III
Mr. Ricardo could no longer complain. It was half-past eight whenCalladine had first disturbed the formalities of his house inGrosvenor Square. It was barely ten now, and during that short time hehad been flung from surprise to surprise, he had looked underground ona morning of fresh summer, and had been thrilled by the contrastbetween the queer, sinister life below and within and the open call tojoy of the green world above. He had passed from incredulity tobelief, from belief to incredulity, and when at last incredulity wasfirmly established, and the story to which he had listened proved theemanation of a drugged and heated brain, lo! the facts buffeted him inthe face, and the story was shown to be true.
"I am alive once more," Mr. Ricardo thought as he turned back withHanaud, and in his excitement he cried his thought aloud.
"Are you?" said Hanaud. "And what is life without a newspaper? If youwill buy one from that remarkably raucous boy at the bottom of thestreet I will keep an eye upon Calladine's house till you come back."
Mr. Ricardo sped down to Charing Cross and brought back a copy of thefourth edition of the _Star_. He handed it to Hanaud, who stared at itdoubtfully, folded as it was.
"Shall we see what it says?" Ricardo asked impatiently.
"By no means," Hanaud answered, waking from his reverie and tuckingbriskly away the paper into the tail pocket of his coat. "We will hearwhat Miss Joan Carew has to say, with our minds undisturbed by anydiscoveries. I was wondering about something totally different."
"Yes?" Mr. Ricardo encouraged him. "What was it?"
"I was wondering, since it is only ten o'clock, at what hour the firsteditions of the evening papers appear."
"It is a question," Mr. Ricardo replied sententiously, "which thegreatest minds have failed to answer."
And they walked along the street to the house. The front door stoodopen during the day like the front door of any other house which islet off in sets of rooms. Hanaud and Ricardo went up the staircase andrang the bell of Calladine's door. A middle-aged woman opened it.
"Mr. Calladine is in?" said Hanaud.
"I will ask," replied the woman. "What name shall I say?"
"It does not matter. I will go straight in," said Hanaud quietly. "Iwas here with my friend but a minute ago."
He went straight forward and into Calladine's parlour. Mr. Ricardolooked over his shoulder as he opened the door and saw a girl turn tothem suddenly a white face of terror, and flinch as though already shefelt the hand of a constable upon her shoulder. Calladine, on theother hand, uttered a cry of relief.
"These are my friends," he exclaimed to the girl, "the friends of whomI spoke to you"; and to Hanaud he said: "This is Miss Carew."
Hanaud bowed.
"You shall tell me your story, mademoiselle," he said very gently, anda little colour returned to the girl's cheeks, a little couragerevived in her.
"But you have heard it," she answered.
"Not from you," said Hanaud.
So for a second time in that room she told the history of that night.Only this time the sunlight was warm upon the world, the comfortablesounds of life's routine were borne through the windows, and the girlherself wore the inconspicuous blue serge of a thousand other girlsafoot that morning. These trifles of circumstance took the edge ofsheer horror off her narrative, so that, to tell the truth, Mr.Ricardo was a trifle disappointed. He wanted a crescendo motive in hismusic, whereas it had begun at its fortissimo. Hanaud, however, wasthe perfect listener. He listened without stirring and with mostcompassionate eyes, so that Joan Carew spoke only to him, and to him,each moment that passed, with greater confidence. The life and sparkleof her had gone altogether. There was nothing in her manner now tosuggest the waywardness, the gay irresponsibility, the radiance, whichhad attracted Calladine the night before. She was just a very youngand very pretty girl, telling in a low and remorseful voice of thetragic dilemma to which she had brought herself. Of Celymene all thatremained was something exquisite and fragile in her beauty, in theslimness of her figure, in her daintiness of hand and foot--somethingalmost of the hot-house. But the story she told was, detail fordetail, the same which Calladine had already related.
"Thank you," said Hanaud when she had done. "Now I must ask you twoquestions."
