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?”

Helene Vauquier leaned back again, her strength exhausted, and smiled languidly.

“I will tell you.  But remember it is a woman speaking to you, and things which you will count silly and trivial mean very much to her.  There was one night last June—­only last June!  To think of it!  So little while ago there was no Mlle. Celie—­” and, as Hanaud raised his hand, she said hurriedly, “Yes, yes; I will control myself.  But to think of Mme. Dauvray now!”

And thereupon she blurted out her story and explained to Mr. Ricardo the question which had so perplexed him:  how a girl of so much distinction as Celia Harland came to be living with a woman of so common a type as Mme. Dauvray.

“Well, one night in June,” said Helene Vauquier, “madame went with a party to supper at the Abbaye Restaurant in Montmartre.  And she brought home for the first time Mlle. Celie.  But you should have seen her!  She had on a little plaid skirt and a coat which was falling to pieces, and she was starving—­yes, starving.  Madame told me the story that night as I undressed her.  Mlle. Celie was there dancing amidst the tables for a supper with any one who would be kind enough to dance with her.”