under one's very feet. But I don't mind telling you my present
theory--somebody's got information of that jewel deal from Fullaway's
office, somebody who had access to his papers, somebody who managed to
steal that photo of mine from Mrs. Marlow for a few days or until they
could reproduce it. What I want to find now is--an idea of that somebody.
And--I'll get it!--I'll move heaven and earth to get it! But--other
matters. You say your folks at the Yard are going to follow up that
Perrigo woman's clue? They think it important, then?"

"In the case of the Frenchwoman, yes," answered Chettle. He thrust his
hand into a side-pocket and brought out a crumpled paper. "Here's a proof
of the bill they're getting out," he said. "They set to work on that as
soon as they'd got the information. That'll be up outside every
police-station in a few hours, and it's gone out to the Press, too."

Allerdyke took the proof, still damp from the machine, and looked it
over. It asked, in the usual formal language, for any information about a
young man, dark, presumably a foreigner, who, about the middle of March,
was in the habit of taking two pug dogs, generally bedecked with blue
ribbons, into Kensington Gardens.

"There ought to be some response to that, you know, Mr. Allerdyke,"
remarked Chettle. "Somebody must remember and know something about that
young fellow. But, upon my soul, as I said to Blindway just now, I don't
know whether that bill's a mere advertisement or a--death warrant!"

"Death warrant!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "What d'you mean?"

Chettle chuckled knowingly.

"Mean," he said. "Why, this--if that young fellow who led pugs about, and
talked to Mamselle Lisette in Kensington Gardens, is another of the cat's
paws that this gang evidently made use of, I should say that when the
gang sees he's being searched for, they'll out him, just as they outed
her and Lydenberg. That's what I mean, Mr. Allerdyke--they'll do him in
themselves before anybody else can get at him! See?"

Allerdyke saw. And when the detective had gone, he threw himself into a
chair, lighted one of his strongest cigars, drew pen, ink, and paper to
him, and began to work at his problem with a grim determination to evolve
at any rate a clear theory of its possible solution.




CHAPTER XXIV

CONCERNING CARL FEDERMAN


Next morning, as Allerdyke was leaving the hotel with the intention of
going down to Gresham Street, one of the hall-porters ran after and
hailed him.

"You're wanted at the telephone, sir," he said. "Call for you just
come through."

Allerdyke went back, to find himself hailed by Blindway. Would he drive
on to the Yard at once and bring Mr. Fullaway with him?--both were
wanted, particularly in connection with the Perrigo information.

Allerdyke promised for himself, and went upstairs to find Fullaway. He
met him coming down, and gave him the message. Fullaway looked undecided.

"You know what I told you yesterday, Allerdyke," he said. "I didn't want
to be bothered further with these police chaps. Van Koon and I are on a
line of our own, and--"

"As you like," interrupted Allerdyke, "but all the same, if I were in
your place I shouldn't refuse a chance of acquiring information. Even if
you don't want to tell the police anything, that's no reason why you
shouldn't learn something from them."

"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."

M. Bonnechose set down his tall, very Parisian hat on the edge of
the chief's desk, and proceeded to use his hands in conjunction with
his tongue.

"With pleasure, monsieur," he responded. "It is this way, then. You will
comprehend that Madame, my spouse, and myself are of the busiest. We do
not keep a great staff; accordingly we have much to do ourselves.
Consequently we have not much time to go out, to take the air. Madame, my
spouse, she has a love for the dogs--she keeps two, Fifi and
Chou-Chou--pogs. What they call pedigree dogs--valuable. Beautiful
animals--but needing exercise. It is a trouble to Madame that they cannot
disport themselves more frequently. Now, about the beginning of this
spring, a young man--compatriot of my own--a Swiss from the Vaud
canton--he begins coming to my cafe. Sometimes he comes for his
lunch--sometimes he drops in, as they say, for a cup of coffee. We find
out, he and I, that we come from the same district. In the event, we
become friendly."

