All day therefore he remained under the tarpaulin of the truck while the freight train rolled southwards through sunny landscapes. He dreamed pleasantly, eating the apples to appease his hunger, without wasting his time on building fragile hypotheses about the pretty girl, about her crimes and her dark soul. He enjoyed the pleasure of the memory of her lips, the tenderest and most exquisite lips he had ever kissed. That was the unique fact which he chose to bear in mind. To avenge the English girl and punish the guilty one, to catch the third murderer and regain possession of his stolen notes would undoubtedly have been interesting; but to find again the green eyes and the lips which yielded to his, what a joy! The examination of the red leather wallet did not give him much information. There was a list of names and addresses, of confederates doubtless, some letters from associates in different parts of Europe. They were written with a certain discretion, though a more careful person would have destroyed one or two of them; but in view of what Marescal had told him, they proved beyond doubt that Miss Bakersfield was indeed a thief. Among them were letters from Lord Bakersfield full of a father’s frank affection. But there was nothing which gave a clue to the part played by the girl in this affair of the express, nothing which showed any connection between the adventure in which the English girl was engaged and the crime of the three train-robbers; that is to say between Miss Bakersfield and the murderess with the green eyes. A single document, the document of which Marescal had spoken, the letter addressed to the English girl touching the matter of burgling Villa B., was of real value. It ran: “You will find Villa B. on the right hand side of the road from Nice to Cimiez, just above the Roman arena. It’s a massive building in a large, walled garden. “On the fourth Wednesday in every month the old Comte de B. settles himself on the back seat of his carriage and goes down to Nice with his man, his two maids, and some baskets for provisions. Therefore the house is empty from three o’clock till five. “Go round the garden walls to the wall which looks down upon the valley of Paillon. You will come to a small, worm-eaten, wooden door, of which I send you the key by the same messenger. “It is certain that the Comte de B. who has quarrelled with his wife, has not found the packet of deeds which she hid. But a letter written by the dead lady to a friend, speaks of a broken violin case which is lying in a kind of little tower used as a lumber room. Why this allusion which seems to mean nothing? The friend died on the very day on which she received the letter, which was mislaid and only fell into my hands two years later.