suddenly, andhe brought his clenched fist heavily down upon the table. "Here is oneof them who will be very well out of the world, my friend," he saidvery quietly, but there was a look of force in his face and a hardlight in his eyes which made Mr. Ricardo shiver.
For a few moments there was silence. Then Ricardo asked: "But have youevidence enough?"
"Yes."
"Your two chief witnesses, Calladine and Joan Carew--you said ityourself--there are facts to discredit them. Will they be believed?"
"But they won't appear in the case at all," Hanaud said. "Wait, wait!"and once more he smiled. "By the way, what is the number ofCalladine's house?"
Ricardo gave it, and Hanaud therefore wrote a letter. "It is all foryour sake, my friend," he said with a chuckle.
"Nonsense," said Ricardo. "You have the spirit of the theatre in yourbones."
"Well, I shall not deny it," said Hanaud, and he sent out the letterto the nearest pillar-box.
Mr. Ricardo waited in a fever of impatience until Thursday came. Atbreakfast Hanaud would talk of nothing but the news of the day. Atluncheon he was no better. The affair of the Semiramis Hotel seemed athousand miles from any of his thoughts. But at five o'clock he saidas he drank his tea:
"You know, of course, that we go to the opera to-night?"
"Yes. Do we?"
"Yes. Your young friend Calladine, by the way, will join us in yourbox."
"That is very kind of him, I am sure," said Mr. Ricardo.
The two men arrived before the rising of the curtain, and in thecrowded lobby a stranger spoke a few words to Hanaud, but what he saidRicardo could not hear. They took their seats in the box, and Hanaudlooked at his programme.
"Ah! It is _Il Ballo de Maschera_ to-night. We always seem to hit uponsomething appropriate, don't we?"
Then he raised his eyebrows.
"Oh-o! Do you see that our pretty young friend, Joan Carew, is singingin the role of the page? It is a showy part. There is a particularmelody with a long-sustained trill in it, as far as I remember."
Mr. Ricardo was not deceived by Hanaud's apparent ignorance of theopera to be given that night and of the part Joan Carew was to take.He was, therefore, not surprised when Hanaud added:
"By the way, I should let Calladine find it all out for himself."
Mr. Ricardo nodded sagely.
"Yes. That is wise. I had thought of it myself." But he haddone nothing of the kind. He was only aware that the elaboratestage-management in which Hanaud delighted was working out to thedesired climax, whatever that climax might be. Calladine entered thebox a few minutes later and shook hands with them awkwardly.
"It was kind of you to invite me," he said and, very ill at ease, hetook a seat between them and concentrated his attention on the houseas it filled up.
"There's the overture," said Hanaud. The curtains divided and werefestooned on either side of the stage. The singers came on in theirturn; the page appeared to a burst of delicate applause (Joan Carewhad made a small name for herself that season), and with a stifled cryCalladine shot back in the box as if he had been struck. Even then Mr.Ricardo did not understand. He only realised that Joan Carew waslooking extraordinarily trim and smart in her boy's dress. He had tolook from his programme to the stage and back again several timesbefore the reason of Calladine's exclamation dawned on him. When itdid, he was horrified. Hanaud, in his craving for dramatic effects,must have lost his head altogether. Joan Carew was wearing, from theribbon in her hair to the scarlet heels of her buckled satin shoes,the same dress as she had worn on the tragic night at the SemiramisHotel. He leaned forward in his agitation to Hanaud.
"You must be mad. Suppose Favart is in the theatre and sees her. He'llbe over on the Continent by one in the morning."
"No, he won't," replied Hanaud. "For one thing, he never comes toCovent Garden unless one opera, with Carmen Valeri in the chief part,is being played, as you heard the other night at supper. For a secondthing, he isn't in the house. I know where he is. He is gambling inDean Street, Soho. For a third thing, my friend, he couldn't leave bythe nine o'clock train for the Continent if he wanted to. Arrangementshave been made. For a fourth thing, he wouldn't wish to. He has reallyremarkable reasons for desiring to stay in London. But he will come tothe theatre later. Clements will send him an urgent message, with theresult that he will go straight to Clements' office. Meanwhile, we canenjoy ourselves, eh?"