"This young man's name, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief.

"What we knew him by--Federman," replied M. Bonnechose. "Carl Federman.
He told me he was looking out for a job as valet to a rich man. He had
been a waiter--somewhere in London--some hotel, I think--I did not pay
much attention. Anyway, while he was looking for his job he certainly had
plenty of money--plenty! He do himself very well with his
lunches--sometimes he come and have his dinner at night. We are not
expensive, you understand--nice lunch for two shillings, nice dinner for
three--nothing to him, that--he always carry plenty of money in his
pockets. Well, then, of course, having nothing to do, often he talks to
me and Madame. One day we talk of the pogs, then walking about the
establishment. He remarks that they are too fat. Madame sighs and says
the poor darlings do not get sufficient exercise. He is good-natured,
this Federman--he say at once 'I will exercise them--I, myself,' So he
come next day, like a good friend, Madame puts blue ribbons on the pogs,
and bids them behave nicely--away they go with Federman for the
excursion. Many days he thus takes them--to Hyde Park, to Kensington
Gardens--out of the neighbourliness, you understand. Madame is much
obliged to him--she regards him as a kind young man--eh? And then, all of
a sudden, we do not see Federman any more--no. Nor hear of him until
monsieur asks for news of him in the papers. I see that news last
night--Madame sees it! We start--we look at each other--we regard
ourselves with comprehension. We both make the same exclamation--'It is
Federman! He is wanted! He has done something!' Then Madame says,
'Aristide, in the morning, you will go to the police commissary,' I say
'It shall be done--we will have no mystery around the Cafe Bonnechose.'
Monsieur, I am here--and I have spoken!"

"And that is all you know, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief.

"All, monsieur, absolutely all!"

"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.

"We have just got news of something that relates, I think, to the
very subject we were discussing," he said. "A young man has been found
dead in bed at a City hotel this morning under very suspicious
circumstances--circumstances very similar to those of the Eastbourne
Terrace affair. And," he went on, glancing at a scrap of paper which he
held in his hand, "the description of him very closely resembles that of
this man Federman. Of course, it's not an uncommon type, but--"

"Another of 'em!" exclaimed Allerdyke. He had suddenly remembered what
Chettle had said about the new bill being a possible death-warrant, and
the words started irrepressibly to his lips. "Good Lord!"

The chief gave him a quick glance; it seemed as if he instinctively
divined what was passing in Allerdyke's mind.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said, without referring to Allerdyke's
interruption, "but I'm afraid I must ask you--all of you--to run down to
this City hotel with me. We mustn't leave a stone unturned, and if any of
you can identify this man--"

"Oh, you don't want me, surely!" cried Celia. "Please let me off--I do so
hate that sort of thing!"

"Naturally," remarked the chief. "But I'm afraid I want you more than
any one, Miss Lennard--you and M. Bonnechose. Come--we'll go at
once--Blindway has gone down to get two cabs for us."

Blindway, M. Bonnechose, and Fullaway rode to the City in one cab; Celia,
Allerdyke, and the chief in another. Their journey came to an end in a
quiet old street near the Docks, and at the door of an old-fashioned
looking hotel. There was a much-worried landlord, and a detective or two,
and sundry police to meet them, and inquisitive eyes looked out of doors
and round corners as they went upstairs to a door which was guarded by
two constables. The chief turned to Celia with a word of encouragement.

"One look will answer the purpose," he said quietly. "But--look closely!"

The next moment all six were standing round a narrow bed on which was
laid out the dead body of a young man. The face, calm, composed, looked
more like that of a man who lay quietly and peacefully asleep than one
who had died under suspicious circumstances.

"Well?" asked the chief presently. "What do you say, Miss Lennard?"

Celia caught her breath.

"This--this is the man who came to Hull," she whispered. "The man, you
know, who called himself Lisette's brother. I knew him instantly."

