“About when was it that this young man first came to your cafe, then?”

“About the beginning of March, or end of February, monsieur—­it was the beginning of the good weather, you understand.”

“And he left off coming—­when?”

“Beginning of April, monsieur—­after that we never see him again.  Often we say to ourselves, ‘Where is Federman?’ The pogs, they look at the seat which he was accustomed to take, as much as to ask the same question.  But,” concluded M. Bonnechose, with a dismal shake of his close-cropped head, and a spreading forth of his hands, “he never visit us no more—­no!”

“Now, listen, M. Bonnechose,” said the chief; “did this man ever give you any particulars about himself?”

“None but what I have told you, monsieur—­and which I do not now remember.”

“Ever tell you where he lived in London—–­at the time he was visiting you?”

“No, monsieur—­never.”

“Did he ever come to your place accompanied by anybody?  Bring any friends there?”

M. Bonnechose put himself into an attitude of deep thought.  He remained in it for a moment or two; then he exchanged it for one of joyful recollection.

“On one occasion, a lady!” he exclaimed.  “A Frenchwoman.  Tall—­that is, taller than is usual amongst Frenchwomen—­slender—­elegant.  Dark—­dark, black eyes—­not beautiful, you understand, but—­engaging.”

“Lisette!” muttered Celia.

“On only one occasion, you say, M. Bonnechose?” asked the chief.  “When was it?”

“About the time I speak of, monsieur.  They came in one night—­rather late.  They had a light supper—­nothing much.”

“He did not tell you who she was?”

“Not a word, monsieur!  He was, as a rule, very secretive, this Federman, saying little about his own affairs.”

“You don’t remember that he ever brought any one else there!  No men, for instance?”

M. Bonnechose shook his head.  Then, once again, his face brightened.

“No!” he said.  “But once—­just once—­I saw Federman talking to a man in the street—­Shaftesbury Avenue.  A clean-shaven man, well built, brown hair—­a Frenchman, I think.  But, of course, a stranger to me.”

The chief exchanged a glance with Allerdyke and Fullaway—­both knew what that glance meant.  M. Bonnechose’s description tallied remarkably with that of the man who had gone to Eastbourne Terrace Hotel with Lisette Beaurepaire.

“A clean-shaven man, with brown hair, and well built, eh?” said the chief.  “And when—­”

Just then an interruption came in the person of a man who entered the room and gave evident signs of a desire to tell something to his superior.  The chief left his chair, went across to the door, and received a communication which was evidently of considerable moment.  He turned and beckoned Blindway; the three went out of the room.  Several minutes passed; then the chief came back alone, and looked at his visitors with a glance of significance.