Mr. Ricardo is Bewildered

Ricardo passed a most tempestuous night. He was tossed amongst
dark problems. Now it was Harry Wethermill who beset him. He
repeated and repeated the name, trying to grasp the new and
sinister suggestion which, if Hanaud were right, its sound must
henceforth bear. Of course Hanaud might be wrong. Only, if he were
wrong, how had he come to suspect Harry Wethermill? What had first
directed his thoughts to that seemingly heart-broken man? And
when? Certain recollections became vivid in Mr. Ricardo's mind--
the luncheon at the Villa Rose, for instance. Hanaud had been so
insistent that the woman with the red hair was to be found in
Geneva, had so clearly laid it down that a message, a telegram, a
letter from Aix to Geneva, would enable him to lay his hands upon
the murderer in Aix.

He was isolating the house in Geneva even so
early in the history of his investigations, even so soon he
suspected Harry Wethermill. Brains and audacity--yes, these two
qualities he had stipulated in the criminal. Ricardo now for the
first time understood the trend of all Hanaud's talk at that
luncheon. He was putting Harry Wethermill upon his guard, he was
immobilising him, he was fettering him in precautions; with a
subtle skill he was forcing him to isolate himself. And he was
doing it deliberately to save the life of Celia Harland in Geneva.
Once Ricardo lifted himself up with the hair stirring on his
scalp. He himself had been with Wethermill in the baccarat-rooms
on the very night of the murder. They had walked together up the
hill to the hotel. It could not be that Harry Wethermill was
guilty. And yet, he suddenly remembered, they had together left
the rooms at an early hour. It was only ten o'clock when they had
separated in the hall, when they had gone, each to his own room.