“There’s that in it, certainly,” assented Fullaway.  “All right.  You get a taxi and I’ll join you in a minute or two.”

As they got out of one cab at the police headquarters Celia Lennard appeared in another.  She made a little grimace as the two men greeted her.

“Again!” she exclaimed, “What are we going to be treated to now?  More old women with vague stories, I suppose.  What good is it at all?  And when am I going to hear something about my jewels?”

“You never know what you’re going to hear when you visit these palatial halls,” answered Fullaway.  “You may be going to have the biggest surprise of your life, you know.  They sent for you?”

“Rang me up in the middle of my breakfast,” answered Celia.  “Well—­let’s find out what new sensation this is.  Some extraordinary creature on view again, of course.”

The creature on view proved to be a little fat man, obviously French or Swiss, who sat, his rotund figure tightly enveloped in a frock-coat, the lapel of which was decorated with a bit of ribbon, on the edge of a chair facing the chief’s desk.  He was a nervous, alert little man; his carefully trimmed moustache and pointed beard quivered with excitement; his dark eyes blazed.  And at sight of the elegantly attired lady he bounced out of his chair, swept his silk hat to the ground, and executed a deep bow of the most extreme politeness.

“This,” observed the chief, with a smile at his visitors, “is Monsieur Aristide Bonnechose.  M. Bonnechose believes that he can tell us something.  It is a supplement to what Mrs. Perrigo told us yesterday.  It relates, of course to the young man whom Mrs. Perrigo told us of—­the young man who led pugs in Kensington Gardens.”

“The pogs of Madame, my spouse,” said M. Bonnechose, with a bow and a solemn expression.  “Two pogs—­Fifi and Chou-Chou.”

“M.  Bonnechose,” continued the chief, regarding his company with yet another smile, “is the proprietor of a—­what is your establishment, monsieur?”

“Cafe-restaurant, monsieur,” replied M. Bonnechose, promptly and politely.  “Small, but elegant.  Of my name, monsieur—­the Cafe Bonnechose, Oxford Street.  Established nine years—­I succeeded to a former proprietor, Monsieur Jules, on his lamented decease.”

“I think M. Bonnechose had better tell us his history in his own fashion,” remarked the chief, looking around.  “You are aware, Mr. Allerdyke, and you, too, Mr. Fullaway, and so I suppose are you Miss Lennard, that after hearing what Mrs. Perrigo had to tell us I put out a bill asking for information about the young man Mrs. Perrigo described, and the matter was also mentioned in last night’s and this morning’s papers.  M. Bonnechose read about it in his newspaper, and so he came here at once.  He tells me that he knew a young man who was good enough during the early spring, to occasionally take out Madame Bonnechose’s prize dogs for an airing.  That seems to have been the same man referred to by Mrs. Perrigo.  Now, M. Bonnechose, give us the details.”