It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and
the girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the
rooms alone and had some talk with him.
Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the
two men left the Villa des Fleurs together.
"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.
"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.
"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young
man, and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was
dying to put some questions about Wethermill's young friend of the
night before, but discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They
chatted for a few moments in the hall upon indifferent topics and
so separated for the night. Mr. Ricardo, however, was to learn
something more of Celia the next morning; for while he was fixing
his tie before the mirror Wethermill burst into his dressing-room.
Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the surge of his indignation.
Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage upon the gentle
tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette was
sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.
Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded
the door like the custodian of a chapel?
"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.
Ricardo, sternly.
But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.
"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to
see you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo--you must, indeed!"
Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the
help wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance
at Wethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in
his voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo
slipped out of his affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has
happened?" he asked quietly.
"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a
newspaper. "Read it," he said.
It was a special edition of a local newspaper, Le Journal de
Savoie, and it bore the date of that morning.
"They are crying it in the streets," said Wethermill. "Read!"
A short paragraph was printed in large black letters on the first
page, and leaped to the eyes.
"Late last night," it ran, "an appalling murder was committed at
the Villa Rose, on the road to Lac Bourget. Mme. Camille Dauvray,
an elderly, rich woman who was well known at Aix, and had occupied
the villa every summer for the last few years, was discovered on
the floor of her salon, fully dressed and brutally strangled,
while upstairs, her maid, Helene Vauquier, was found in bed,
chloroformed, with her hands tied securely behind her back. At the
time of going to press she had not recovered consciousness, but
the doctor, Emile Peytin, is in attendance upon her, and it is
hoped that she will be able shortly to throw some light on this
dastardly affair. The police are properly reticent as to the
details of the crime, but the following statement may be accepted
without hesitation: "The murder was discovered at twelve o'clock at night by the
sergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word
of praise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks
upon the door and windows that the murderer was admitted from
within the villa. Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has
disappeared, and with it a young Englishwoman who came to Aix with
her as her companion. The motive of the crime leaps to the eyes.
Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for her jewels, which she wore with
too little prudence. The condition of the house shows that a
careful search was made for them, and they have disappeared. It is
anticipated that a description of the young Englishwoman, with a
reward for her apprehension, will be issued immediately. And it is
not too much to hope that the citizens of Aix, and indeed of
Prance, will be cleared of all participation in so cruel and
sinister a crime."