“I did think of it, but they don’t seem to have a specimen to hand, and, anyway, it doesn’t seem very important.  There’s ‘avenger of the tortoise’ plain enough, in the man’s own language, and that tells everything.  Besides, handwritings are easily disguised.”

“Have you got Goujon?”

“Well, no; we haven’t.  There seems to be some little difficulty about that.  But I expect to have him by this time to-morrow.  Here comes Mr. Styles, the landlord.”

Mr. Styles was a thin, querulous, and withered-looking little man, who twitched his eyebrows as he spoke, and spoke in short, jerky phrases.

“No news, eh, inspector, eh? eh?  Found out nothing else, eh?  Terrible thing for my property—­terrible!  Who’s your friend?”

Nettings introduced Hewitt.

“Shocking thing this, eh, Mr. Hewitt?  Terrible!  Comes of having anything to do with these blood-thirsty foreigners, eh?  New buildings and all—­character ruined.  No one come to live here now, eh?  Tenants—­noisy niggers—­murdered by my own servants—­terrible! You formed any opinion, eh?”

“I dare say I might if I went into the case.”

“Yes, yes—­same opinion as inspector’s, eh?  I mean an opinion of your own?” The old man scrutinized Hewitt’s face sharply.

“If you’d like me to look into the matter——­” Hewitt began.

“Eh?  Oh, look into it!  Well, I can’t commission you, you know—­matter for the police.  Mischief’s done.  Police doing very well, I think—­must be Goujon.  But look about the place, certainly, if you like.  If you see anything likely to serve my interests, tell me, and—­and—­perhaps I’ll employ you, eh, eh?  Good-afternoon.”

The landlord vanished, and the inspector laughed.  “Likes to see what he’s buying, does Mr. Styles,” he said.

Hewitt’s first impulse was to walk out of the place at once.  But his interest in the case had been roused, and he determined, at any rate, to examine the rooms, and this he did very minutely.  By the side of the lobby was a bath-room, and in this was fitted a tip-up wash-basin, which Hewitt inspected with particular attention.  Then he called the housekeeper, and made inquiries about Rameau’s clothes and linen.  The housekeeper could give no idea of how many overcoats or how much linen he had had.  He had all a negro’s love of display, and was continually buying new clothes, which, indeed, were lying, hanging, littering, and choking up the bedroom in all directions.  The housekeeper, however, on Hewitt’s inquiring after such a garment in particular, did remember one heavy black ulster, which Rameau had very rarely worn—­only in the coldest weather.

“After the body was discovered,” Hewitt asked the housekeeper, “was any stranger observed about the place—­whether carrying anything or not?”

“No, sir,” the housekeeper replied.  “There’s been particular inquiries about that.  Of course, after we knew what was wrong and the body was gone, nobody was seen, or he’d have been stopped.  But the hall-porter says he’s certain no stranger came or went for half an hour or more before that—­the time about when the housemaid saw the body and fainted.”