"And you, M. Bonnechose?" said the chief. "Do you recognize him?"

The cafe-keeper, who had been making inarticulate murmurs of surprise and
grief, nodded.

"Federman!" he said. "Oh, yes, monsieur--Federman, without doubt.
Poor fellow!"

The chief turned to leave the room, saying quietly that that was all he
wished. But Fullaway, who had been staring moodily at the dead man,
suddenly stopped him. "Look here!" he said. "I know this man, too--but
not as Federman. I'm not mistaken about him, and I don't think Miss
Lennard or M. Bonnechose are, either. But I knew him as Fritz Ebers. He
acted as my valet at the Waldorf from the beginning of April to about the
end of the first week in May last. And--since we now know what we
do--it's my opinion that there--there in that dead man--is the last of
the puppets! The Frenchwoman--Lydenberg--now this fellow--all three got
rid of! Now, then--where's the man who pulled the strings! Where's the
arch-murderer!"




CHAPTER XXV

THE CARD ON THE DOOR


The chief made no immediate reply to Fullaway's somewhat excited
outburst; he led his little party from the room, and in the corridor
turned to Celia and the cafe keeper.

"That's all, Miss Lennard, thank you," he said. "Sorry to have to ask you
to take part in these painful affairs, but it can't be helped. M.
Bonnechose, I'm obliged to you--you'll hear from me again very soon. In
the meantime, keep counsel--don't talk to anybody except Madame--no
gossiping with customers, you know. Mr. Allerdyke, will you see Miss
Lennard downstairs and into a cab, and then join Mr. Fullaway and me
again?--we must have a talk with the police and the hotel people."

When Allerdyke went back into the hotel he found Blindway waiting for him
at the door of a ground-floor room in which the chief, Fullaway, a City
police-inspector and a detective were already closeted with the landlord
and landlady. The landlord, a somewhat sullen individual, who appeared to
be greatly vexed and disconcerted by these events, was already being
questioned by the chief as to what he knew of the young man whose body
they had just seen, and he was replying somewhat testily.

"I know no more about him than I know of any chance customer," he was
saying when Allerdyke was ushered in by Blindway, who immediately closed
the door on this informal conclave. "You see what this house is?--a
second-class house for gentlemen having business in this part, round
about the Docks. We get a lot of commercial gentlemen, sea-faring men,
such-like. Lots of our customers are people who are going to foreign
places--Antwerp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and so on--they put up here just for
the night, before sailing. I took this young man for one of that sort--in
fact, I think he made some inquiry about one of the boats."

"He did," affirmed the landlady. "He asked William, the head-waiter, what
time the Rotterdam steamer sailed this morning."

"And that's about all we know," continued the landlord. "I never took any
particular notice of him, and--"

"Just answer a few questions," said the chief, interrupting him quietly.
"We shall get at what we want to know more easily that way. What time did
this young man come to the hotel yesterday?"

The landlord turned to his wife with an expressive gesture.

"Ask her," he answered. "She looks after all that--I'm not so much in
the office."

"He came at seven o'clock last night," said the landlady. "I was in the
office, and I booked him and gave him his room--27."

"Was he alone?"

"Quite alone. He'd the suit-case that's upstairs in the room now, and an
overcoat and an umbrella."

"Of course," said the chief, "he gave you some name--some address?"

"He gave the name and address of Frank Herman, Walthamstow," replied the
landlady, opening a ledger which she had brought into the room. "There
you are--that's his writing."

The chief drew the book to him, glanced at the entry, and closed the book
again, keeping a finger in it.

"Well, what was seen of him during the evening!" he asked.

"Nothing much," replied the landlady. "He had his supper in the
coffee-room--a couple of chops and coffee. He was reading the papers in
the smoking-room until about half-past ten; I saw him myself going
upstairs between that and eleven. As I didn't see him about next morning
and as his breakfast wasn't booked, I asked where he was, and the
chambermaid said there was a card on his door saying that he wasn't to be
called till eleven."

