At about three on Tuesday afternoon, as Nettings was in the act of leaving Bow Street Police Station, Hewitt drove up in a four-wheeler. Some prisoner appeared to be crouching low in the vehicle, but, leaving him to take care of himself, Hewitt hurried into the station and shook Nettings by the hand. "Well," he said, "have you got the murderer of Rameau yet?" "No," Nettings growled. "Unless--well, Goujon's under remand still, and, after all, I've been thinking that he may know something----" "Pooh, nonsense!" Hewitt answered. "You'd better let him go. Now, I _have_ got somebody." Hewitt laughed and slapped the inspector's shoulder. "I've got the man who carried Rameau's body away!" "The deuce you have! Where? Bring him in. We must have him----" "All right, don't be in a hurry; he won't bolt." And Hewitt stepped out to the cab and produced his prisoner, who, pulling his hat farther over his eyes, hurried furtively into the station. One hand was stowed in the breast of his long coat, and below the wide brim of his hat a small piece of white bandage could be seen; and, as he lifted his face, it was seen to be that of a negro. "Inspector Nettings," Hewitt said ceremoniously, "allow me to introduce Mr. César Rameau!" Netting's gasped. "What!" he at length ejaculated. "What! You--you're Rameau?" The negro looked round nervously, and shrank farther from the door. "Yes," he said; "but please not so loud--please not loud. Zey may be near, and I'm 'fraid." "You will certify, will you not," asked Hewitt, with malicious glee, "not only that you were not murdered last Saturday by Victor Goujon, but that, in fact, you were not murdered at all? Also, that you carried your own body away in the usual fashion, on your own legs." "Yes, yes," responded Rameau, looking haggardly about; "but is not zis--zis room publique? I should not be seen." "Nonsense!" replied Hewitt rather testily; "you exaggerate your danger and your own importance, and your enemies' abilities as well. You're safe enough." "I suppose, then," Nettings remarked slowly, like a man on whose mind something vast was beginning to dawn, "I suppose--why, hang it, you must have just got up while that fool of a girl was screaming and fainting upstairs, and walked out. They say there's nothing so hard as a nigger's skull, and yours has certainly made a fool of me. But, then, _somebody_ must have chopped you over the head; who was it?" "My enemies--my great enemies--enemies politique. I am a great man"--this with a faint revival of vanity amid his fear--"a great man in my countree. Zey have great secret club-sieties to kill me--me and my fren's; and one enemy coming in my rooms does zis--one, two"--he indicated wrist and head--"wiz a choppa."