"I shall tell you something now of Mme. Dauvray," he said. "We
will not take up her early history. It might not be edifying and,
poor woman, she is dead. Let us not go back beyond her marriage
seventeen years ago to a wealthy manufacturer of Nancy, whom she
had met in Paris. Seven years ago M. Dauvray died, leaving his
widow a very rich woman. She had a passion for jewellery, which
she was now able to gratify. She collected jewels. A famous
necklace, a well-known stone--she was not, as you say, happy till
she got it. She had a fortune in precious stones--oh, but a large
fortune! By the ostentation of her jewels she paraded her wealth
here, at Monte Carlo, in Paris. Besides that, she was kind-hearted
and most impressionable. Finally, she was, like so many of her
class, superstitious to the degree of folly."

Suddenly Mr. Ricardo started in his chair. Superstitious! The word
was a sudden light upon his darkness. Now he knew what had
perplexed him during the last two days. Clearly--too clearly--he
remembered where he had seen Celia Harland, and when. A picture
rose before his eyes, and it seemed to strengthen like a film in a
developing-dish as Hanaud continued:

"Very well! take Mme. Dauvray as we find her--rich, ostentatious,
easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious-
-and you have in her a living provocation to every rogue. By a
hundred instances she proclaimed herself a dupe. She threw down a
challenge to every criminal to come and rob her. For seven years
Helene Vauquier stands at her elbow and protects her from serious
trouble. Suddenly there is added to her--your young friend, and
she is robbed and murdered. And, follow this, M. Wethermill, our
thieves are, I think, more brutal to their victims than is the