"So that even before Marthe Gobin was killed you were sure that
Wethermill was the murderer?"
Hanaud's face clouded over.
"You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo. I was sure, but
I still wanted evidence to convict. I left him free, hoping for
that evidence. I left him free, hoping that he would commit
himself. He did, but--well, let us talk of some one else. What of
Mlle. Celie?"
Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket.
"I have a sister in London, a widow," he said. "She is kind. I,
too, have been thinking of what will become of Mlle. Celie. I
wrote to my sister, and here is her reply. Mlle. Celie will be
very welcome."
Hanaud stretched out his hand and shook Ricardo's warmly.
"She will not, I think, be for very long a burden. She is young.
She will recover from this shock. She is very pretty, very gentle.
If--if no one comes forward whom she loves and who loves her--I--
yes, I myself, who was her papa for one night, will be her husband
forever."
He laughed inordinately at his own joke; it was a habit of M.
Hanaud's. Then he said gravely: "But I am glad, M. Ricardo, for Mlle. Celie's sake that I came to
your amusing dinner-party in London."
Mr. Ricardo was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "And what will happen to the condemned?"
"To the women? Imprisonment for life."
"And to the man?"
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps the guillotine. Perhaps New Caledonia. How can I say? I
am not the President of the Republic."