"I will answer them."
Mr. Ricardo sat up. He began to think of a third question which hemight put himself, something uncommonly subtle and searching, whichHanaud would never have thought of. But Hanaud put his questions, andRicardo almost jumped out of his chair.
"You will forgive me. Miss Carew. But have you ever stolen before?"
Joan Carew turned upon Hanaud with spirit. Then a change swept overher face.
"You have a right to ask," she answered. "Never." She looked into hiseyes as she answered. Hanaud did not move. He sat with a hand uponeach knee and led to his second question.
"Early this morning, when you left this room, you told Mr. Calladinethat you would wait at the Semiramis until he telephoned to you?"
"Yes."
"Yet when he telephoned, you had gone out?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I will tell you," said Joan Carew. "I could not bear to keep thelittle diamond chain in my room."
For a moment even Hanaud was surprised. He had lost sight of thatcomplication. Now he leaned forward anxiously; indeed, with a greateranxiety than he had yet shown in all this affair.
"I was terrified," continued Joan Carew. "I kept thinking: 'They musthave found out by now. They will search everywhere.' I didn't reason.I lay in bed expecting to hear every moment a loud knocking on thedoor. Besides--the chain itself being there in my bedroom--herchain--the dead woman's chain--no, I couldn't endure it. I felt as ifI had stolen it. Then my maid brought in my tea."
"You had locked it away?" cried Hanaud.
"Yes. My maid did not see it."
Joan Carew explained how she had risen, dressed, wrapped the chain ina pad of cotton-wool and enclosed it in an envelope. The envelope hadnot the stamp of the hotel upon it. It was a rather large envelope,one of a packet which she had bought in a crowded shop in OxfordStreet on her way from Euston to the Semiramis. She had bought theenvelopes of that particular size in order that when she sent herletter of introduction to the Director of the Opera at Covent Gardenshe might enclose with it a photograph.
"And to whom did you send it?" asked Mr. Ricardo.
"To Mrs. Blumenstein at the Semiramis. I printed the addresscarefully. Then I went out and posted it."
"Where?" Hanaud inquired.
"In the big letter-box of the Post Office at the corner of TrafalgarSquare."
Hanaud looked at the girl sharply.
"You had your wits about you, I see," he said.
"What if the envelope gets lost?" said Ricardo.
Hanaud laughed grimly.
"If one envelope is delivered at its address in London to-day, it willbe that one," he said. "The news of the crime is published, you see,"and he swung round to Joan.
"Did you know that, Miss Carew?"
"No," she answered in an awe-stricken voice.
"Well, then, it is. Let us see what the special investigator has tosay about it." And Hanaud, with a deliberation which Mr. Ricardo foundquite excruciating, spread out the newspaper on the table in front ofhim.
IV
There was only one new fact in the couple of columns devoted to themystery. Mrs. Blumenstein had died from chloroform poisoning. She wasof a stout habit, and the thieves were not skilled in theadministration of the anaesthetic.
"It's murder none the less," said Hanaud, and he gazed straight atJoan, asking her by the direct summons of his eyes what she was goingto do.
"I must tell my story to the police," she replied painfully andslowly. But she did not hesitate; she was announcing a meditated plan.
Hanaud neither agreed nor differed. His face was blank, and when hespoke there was no cordiality in his voice. "Well," he
asked, "andwhat is it that you have to say to the police, miss? That you wentinto the room to steal, and that you were attacked by two strangers,dressed as apaches, and masked? That is all?"
"Yes."
"And how many men at the Semiramis ball were dressed as apaches andwore masks? Come! Make a guess. A hundred at the least?"
"I should think so."
"Then what will your confession do beyond--I quote your Englishidiom--putting you in the coach?"
Mr. Ricardo now smiled with relief. Hanaud was taking a definite line.His knowledge of idiomatic English might be incomplete, but his heartwas in the right place. The girl traced a