"Where is that card?" asked the chief.

"It's here in this envelope," answered the landlady, who seemed to be
much more alert and much sharper of intellect than her husband. "I took
care of it when we found out what had happened. I suppose you'll take
charge of it?"

"If you please," answered the chief. He took the envelope, looked
inside it to make sure that the card was there, and turned to the
landlady again.

"Yes?" he said. "When you found out what had happened. Now, who did find
out what had happened?"

"Well," answered the landlady, "the chambermaid came down soon after
eleven, and said she couldn't get 27 to answer her knock. Of course, I
understood that he wanted to catch the Rotterdam boat which sailed about
noon, so I sent my husband up. And as he couldn't get any answer--"

"I went in with the chambermaid's key," broke in the landlord, "and there
he was--just as you've seen him--dead. And if you ask me, he was cold,
too--been dead some time, in my opinion."

"The surgeon said several hours--six or seven," remarked the inspector in
an aside to the chief. "Thought he'd been dead since four o'clock."

"No signs of anything in the room, I suppose?" asked the chief. "Nothing
disturbed, eh?"

"Nothing!" replied the landlord stolidly. "The room was as you'd expect
to find it; tidy enough. And nothing touched--as the police that were
called in at first can testify. They can swear as his money was all right
and his watch and chain all right--there'd been no robbery. And," he
added with resentful emphasis, "I don't care what you nor nobody
says!--'tain't no case of murder, this! It's suicide, that's what it is.
I don't want my house to get the name and character of a murder place! I
can't help it if a quiet-looking, apparently respectable young fellow
comes and suicides himself in my house--there's nobody can avoid that, as
I know of, but when it comes to murder--"

"No one has said anything about murder so far," interrupted the chief
quietly. "But since you suggest it, perhaps we'd better ask who you'd got
in the house last night." He opened the register at the page in which he
had kept his finger, and looked at the last entries. "I see that
three--no, four--people came in after this young man who called himself
Frank Herman. You booked them, I suppose?" he went on, turning to the
landlady. "Were they known to you?"

"Only one--that one, Mr. Peter Donaldson, Dundee," answered the
landlady. "He's the representative of a jute firm--he often comes here.
He's in the house now, or he was, an hour ago--he'll be here for two or
three days. Those two, Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen--they appeared to be
foreigners. They were here for the night, had breakfast early, and went
away by some boat--our porter carried their things to it. Quiet, elderly
folks, they were."

"And the fourth--John Barcombe, Manchester--you didn't know him?" asked
the chief, pointing to the last entry. "I see you gave him Number 29--two
doors from Herman."

"Yes," said the landlady. "No--I didn't know him. He came in about nine
o'clock and had some supper before he went up. He'd his breakfast at
eight o'clock this morning, and went away at once. Lots of our
customers do that--they're just in for bed and breakfast, and we
scarcely notice them."

"Did you notice this man--Barcombe?" asked the chief.

"Well, not particularly. But I've a fair recollection of him. A rather
pale, stiffish-built man, lightish brown hair and moustache, dressed in a
dark suit. He'd no luggage, and he paid me for supper, bed, and breakfast
when he booked his room," replied the landlady. "Quite a quiet,
respectable man--he said something about being unexpectedly obliged to
stop for the night, but I didn't pay any great attention."

The chief looked attentively at the open page of the register. Then he
drew the attention of those around him to the signature of John Barcombe.
It was a big, sprawling signature, all the letters sloping downward from
left to right, and being of an unusual size for a man.

"That looks to me like a feigned handwriting," he said. "However, note
this. You see that entry of Frank Herman? Observe his handwriting. Now
compare it with the writing on the card which was fixed on the door of
27--Herman's room. Look!"

