his scalp.  He himself had been with Wethermill in the baccarat-rooms on the very night of the murder.  They had walked together up the hill to the hotel.  It could not be that Harry Wethermill was guilty.  And yet, he suddenly remembered, they had together left the rooms at an early hour.  It was only ten o’clock when they had separated in the hall, when they had gone, each to his own room.  There would have been time for Wethermill to reach the Villa Rose and do his dreadful work upon that night before twelve, if all had been arranged beforehand, if all went as it had been arranged.  And as he thought upon the careful planning of that crime, and remembered Wethermill’s easy chatter as they had strolled from table to table in the Villa des Fleurs, Ricardo shuddered.  Though he encouraged a taste for the bizarre, it was with an effort.  He was naturally of an orderly mind, and to touch the eerie or inhuman caused him a physical discomfort.  So now he marvelled in a great uneasiness at the calm placidity with which Wethermill had talked, his arm in his, while the load of so dark a crime to be committed within the hour lay upon his mind.  Each minute he must have been thinking, with a swift spasm of the heart, “Should such a precaution fail—­should such or such an unforeseen thing intervene,” yet there had been never a sign of disturbance, never a hint of any disquietude.

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.