Never was the difference between the amateur dilettante and thegenuine professional more clearly exhibited than by the behaviour ofthe two men during the rest of the performance. Mr. Ricardo might havebeen sitting on a coal fire from his jumps and twistings; Hanaudstolidly enjoyed the music, and when Joan Carew sang her famous solohis hands clamoured for an encore louder than anyone's in the boxes.Certainly, whether excitement was keeping her up or no, Joan Carew hadnever sung better in her life. Her voice was clear and fresh as abird's--a bird with a soul inspiring its song. Even Calladine drew hischair forward again and sat with his eyes fixed upon the stage andquite carried out of himself. He drew a deep breath at the end.
"She is wonderful," he said, like a man waking up.
"She is very good," replied Mr. Ricardo, correcting Calladine'stransports.
"We will go round to the back of the stage," said Hanaud.
They passed through the iron door and across the stage to a longcorridor with a row of doors on one side. There were two or three menstanding about in evening dress, as if waiting for friends in thedressing-rooms. At the third door Hanaud stopped and knocked. The doorwas opened by Joan Carew, still dressed in her green and gold. Herface was troubled, her eyes afraid.
"Courage, little one," said Hanaud, and he slipped past her into theroom. "It is as well that my ugly, familiar face should not be seentoo soon."
The door closed and one of the strangers loitered along the corridorand spoke to a call-boy. The call-boy ran off. For five minutes moreMr. Ricardo waited with a beating heart. He had the joy of a man inthe centre of things. All those people driving homewards in theirmotor-cars along the Strand--how he pitied them! Then, at the end ofthe corridor, he saw Clements and Andre Favart. They approached,discussing the possibility of Carmen Valeri's appearance in Londonopera during the next season.
"We have to look ahead, my dear friend," said Clements, "and though Ishould be extremely sorry----"
At that moment they were exactly opposite Joan Carew's door. Itopened, she came out; with a nervous movement she shut the door behindher. At the sound Andre Favart turned, and he saw drawn up against thepanels of the door, with a look of terror in her face, the same gayfigure which had interrupted him in Mrs. Blumenstein's bedroom. Therewas no need for Joan to act. In the presence of this man her fear wasas real as it had been on the night of the Semiramis ball. Shetrembled from head to foot. Her eyes closed; she seemed about toswoon.
Favart stared and uttered an oath. His face turned white; he staggeredback as if he had seen a ghost. Then he made a wild dash along thecorridor, and was seized and held by two of the men in evening dress.Favart recovered his wits. He ceased to struggle.
"What does this outrage mean?" he asked, and one of the men drew awarrant and notebook from his pocket.
"You are arrested for the murder of Mrs. Blumenstein in the SemiramisHotel," he said, "and I have to warn you that anything you may saywill be taken down and may be used in evidence against you."
"Preposterous!" exclaimed Favart. "There's a mistake. We will go alongto the police and put it right. Where's your evidence against me?"
Hanaud stepped out of the doorway of the dressing-room.
"In the property-room of the theatre," he said.
At the sight of him Favart uttered a violent cry of rage. "You arehere, too, are you?" he screamed, and he sprang at Hanaud's throat.Hanaud stepped lightly aside. Favart was borne down to the ground, andwhen he stood up again the handcuffs were on his wrists.
Favart was led away, and Hanaud turned to Mr. Ricardo and Clements.
"Let us go to the pro
perty-room," he said. They passed along thecorridor, and Ricardo noticed that Calladine was no longer with them.He turned and saw him standing outside Joan Carew's dressing-room.
"He would like to come, of course," said Ricardo.
"Would he?" asked Hanaud. "Then why doesn't he? He's quite grown up,you know," and he slipped his arm through Ricardo's and led him backacross the stage. In the property-room there was already a detectivein plain clothes. Mr. Ricardo had still not as yet guessed the truth.
"What is it you really want, sir?" the property-master asked of thedirector.
"Only the jewels of the Madonna," Hanaud