He drew the card out of its envelope as he spoke and laid it beside the
entry in the register. And Marshall Allerdyke, bending over his shoulder
to look, almost cried out with astonishment, for the writing on the card
was certainly the same as that which Chettle had shown him on the
post-card found on Lydenberg, and on the back of the photograph of James
Allerdyke discovered in Lydenberg's watch. It was only by a big effort
that he checked the exclamation which was springing to his lips, and
stopped himself from snatching up the card from the table.

"You observe," said the chief quietly, "you can't fail to observe that
the writing in the register, is not the writing of the card pinned on the
door of Number 27. They are quite different. The writing of Frank Herman
in the register is in thick, stunted strokes; the writing on the card is
in thin, angular, what are commonly called crabbed strokes. Yet it is
supposed that Herman put that card outside his bedroom door. How is it,
then, that Herman's handwriting was thick and stunted when he registered
at seven o'clock and slender and a bit shaky when he wrote this card at,
say, half-past ten or eleven? Of course, Herman, or whatever his real
name is, never wrote the line on that card, and never pinned that card on
his door!"

The landlord opened his heavy lips and gasped: the landlady sighed with a
gradually awakening interest. Amidst a dead silence the chief went on
with his critical inspection of the handwriting.

"But now look at the signature of the man who called himself John
Barcombe, of Manchester. You will observe that he signed that name in a
great, sprawling hand across the page, and that the letters slope from
left to right, downward, instead of in the usually accepted fashion of
left to right, upward. Now at first sight there is no great similarity
in the writing of that entry in the register and that on the card--one is
rounded and sprawling, and the other is thin and precise. But there is
one remarkable and striking similarity. In the entry in the register
there are two a's--the a in Barcombe, the a in Manchester. On the one
line on the card found pinned to the door there are also two a's--the a
in please; the a in call. Now observe--whether the writing is big,
sprawling, thin, precise; feigned, obviously, in one case, natural, I
think, in the other, all those four a's are the same! This man has grown
so accustomed to making his a's after the Greek fashion--a--done in one
turn of the pen--that he has made them even in his feigned handwriting!
There's not a doubt, to my mind, that the card found on Herman's door was
written, and put on that door, by the man who registered as John
Barcombe. And," he added in an undertone to Allerdyke, "I've no doubt,
either, that he's the man of the Eastbourne Terrace affair."

The landlord had risen to his feet, and was scowling gloomily at
everybody.

"Then you are making it out to be murder?" he exclaimed sulkily. "Just
what I expected! Never had police called in yet without 'em making
mountains out of molehills! Murder, indeed!--nothing but a case of
suicide, that's what I say. And as this is a temperance hotel, and not a
licensed house, I'll be obliged to you if you'll have that body taken
away to the mortuary--I shall be having the character of my place taken
away next, and then where shall I be I should like to know!"

He swung indignantly out of the room, and his wife, murmuring that it was
certainly very hard on innocent people that these things went on,
followed him. The police, giving no heed to these protests, proceeded to
examine the articles taken from the dead man's clothing. Whatever had
been the object of the murderer, it was certainly not robbery. There was
a purse and a pocket-book, containing a considerable amount of money in
gold and notes; a good watch and chain, and a ring or two of some value.

"Just the same circumstances as in the Eastbourne Terrace affair," said
the chief as he rose. "Well--the thing is to find that man. You've no
doubt whatever, Mr. Fullaway, that this dead man upstairs is the man you
knew as Ebers, a valet at your hotel?"

"None!" answered Fullaway emphatically. "None whatever. Lots of people
will be able to identify him."

"That's good, at any rate," remarked the chief. "It's a long step
towards--something. Well, I must go."

Allerdyke was in more than half a mind to draw the chief aside and tell
him about Chettle's discoveries as regards the handwriting, but while he
hesitated Fullaway tugged earnestly at his sleeve.

"Come away!" whispered Fullaway. "Come! We're going to cut in at this
ourselves!"




