"It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem. "What a mind!" cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in admiration. "How quick and how profound!" There was at times something elephantinely elfish in M. Hanaud's demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss. But he had come to notice that these undignified manifestations usually took place when Hanaud had reached a definite opinion upon some point which had perplexed him. "Yet there is perhaps, another explanation," Hanaud continued. "For observe, M. Ricardo. We have other evidence to show that the careless one was Mlle. Celie. It was she who left her footsteps so plainly visible upon the grass, not the man. However, we will go back to M. Wethermill's room at the Hotel Majestic and talk this matter over. We know something now. Yes, we know--what do we know, monsieur?" he asked, suddenly turning with a smile to Ricardo, and, as Ricardo paused: "Think it over while we walk down to M. Wethermill's apartment in the Hotel Majestic." "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. "More than ever," said Hanaud. He turned in his chair towards Wethermill.