"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.
"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."