"We will have the car brought out," said Hanaud to Servettaz. It was a big and powerful machine with a limousine body, luxuriously fitted and cushioned in the shade of light grey. The outside panels of the car were painted a dark grey. The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of stupefaction burst from the lips of Perrichet. "Oh!" he cried, in utter abasement. "I shall never forgive myself--never, never!" "Why?" Hanaud asked, turning sharply as he spoke. Perrichet was standing with his round eyes staring and his mouth agape. "Because, monsieur, I saw that car--at four o'clock this morning--at the corner of the road--not fifty yards from the Villa Rose." "What!" cried Ricardo. "You saw it!" exclaimed Wethermill. Upon their faces was reflected now the stupefaction of Perrichet. "But you must have made a mistake," said the Commissaire. "No, no, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "It was that car. It was that number. It was just after daylight. I was standing outside the gate of the villa on duty where M. le Commissaire had placed me. The car appeared at the corner and slackened speed. It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the road and come down past me. But instead the driver, as if he were now sure of his way, put the car at its top speed and went on into Aix." "Was any one inside the car?" asked Hanaud. "No, monsieur; it was empty." "But you saw the driver!" exclaimed Wethermill. "Yes; what was he like?" cried the Commissaire. Perrichet shook his head mournfully. "He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy great-coat of blue with a white collar." "That is my coat, monsieur," said Servettaz, and as he spoke he lifted it up from the chauffeur's seat. "It is Mme. Dauvray's livery." Harry Wethermill groaned aloud. "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."