"My head turns round.

I don't know where I am." Hanaud stood in front of Ricardo, smiling.

He was not displeased with his companion's bewilderment; it was all so much of tribute to himself.
"I am the captain of the ship," he said.
His smile irritated Ricardo, who spoke impatiently.
"I should be very glad," he said, "if you would tell me how you discovered all these things.

And what it was that the little salon on the first morning had to tell to you?
And why Celia Harland ran from the glass doors across the grass to the motor-car and again from the carriage into the house on the lake?
Why she did not resist yesterday evening?
Why she did not cry for help?
How much of Helene Vauquier's evidence was true and how much false?
For what reason Wethermill concerned himself in this affair?
Oh! and a thousand things which I don't understand." "Ah, the cushions, and the scrap of paper, and the aluminium flask," said Hanaud; and the triumph faded from his face.

He spoke now to Ricardo with a genuine friendliness.