"Nor could I--at the time," said Hanaud. "I kept my open mind about Helene Vauquier; but I locked the door and took the key. Then we went and heard Vauquier's story. The story was clever, because so much of it was obviously, indisputably true. The account of the seances, of Mme. Dauvray's superstitions, her desire for an interview with Mme. de Montespan--such details are not invented. It was interesting, too, to know that there had been a seance planned for that night! The method of the murder began to be clear. So far she spoke the truth. But then she lied. Yes, she lied, and it was a bad lie, my friend. She told us that the strange woman Adele had black hair. Now I carried in my pocket-book proof that that woman's hair was red. Why did she lie, except to make impossible the identification of that strange visitor? That was the first false step taken by Helene Vauquier. "Now let us take the second. I thought nothing of her rancour against Mlle. Celie. To me it was all very natural. She--the hard peasant woman no longer young, who had been for years the confidential servant of Mme. Dauvray, and no doubt had taken her levy from the impostors who preyed upon her credulous mistress--certainly she would hate this young and pretty outcast whom she has to wait upon, whose hair she has to dress. Vauquier--she would hate her. But if by any chance she were in the plot--and the lie seemed to show she was--then the seances showed me new possibilities. For Helene used to help Mlle. Celie. Suppose that the seance had taken place, that this sceptical visitor with the red hair professed herself dissatisfied with Vauquier's method of testing the medium, had suggested another way, Mlle. Celie could not object, and there she would be neatly and securely packed up beyond the power of offering any resistance, before she could have a suspicion that things were wrong. It would be an easy little comedy to play. And if that were true--why, there were my sofa cushions partly explained." "Yes, I see!" cried Ricardo, with enthusiasm. "You are wonderful." Hanaud was not displeased with his companion's enthusiasm. "But wait a moment. We have only conjectures so far, and one fact that Helene Vauquier lied about the colour of the strange woman's hair. Now we get another fact. Mlle. Celie was wearing buckles on her shoes. And there is my slit in the sofa cushions. For when she is flung on to the sofa, what will she do? She will kick, she will struggle. Of course it is conjecture. I do not as yet hold pigheadedly to it. I am not yet sure that Mlle. Celie is innocent. I am willing at any moment to admit that the facts contradict my theory. But, on the contrary, each fact that I discover helps it to take shape.