room, where M. Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate. He was
stout and broad-shouldered, with a full and almost heavy face. In
his morning suit at his breakfast-table he looked like a
prosperous comedian.

He came forward with a smile of welcome, extending both his hands
to Mr. Ricardo.

"Ah, my good friend," he said, "it is pleasant to see you. And Mr.
Wethermill," he exclaimed, holding a hand out to the young
inventor.

"You remember me, then?" said Wethermill gladly.

"It is my profession to remember people," said Hanaud, with a
laugh. "You were at that amusing dinner-party of Mr. Ricardo's in
Grosvenor Square."

"Monsieur," said Wethermill, "I have come to ask your help."

The note of appeal in his voice was loud. M. Hanaud drew up a
chair by the window and motioned to Wethermill to take it. He
pointed to another, with a bow of invitation to Mr. Ricardo.

"Let me hear," he said gravely.

"It is the murder of Mme. Dauvray," said Wethermill.

Hanaud started.