A nurse opened the door. Within the room Helene Vauquier was
leaning back in a chair. She looked ill, and her face was very
white. On the appearance of Hanaud, the Commissaire, and the
others, however, she rose to her feet. Ricardo recognised the
justice of Hanaud's description. She stood before them a hard-
featured, tall woman of thirty-five or forty, in a neat black
stuff dress, strong with the strength of a peasant, respectable,
reliable. She looked what she had been, the confidential maid of
an elderly woman. On her face there was now an aspect of eager
appeal.
"Oh, monsieur!" she began, "let me go from here--anywhere--into
prison if you like. But to stay here--where in years past we were
so happy--and with madame lying in the room below. No, it is
insupportable."
She sank into her chair, and Hanaud came over to her side.
"Yes, yes," he said, in a soothing voice. "I can understand your
feelings, my poor woman. We will not keep you here. You have,
perhaps, friends in Aix with whom you could stay?"
"Oh yes, monsieur!" Helene cried gratefully. "Oh, but I thank you!
That I should have to sleep here tonight! Oh, how the fear of that
has frightened me!"
"You need have had no such fear. After all, we are not the
visitors of last night," said Hanaud, drawing a chair close to her
and patting her hand sympathetically. "Now, I want you to tell
these gentlemen and myself all that you know of this dreadful
business. Take your time, mademoiselle! We are human."
"But, monsieur, I know nothing," she cried. "I was told that I
might go to bed as soon as I had dressed Mlle. Celie for the
seance."
"Seance!" cried Ricardo, startled into speech. The picture of the
Assembly Hall at Leamington was again before his mind. But Hanaud
turned towards him, and, though Hanaud's face retained its
benevolent expression, there was a glitter in his eyes which sent
the blood into Ricardo's face.
"Did you speak again, M. Ricardo?" the detective asked. "No? I
thought it was not possible." He turned back to Helene Vauquier.
"So Mlle. Celie practised seances. That is very strange. We will
hear about them. Who knows what thread may lead us to the truth?"
Helene Vauquier shook her head.
"Monsieur, it is not right that you should seek the truth from me.
For, consider this! I cannot speak with justice of Mlle. Celie.
No, I cannot! I did not like her. I was jealous--yes, jealous,
Monsieur, you want the truth--I hated her!" And the woman's face
flushed and she clenched her hand upon the arm of her chair. "Yes,
I hated her. How could I help it?" she asked.
"Why?" asked Hanaud gently. "Why could you not help it?"