"And in what way, monsieur," he asked, "are you interested in the
murder of Mme. Dauvray?"

"Her companion," said Wethermill, "the young English girl--she is
a great friend of mine."

Hanaud's face grew stern. Then came a sparkle of anger in his
eyes.

"And what do you wish me to do, monsieur?" he asked coldly.

"You are upon your holiday, M. Hanaud. I wish you--no, I implore
you," Wethermill cried, his voice ringing with passion, "to take
up this case, to discover the truth, to find out what has become
of Celia."

Hanaud leaned back in his chair with his hands upon the arms. He
did not take his eyes from Harry Wethermill, but the anger died
out of them.

"Monsieur," he said, "I do not know what your procedure is in
England. But in France a detective does not take up a case or
leave it alone according to his pleasure. We are only servants.
This affair is in the hands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d'lnstruction
of Aix."

"But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed," cried
Wethermill. "And to me that would mean so much. There would be no
bungling. There would be no waste of time. Of that one would be
sure."