Then Ricardo's thoughts turned as he tossed upon his bed to Celia
Harland, a tragic and a lonely figure. He recalled the look of
tenderness upon her face when her eyes had met Harry Wethermill's
across the baccarat-table in the Villa des Fleurs. He gained some
insight into the reason why she had clung so desperately to
Hanaud's coat-sleeve yesterday. Not merely had he saved her life.
She was lying with all her world of trust and illusion broken
about her, and Hanaud had raised her up. She had found some one
whom she trusted--the big Newfoundland dog, as she expressed it.
Mr. Ricardo was still thinking of Celia Harland when the morning
came. He fell asleep, and awoke to find Hanaud by his bed.
"You will be wanted today," said Hanaud.
Ricardo got up and walked down from the hotel with the detective.
The front door faces the hillside of Mont Revard, and on this side
Mr. Ricardo's rooms looked out. The drive from the front door
curves round the end of the long building and joins the road,
which then winds down towards the town past the garden at the back
of the hotel. Down this road the two men walked, while the
supporting wall of the garden upon their right hand grew higher
and higher above their heads. They came to a steep flight of steps
which makes a short cut from the hotel to the road, and at the
steps Hanaud stopped.
"Do you see?" he said. "On the opposite side there are no houses;
there is only a wall. Behind the wall there are climbing gardens
and the ground falls steeply to the turn of the road below.
There's a flight of steps leading down which corresponds with the
flight of steps from the garden. Very often there's a serjent-de-
ville stationed on the top of the steps. But there was not one
there yesterday afternoon at three. Behind us is the supporting
wall of the hotel garden. Well, look about you. We cannot be seen
from the hotel. There's not a soul in sight--yes, there's some one
coming up the hill, but we have been standing here quite long
enough for you to stab me and get back to your coffee on the
verandah of the hotel."
Ricardo started back.
"Marthe Gobin!" he cried. "It was here, then?"
Hanaud nodded.
"When we returned from the station in your motor-car and went up
to your rooms we passed Harry Wethermill sitting upon the verandah
over the garden drinking his coffee. He had the news then that
Marthe Gobin was on her way."