"We know that the murderer has escaped," replied Ricardo hotly.
"The murderer is not now the most important object of our search. He is very likely at Marseilles by now. We shall lay our hands on him, never fear," replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of disdain. "But it was thoughtful of you to remind me of him. I might so easily have clean forgotten him, and then indeed my reputation would have suffered an eclipse." He made a low, ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly down the road.
"For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active," said Mr. Ricardo to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much success. "A heavy, clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a little gutter-boy at a moment’s notice."
Thus he described the great detective, and the description is quoted. For it was Ricardo’s best effort in the whole of this business.
The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill’s apartment, which consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor. A balcony ran along outside. Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked about him, and returned.
"It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard," he said.
Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair. The mask he had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment. There was a look of infinite suffering upon his face. It was the face of a man tortured by misery to the snapping-point.
Hanaud, on the other hand, was particularly alert. The discovery of the motor-car had raised his spirits. He sat at the table.
"I will tell you what we have learnt," he said, "and it is of importance. The three of them-the man, the woman with the red hair, and Mlle. Celie-all drove yesterday night to Geneva. That is only one thing we have learnt."
"Then you still cling to Geneva?" said Ricardo.