"It's all for nothing!" he screamed rather than cried. "Nothing
but the one necklace and a handful of rings!"
In a frenzy he actually stooped over the dead woman and questioned
her.
"Tell us--where did you hide them?" he cried.
"The girl will know," said Helene.
Wethermill rose up and looked wildly at Celia.
"Yes, yes," he said.
He had no scruple, no pity any longer for the girl. There was no
gain from the crime unless she spoke. He would have placed his
head in the guillotine for nothing. He ran to the writing-table,
tore off half a sheet of paper, and brought it over with a pencil
to the sofa. He gave them to Vauquier to hold, and drawing out the
sofa from the wall slipped in behind. He lifted up Celia with
Rossignol's help, and made her sit in the middle of the sofa with
her feet upon the ground. He unbound her wrists and fingers, and
Vauquier placed the writing-pad and the paper on the girl's knees.
Her arms were still pinioned above the elbows; she could not raise
her hands high enough to snatch the scarf from her lips. But with
the pad held up to her she could write.
"Where did she keep her jewels! Quick! Take the pencil and write,"
said Wethermill, holding her left wrist.
Vauquier thrust the pencil into her right hand, and awkwardly and
slowly her gloved fingers moved across the page.
"I do not know," she wrote; and, with an oath, Wethermill snatched
the paper up, tore it into pieces, and threw it down.
"You have got to know," he said, his face purple with passion, and
he flung out his arm as though he would dash his fist into her
face. But as he stood with his arm poised there came a singular
change upon his face.
"Did you hear anything?" he asked in a whisper.
All listened, and all heard in the quiet of the night a faint
click, and after an interval they heard it again, and after
another but shorter interval yet once more.
"That's the gate," said Wethermill in a whisper of fear, and a
pulse of hope stirred within Celia.
He seized her wrists, crushed them together behind her, and
swiftly fastened them once more. Adele Rossignol sat down upon the
floor, took the girl's feet upon her lap, and quietly wrenched off
her shoes.
"The light," cried Wethermill in an agonised voice, and Helena
Vauquier flew across the room and turned it off.
All three stood holding their breath, straining their ears in the
dark room. On the hard gravel of the drive outside footsteps
became faintly audible, and grew louder and came near. Adele
whispered to Vauquier: "Has the girl a lover?"
And Helene Vauquier, even at that moment, laughed quietly.