CHAPTER XXVI

PARTICIPANTS IN THE SECRET


Allerdyke was scarcely prepared for the feverish energy with which
Fullaway dragged him out of the hotel, forced him into the first taxi-cab
they met, and bade the driver make haste to the Waldorf. He knew by that
time that the American was a nervous, excitable individual who now and
then took on tremendous fits of work in which he hustled and bustled
everybody around him, but he had never seen him quite so excited and
eager as now. The discovery at that shabby hotel which they had just
quitted seemed to have acted on him like the smell of powder on an old
war-horse; he appeared to be positively panting for action.

"Allerdyke!" he almost shouted as the cab moved away, and he himself
smote one clenched fist upon the other. "Allerdyke--this thing has got to
go through! I resign all claim to that reward. Allerdyke!--this affair is
too serious for any hole-and-corner work. I shall tell Van Koon that what
we know, or fancy, must be thrown into the common stock of knowledge! The
thing is to get at the people who've been behind this poor chap Ebers, or
Federman, or Herman, or whatever his name is. Allerdyke!--we must go
right into things."

Allerdyke laughed sardonically. When Fullaway developed excitement, he
developed coolness, and his voice became as dry and hard as the other's
was fervid and eloquent.

"Aye!" he said in his most phlegmatic tones. "Aye, just so! And where
d'ye intend to cut in, now, like? Is it a sort of Gordian knot affair
that you're thinking of? Going to solve this difficulty at one blow?"

"Don't be sarcastic," retorted Fullaway. "I'm going to take things clean
up from this Federman or Ebers affair. I'm going deep--deep! You'll see
in a few minutes."

"Willing to see--and to hear--aught," remarked Allerdyke laconically.
"I've been doing naught else since I got that wireless telegram."

Then they relapsed into silence until the Waldorf was reached.
There Fullaway raced his companion upstairs to his rooms and burst
in upon Mrs. Marlow like a whirlwind. The pretty secretary, busied
with her typewriter, looked up, glanced at both men, and calmly
resumed her labours.

"Mrs. Marlow!" exclaimed Fullaway. "Just step to Mr. Van Koon's rooms
and beg him to come back here to my sitting-room with you--important
business, Mrs. Marlow--I want you, too."

Allerdyke, closely watching the woman around whom so much mystery
centred, saw that she did not move so much as an eyelash. She laid her
work aside, left the room, and within a minute returned with Van Koon,
who gazed at Fullaway with an air of half-amused inquiry.

"Something happened?" he asked, nodding to Allerdyke. "Town on fire?"

"Van Koon, sit down," commanded Fullaway, pushing his compatriot into the
inner room. "Mrs. Marlow, fasten that outer door and come in here. We're
going to have a stiff conference. Sit down, please, all of you. Now," he
went on, when the other three had ranged themselves about the centre
table, "There is news, Van Koon. Allerdyke and I have just come away from
an hotel in the Docks where we've seen the dead body of a young man who's
been found dead there under precisely similar circumstances to those
which attended the death of the French maid in Eastbourne Terrace. We've
also heard a description of a man who was at this hotel in the Docks last
night--it corresponds to that of the fellow who accompanied Lisette
Beaurepaire. I, personally, have no doubt that this man, whoever he is,
is the murderer of Lisette and of this youngster whose body we've just
seen. Mrs. Marlow, this dead young fellow, from whose death-chamber we've
just come, is that valet I used to have here--Ebers. You remember him?"

"Sure!" answered Mrs. Marlow, quite calmly and unconcernedly. "Very
well indeed."

"This Ebers," continued Fullaway, turning to Van Koon, "was a young
fellow, Swiss, German, something of that sort, who acted as valet to me
and to some other men here in this hotel for a time. I needn't go into
too many details now, but there's no doubt that he knew, and was in touch
with, Lisette Beaurepaire, and Miss Lennard positively identifies him as
the man who met her and Lisette at Hull, and represented himself as