There were as yet only two couples dining in the restaurant, and
Hanaud spoke so that neither could overhear him. He sat down at
the table.
"What news?" he asked.
"None," said Lemerre. "No one has come out of the house, no one
has gone in."
"And if anything happens while we dine?"
"We shall know," said Lemerre. "Look, there is a man loitering
under the trees there. He will strike a match to light his pipe."
The hurried conversation was ended.
"Good," said Hanaud. "We will dine, then, and be gay."
He called to the waiter and ordered dinner. It was after seven
when they sat down to dinner, and they dined while the dusk
deepened. In the street below the lights flashed out, throwing a
sheen on the foliage of the trees at the water's side. Upon the
dark lake the reflections of lamps rippled and shook. A boat in
which musicians sang to music, passed by with a cool splash of
oars. The green and red lights of the launches glided backwards
and forwards. Hanaud alone of the party on the balcony tried to
keep the conversation upon a light and general level. But it was
plain that even he was overdoing his gaiety. There were moments
when a sudden contraction of the muscles would clench his hands
and give a spasmodic jerk to his shoulders. He was waiting
uneasily, uncomfortably, until darkness should come.
"Eat," he cried--"eat, my friends," playing with his own barely
tasted food.
And then, at a sentence from Lemerre, his knife and fork clattered
on his plate, and he sat with a face suddenly grown white.
For Lemerre said, as though it was no more than a matter of
ordinary comment: "So Mme. Dauvray's jewels were, after all, never stolen?"
Hanaud started.
"You know that? How did you know it?"
"It was in this evening's paper. I bought one on the way here.
They were found under the floor of the bedroom."
And even as he spoke a newsboy's voice rang out in the street
below them. Lemerre was alarmed by the look upon his friend's
face.
"Does it matter, Hanaud?" he asked, with some solicitude.
"It matters--" and Hanaud rose up abruptly.
The boy's voice sounded louder in the street below. The words
became distinct to all upon that balcony.
"The Aix murder! Discovery of the jewels!"
"We must go," Hanaud whispered hoarsely. "Here are life and death
in the balance, as I believe, and there"--he pointed down to the
little group gathering about the newsboy under the trees--"there
is the command which way to tip the scales."
"It was not I who sent it," said Ricardo eagerly.
He had no precise idea what Hanaud meant by his words; but he
realised that the sooner he exculpated himself from the charge the
better.