentence. But, in his turn, he stood up and took one last look about the room. His eyes met the eyes of the image upon the wall, and now could meet them. Hanaud’s hand fell upon his shoulder.
“I shall put your mind at ease,” he said gravely. “Diana Tasborough was not here upon that night. It was I who told her of the murder of Evelyn Devenish. Let us go!”
He locked the door of the conference room behind him and handed the key to the sergeant in charge.
XXVI
M to O Inclusive
On the following evening four people sat down to dinner at the corner table by the window in the restaurant of the Faisan d’Or—Julius Ricardo and Hanaud in chairs upon one side, Joyce Whipple and Bryce Carter upon the cushioned bench against the wall. The day was closing in. Already the lights were beginning to twinkle through the leaves of the lime trees in the Place des Quinconces. Mr. Ricardo could not but remember that other evening of suspense, so recent in fact, so immeasurably distant judged by events, when his motorcar had waited on the other side of the roadway and Hanaud had sat with his back against the wall smoking cigar after cigar and Joyce Whipple’s life had hung upon a thread. Now she sat in that same place, her delicate face still shadowed by the ordeal of terror through which she had passed, her old look of competence replaced by a tender wistfulness. She was as spruce and trim as ever in her suit of chestnut brown marocain, but her great haunting eyes turned continually to the lover at her side, and every now and then her hand would rest upon his arm, as though to assure herself of his neighbourhood. A tall vase of flowers had been idiotically placed upon the table after the fashion of restaurants, so that no one could see his or her opposite number without cricking his neck. But by a unanimous vote the obstacle was removed.
“Now!” said Mr. Ricardo all in a twitter; and the shadow deepened upon the lovely face over against him.
“Now we dine,” Bryce Carter rejoined quickly. “It is a solemn moment. Without dinner, there is no life. We begin with caviar. That is as it should be. We are now upon the banks of the Volga. We listen to the far-famed song of its boatmen. We wear blouses and peaked caps and we dance very uncomfortably in top boots. But all that passes. For we proceed to turtle soup. We are dining now with the Aldermen, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Recorder at the Guildhall prior to the presentation of the Freedom of the City to Julius Ricardo, Esquire. Strengthened by the fat of the turtle, we proceed to lobster à l’Américaine. In a flash we are on the pier of Naragansett. Someone is singing. It is The Belle of New York. Good! Let us catch the matchless words and the exquisite modest voice:
All the men
