Beyond his coat and hat, the stained rag and the dog himself, there was not the faintest indication of what became of him after that.  The concierge vowed that he did not enter the hotel—­Aristide Nicolet vowed that he did not enter No. 25.  But then the dog was in the cupboard, and so were the hat and coat; and even the police were bound to admit that in the short space of time between my last glimpse of Theodore and the gendarme’s entry into room 25 it would be impossible for the most experienced criminal on earth to murder a man, conceal every trace of the crime, and so to dispose of the body as to baffle the most minute inquiry and the most exhaustive search.

Sometimes when I thought the whole matter out I felt that I was growing crazy.

5.

Thus about a week or ten days went by and I had just come reluctantly to the conclusion that there must be some truth in the old mediaeval legends which tell us that the devil runs away with his elect from time to time, when I received a summons from M. the Commissary of Police to present myself at his bureau.

He was pleasant and urbane as usual, but to my anxious query after Theodore he only gave me the old reply:  “No trace of him can be found.”

Then he added:  “We must therefore take it for granted, my good M. Ratichon, that your man of all work is—­of his own free will—­keeping out of the way.  The murder theory is untenable; we have had to abandon it.  The total disappearance of the body is an unanswerable argument against it.  Would you care to offer a reward for information leading to the recovery of your missing friend?”

I hesitated.  I certainly was not prepared to pay anyone for finding Theodore.

“Think it over, my good M. Ratichon,” rejoined M. le Commissaire pleasantly.  “But in the meanwhile I must tell you that we have decided to set Aristide Nicolet free.  There is not a particle of evidence against him either in the matter of the dog or of that of your friend.  Mme. de Nole’s servants cannot swear to his identity, whilst you have sworn that you last saw the dog in your man’s arms.  That being so, I feel that we have no right to detain an innocent man.”

Well, Sir, what could I say?  I knew well enough that there was not a tittle of solid evidence against the man Nicolet, nor had I the power to move the police of His Majesty the King from their decision.  In my heart of hearts I had the firm conviction that the ginger-polled ruffian knew all about Carissimo and all about the present whereabouts of that rascal Theodore.  But what could I say, Sir?  What could I do?

I went home that night to my lodgings at Passy more perplexed than ever I had been in my life before.

The next morning I arrived at my office soon after nine.  The problem had presented itself to me during the night of finding a new man of all work who would serve me on the same terms as that ungrateful wretch Theodore.