"We have lost him. He was within our grasp-he, the murderer!-and he was allowed to go!"
Perrichet’s grief was pitiable.
"Monsieur," he pleaded, "a car slackens its speed and goes on again-it is not so unusual a thing. I did not know the number of Mme. Dauvray’s car. I did not even know that it had disappeared"; and suddenly tears of mortification filled his eyes. "But why do I make these excuses?" he cried. "It is better, M. Hanaud, that I go back to my uniform and stand at the street corner. I am as foolish as I look."
"Nonsense, my friend," said Hanaud, clapping the disconsolate man upon the shoulder. "You remembered the car and its number. That is something-and perhaps a great deal," he added gravely. "As for the talc mask and the black moustache, that is not much to help us, it is true." He looked at Ricardo’s crestfallen face and smiled. "We might arrest our good friend M. Ricardo upon that evidence, but no one else that I know."
Hanaud laughed immoderately at his joke. He alone seemed to feel no disappointment at Perrichet’s oversight. Ricardo was a little touchy on the subject of his personal appearance, and bridled visibly. Hanaud turned towards Servettaz.
"Now," he said, "you know how much petrol was taken from the garage?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you tell me, by the amount which has been used, how far that car was driven last night?" Hanaud asked.
Servettaz examined the tank.
"A long way, monsieur. From a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty kilometers, I should say."