"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, and in his voice there was a strong ring of sympathy.
They went downstairs and entered Ricardo’s motor car.
"I want to send a telephone message," said Hanaud, "if you will wait here."
"No!" cried Celia decisively, and she again laid hold of his coat, with a pretty imperiousness, as though he belonged to her.
"But I must," said Hanaud with a laugh.
"Then I will come too," said Celia, and she opened the door and set a foot upon the step.
"You will not, mademoiselle," said Hanaud, with a laugh. "Will you take your foot back into that car? That is better. Now you will sit with your friend, M. Ricardo, whom, by the way, I have not yet introduced to you. He is a very good friend of yours, mademoiselle, and will in the future be a still better one."
Ricardo felt his conscience rather heavy within him, for he had come out to Geneva with the fixed intention of arresting her as a most dangerous criminal. Even now he could not understand how she could be innocent of a share in Mme. Dauvray’s murder. But Hanaud evidently thought she was. And since Hanaud thought so, why, it was better to say nothing if one was sensitive to gibes. So Ricardo sat and talked with her while Hanaud ran back into the restaurant. It mattered very little, however, what he said, for Celia’s eyes were fixed upon the doorway through which Hanaud had disappeared. And when he came back she was quick to turn the handle of the door.
"Now, mademoiselle, we will wrap you up in M. Ricardo’s spare motor-coat and cover your knees with a rug and put you between us, and then you can go to sleep."
The car sped through the streets of Geneva. Celia Harland, with a little sigh of relief, nestled down between the two men.
"If I knew you better," she said to Hanaud, "I should tell you-what, of course, I do not tell you now-that I feel as if I had a big Newfoundland dog with me."
"Mlle. Celie," said Hanaud, and his voice told her that he was moved, "that is a very pretty thing which you have said to me."
The lights of the city fell away behind them. Now only a glow in the sky spoke of Geneva; now even that was gone and with a smooth continuous purr the car raced through the cool darkness. The great head lamps threw a bright circle of light before them and the road slipped away beneath the wheels like a running tide. Celia fell asleep. Even when the car stopped at the Pont de La Caille she did not waken. The door was opened, a search for contraband was made, the book was signed, still she did not wake. The car sped on.
"You see, coming into France is a different affair," said Hanaud.
"Yes," replied Ricardo.
"Still, I will own it, you caught me napping yesterday."
"I did?" exclaimed Ricardo joyfully.
"You did," returned Hanaud. "I had never heard of the Pont de La Caille. But you will not mention it? You will not ruin me?"
"I will not," answered. M. Ricardo, superb in his magnanimity. "You are a good detective."
"Oh, thank you! thank you!" cried Hanaud in a voice which shook-surely with emotion. He wrung Ricardo’s hand. He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.
And still Celia slept. M. Ricardo looked at her. He said to Hanaud in a whisper:
"Yet I do not understand. The car, though no serious search was made, must still have stopped at the Pont de La Caille on the Swiss side. Why did she not cry for help then? One cry and she was safe. A movement even was enough. Do you understand?"
Hanaud nodded his head.
"I think so," he answered, with a very gentle look at Celia. "Yes, I think so."
When Celia was aroused she found that the car had stopped before the door of an hotel, and that a woman in the dress of a nurse was standing in the doorway.
"You can trust Marie," said Hanaud. And Celia turned as she stood upon the ground and gave her hands to the two men.
"Thank you! Thank you both!" she said in a trembling voice. She looked at Hanaud and nodded her head. "You understand why I thank you so very much?"
"Yes," said Hanaud. "But, mademoiselle"-and he bent over the car and spoke to her quietly, holding her hand-"there is ALWAYS a big Newfoundland dog in the worst of troubles-if only you will look for him. I tell you so-I, who belong to the Surete in Paris. Do not lose heart!" And in his mind he added: "God forgive me for the lie." He shook her hand and let it go; and gathering up her skirt she went into the hall of the hotel.
Hanaud watched her as she went. She was to him a lonely and pathetic creature, in spite of the nurse who bore her company.
"You must be a good friend to that young girl, M. Ricardo," he said. "Let us drive to your hotel."
"Yes," said Ricardo. And as they went the curiosity which all the way from Geneva had been smouldering within him burst into flame.
"Will you explain to me one thing?" he asked. "When the scream came from the garden you were not surprised. Indeed, you said that when you saw the open door and the morphia-needle on the table of the little room downstairs you thought Adele and the man Hippolyte were hiding in the garden."
"Yes, I did think so."
"Why? And why did the publication that the jewels had been discovered so alarm you?"
"Ah!" said Hanaud. "Did not you understand that? Yet it is surely clear and obvious, if you once grant that the girl was innocent, was a witness of the crime, and was now in the hands of the criminals. Grant me those premisses, M. Ricardo, for a moment, and you will see that we had just one chance of finding the girl alive in Geneva. From the first I was sure of that. What was the one chance? Why, this! She might be kept alive on the chance that she could be forced to tell what, by the way, she did not know, namely, the place where Mme. Dauvray’s valuable jewels were secreted. Now, follow this. We, the police, find the jewels and take charge of them. Let that news reach the house in Geneva, and on the same night Mlle. Celie loses her life, and not-very pleasantly. They have no further use for her. She is merely a danger to them. So I take my precautions-never mind for the moment what they were. I take care that if the murderer is in Aix and gets wind of our discovery he shall not be able to communicate his news."
"The Post Office would have stopped letters or telegrams," said Ricardo. "I understand."
"On the contrary," replied Hanaud. "No, I took my precautions, which were of quite a different kind, before I knew the house in Geneva or the name of Rossignol. But one way of communication I did not think of. I did not think of the possibility that the news might be sent to a newspaper, which of course would publish it and cry it through the streets of Geneva. The moment I heard the news I knew we must hurry. The garden of the house ran down to the lake. A means of disposing of Mlle. Celie was close at hand. And the night had fallen. As it was, we arrived just in time, and no earlier than just in time. The paper had been bought, the message had reached the house, Mlle. Celie was no longer of any use, and every hour she stayed in that house was of course an hour of danger to her captors."
"What were they going to do?" asked Ricardo.
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not pretty-what they were going to do. We reach the garden in our launch. At that moment Hippolyte and Adele, who is most likely Hippolyte’s wife, are in the lighted parlour on the basement floor. Adele is preparing her morphia-needle. Hippolyte is going to get ready the rowing-boat which was tied at the end of the landing-stage. Quietly as we came into the bank, they heard or saw us. They ran out and hid in the garden, having no time to lock the garden door, or perhaps not daring to lock it lest the sound of the key should reach our ears. We find that door upon the latch, the door of the room open; on the table lies the morphia-needle. Upstairs lies Mlle. Celie-she is helpless, she cannot see what they are meaning to do."
"But she could cry out," exclaimed Ricardo. "She did not even do that!"
"No, my friend, she could not cry out," replied Hanaud very seriously. "I know why. She could not. No living man or woman could. Rest assured of that!"