Going up to the wall, the workman began, with little measured taps, to break away the plaster round the dead man’s head. As he worked, he explained: “Driving a nail just now into the wall here, I saw drops of blood ooze out—a wall that bleeds is not a common sight—and before pushing my investigations further, I had the police sent for. Directly on your sergeant’s arrival, I brought to light the unfortunate man’s head. We have waited out of respect for your authority before carrying the investigation further. But, now you are come, Monsieur le Commissaire, I don’t think there’s anything need prevent our bringing to light the rest of the poor fellow’s body.” The magistrate gave a twist to his moustache and acquiesced. “Proceed with your work,” he directed, and the workman took up his hammer again. With a few rapid blows, he brought down the rest of the party-wall, and the unhappy victim’s body was revealed in its entirety. It was a gruesome spectacle! A human being had been walled up there. The body had previously been coated with quicklime, and the extremities were already burnt away. Still, the general aspect of the corpse was more or less intact. At the nape of the neck the dead man had a huge bruise, now quite black, and forming, at the top of the vertebræ, a great ball full of extravasated blood. The victim wore a uniform, easily recognized, the familiar long, blue frock-coat with silver buttons of the collectors in the service of the big credit houses. While the Commissary stood motionless, rooted to the spot, the workman had gone closer, and had cast a rapid glance at the inscription engraved on the buttons of the uniform. Next moment he announced the result of his scrutiny: “_Comptoir National!..._ there can be no doubt about it, Monsieur le Commissaire; the man is the collector of the Comptoir National who was murdered, hardly ten days ago, in the house in the Rue Saint-Fargeau!” “But—but,” stammered the Commissary, “how does the body come to be here?” The paper-hanger urged suggestively: “The house in the Rue Saint-Fargeau where the crime was committed and the house in the Rue de l’Evangile where we discover the corpse, belong to the same landlord, the business agent trading under the name of M. Moche.” The Commissary started violently: “M. Moche! I will have him arrested ...” “You would be making a mistake!” the paper-hanger interrupted the magistrate. “Why?” “Because, if M. Moche was the murderer, he would never have been so imprudent as to hide his victim’s body in a house belonging to himself. Besides, there are other people to suspect ...” “Why? Who?” “Gad, sir!” declared the workman, “perhaps the individual from whom the bank messenger took up his last payment—one Paulet by name. Perhaps, again, the working mason who built that wall?” “Who was the man?” questioned the Commissary. “It is not for me to tell you, but for you to find him!” The Commissary stood puzzling his brains, while the workman went on: