“Photograph sent by your agent identified as that of Wilhelm Müller, assassinated December 30, 18—, No. 110 Rue de Turbigo. Duplicate of photo has been in this office since the crime was committed.—LEGENDRE, Chief of Identification Bureau, Prefecture of Police.” The chief’s eyes sparkled for a moment with pleasure. The way in which Freyberger had connected and riveted the two cases, the manner in which he had now, with terrible and mathematical certainty, proved Müller, _alias_ Kolbecker, _alias_ Klein, the moving spirit in these two great tragedies, and almost to a certainty the criminal, since Lefarge could have no thinkable connexion with the Gyde case and Gyde no connexion with the Lefarge case; all this pleased his artistic instinct. He said nothing, but simply read the message, handed it to Freyberger, who read it in turn and gave it back. “Thank you, sir,” said Freyberger, “and now, if you will permit me, I will go home. Nothing of importance is likely to happen between now and seven o’clock. I have some pressing business to attend to.” “And what may that business be?” inquired the chief. “Sleep, sir. I have not closed my eyes for forty-eight hours.” “Go and attend to your business, then,” replied the other, “and if anything of vital importance turns up, I will send for you. I am pleased with you, Freyberger, and with the way you have conducted this case. Go and dream you have caught this will-o’-the-wisp, and may your dream turn true.” “I never dream, sir,” replied Freyberger, and, bidding the chief good morning, he departed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXV HE returned to his rooms. The man who would command events must be able to command sleep. This, at least, Freyberger was able to do. He cast himself upon his bed, closed his eyes and was immediately lost in oblivion. At half-past four he awoke, made himself some coffee, lit a cigar and fell, for a moment, into meditation. There was one point wanting to him in the case before it stood absolutely four square and to his satisfaction. That point was the proof that the bust of Sir Anthony Gyde was by the hand of the same sculptor as the bust of M. Lefarge. It was more than probable that Mademoiselle Lefarge would bring with her to London this very material piece of evidence. It was in her possession he knew, for, in the newspaper accounts of the tragedy it was numbered amidst the _pièces de conviction_, and the statement was made that it had been returned to the daughter of Lefarge, coupled with the statement that Mademoiselle Lefarge wept when it was returned to her and expressed her conviction of her father’s innocence and her determination to devote her life to the task of clearing his name from the terrible stain upon it. Antonides alone would be able to decide the question of the artist, and at five Freyberger left his rooms and took his way to Old Compton Street.