"Oh, that's all very well, madame, but I know what I know; and when you tell me that a dead man can ask questions--Pah! The fact of the matter is the constable merely fancies he heard Mr. Nosworth speak. That's where the mistake comes in. Now, look here! I once knew of an exactly similar case and I'll tell you just how it happened. Let us suppose"--strolling leisurely forward--"let us suppose that this space here is the covered passage, and you, madame--step here a moment, please. Thanks very much--and you are Miss Renfrew, and Gorham here is himself, and standing beside her as he did then." "Wasn't beside her, sir--at least not just exactly. A bit behind her--like this." "Oh, very well, then, that will do. Now, then. Here's the passage and here are you, and I'll just show you how a mistake could occur, and how it did occur, under precisely similar circumstances. Once upon a time when I was in Paris----" "In Paris, monsieur?" "Yes, madame--this little thing I'm going to tell you about happened there. You may or may not have heard that a certain Frenchy dramatist wrote a play called _Chanticler_--or maybe you never heard of it? Didn't, eh? Well, it's a play where all the characters are barnyard creatures--dogs, poultry, birds and the like--and the odd fancy of men and women dressing up like fowls took such a hold on the public that before long there were Chanticler dances and Chanticler parties in all the houses, and Chanticler 'turns' on at all the music halls, until wherever one went for an evening's amusement one was pretty sure to see somebody or another dressed up like a cock or a hen, and running the thing to death. But that's another story, and we'll pass over it. Now, it just so happened that one night--when the craze for the thing was dying out and barnyard dresses could be bought for a song--I strolled into a little fourth-rate café at Montmarte and there saw the only Chanticler dancer that I ever thought was worth a sou. She was a pretty, dainty little thing--light as a feather and graceful as a fairy. Alone, I think she might have made her mark; but she was one of what in music-halldom they call 'a team.' Her partner was a man--bad dancer, an indifferent singer, but a really passable ventriloquist." "A ventriloquist, monsieur--er--er!" "Cleek, madame--name's Cleek, if you don't mind." "Cleek! Oh, Lummy!" blurted out Mr. Nippers. But neither "madame" nor Constable Gorham said anything. They merely swung round and made a sudden bolt; and Cleek, making a bolt, too, pounced down on them like a leaping cat, and the sharp click-click of the handcuffs he had borrowed from Mr. Nippers told just when he linked their two wrists together.