"Can't you see it? The old woman locking up her jewels in this
safe every night before the eyes of her maid or her companion, and
then, as soon as she was alone, taking them stealthily out of the
safe and hiding them in this secret place. But I tell you--this is
human. Yes, it is interesting just because it is so human. Then
picture to yourselves last night, the murderers opening this safe
and finding nothing--oh, but nothing!--and ransacking the room in
deadly haste, kicking up the rugs, forcing open the drawers, and
always finding nothing--nothing--nothing. Think of their rage,
their stupefaction, and finally their fear! They must go, and with
one pearl necklace, when they had hoped to reap a great fortune.
Oh, but this is interesting--yes, I tell you--I, who have seen
many strange things--this is interesting."
Perrichet returned with a canvas bag, into which Hanaud placed the
jewel-cases. He sealed the bag in the presence of the four men and
handed it to Besnard. He replaced the block of wood in the floor,
covered it over again with the rug, and rose to his feet.
"Listen!" he said, in a low voice, and with a gravity which
impressed them all. "There is something in this house which I do
not understand. I have told you so. I tell you something more now.
I am afraid--I am afraid." And the word startled his hearers like
a thunderclap, though it was breathed no louder than a whisper,
"Yes, my friends," he repeated, nodding his head, "terribly
afraid." And upon the others fell a discomfort, an awe, as though
something sinister and dangerous were present in the room and
close to them. So vivid was the feeling, instinctively they drew
nearer together. "Now, I warn you solemnly. There must be no
whisper that these jewels have been discovered; no newspaper must
publish a hint of it; no one must suspect that here in this room
we have found them. Is that understood?"
"Certainly," said the Commissaire.
"Yes," said Mr. Ricardo.
"To be sure, monsieur," said Perrichet.
As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. His burning eyes were
fixed upon Hanaud's face, and that was all. Hanaud, for his part,
asked for no reply from him. Indeed, he did not look towards Harry
Wethermill's face at all. Ricardo understood. Hanaud did not mean
to be deterred by the suffering written there.
He went down again into the little gay salon lit with flowers and
August sunlight, and stood beside the couch gazing at it with
troubled eyes. And, as he gazed, he closed his eyes and shivered.
He shivered like a man who has taken a sudden chill. Nothing in
all this morning's investigations, not even the rigid body beneath
the sheet, nor the strange discovery of the jewels, had so
impressed Ricardo. For there he had been confronted with facts,
definite and complete; here was a suggestion of unknown horrors, a
hint, not a fact, compelling the imagination to dark conjecture.
Hanaud shivered. That he had no idea why Hanaud shivered made the
action still more significant, still more alarming. And it was not
Ricardo alone who was moved by it. A voice of despair rang through
the room. The voice was Harry Wethermill's, and his face was ashy
white.