"You drove the car on Tuesday morning before you went to Chambery?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Where did you take up Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie?"
"At the front door of the Villa Rose."
"Did you get down from the seat at all?"
"No, monsieur; not after I left the garage."
Hanaud returned to his companions.
"See!" And he opened his hand. "This is black soil—moist from last night's rain—soil like the soil in front of Mme. Dauvray's salon. Look, here is even a blade or two of the grass"; and he turned the mould over in the palm of his hand. Then he took an empty envelope from his pocket and poured the soil into it and gummed the flap down. He stood and frowned at the motor-car.
"Listen," he said, "how I am puzzled! There was a man last night at the Villa Rose. There were a man's blurred footmarks in the mould before the glass door. That man drove madame's car for a hundred and fifty kilometres, and he leaves the mould which clung to his boots upon the floor of his seat. Mlle. Celie and another woman drove away inside the car. Mlle. Celie leaves a fragment of the chiffon tunic of her frock which caught in the hinge. But Mlle. Celie made much clearer impressions in the mould than the man. Yet on the floor of the carriage there is no trace of her shoes. Again I say there is something here which I do not understand." And he spread out his hands with an impulsive gesture of despair.
"It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem.