“Then, again, there’s an individual open to suspicion on several counts, the man M. Moche lodged for forty-eight hours in his garret in the Rue Saint-Fargeau, who seized the opportunity to kill two police-officers who were coming to arrest him!” “You accuse the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, of the bank employé’s murder?” The workman shrugged his shoulders: “I accuse nobody,” he protested, “I form hypotheses, and that’s all; I ... my part, in fact, is not to bring accusations, but simply ...” The Commissary, exasperated by these repeated suppressions, this reticence on the part of his interlocutor, suddenly came up to the workman and clapping both hands on his shoulder: “This is all mighty mysterious,” he complained, “now, for a start, you are going to tell me what you are doing here?” “You can see for yourself I am a painter and paper-hanger, I came to put up papers.” “Put up papers! on a Sunday?” “Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.” “On a Sunday!—that won’t wash! And besides, you strike me as a mighty hard-headed chap. This crime is out of all ordinary—you show no surprise. This discovery is appalling—you never turn a hair! My lad, you make out too well ...” “Must a man be an imbecile because he’s a working man?” The Commissaire checked himself, vexed at his own want of tact: “I don’t mean to say that, but still I find you a puzzle. You make your appearance here a short hour ago, you knock in a nail, the wall bleeds, you knock away the plaster covering the masonry and the corpse comes to light! You wait for the police to come to explain the crime. What have you to say for yourself?” “Nothing!” the workman shook his head. The Commissary was getting more and more annoyed: “I really do not know,” he blustered, “what stops me from arresting you.” At this, the workman, suddenly assuming a sly look, looked his companion up and down: “What stops you from arresting me? why, nothing! But what will stop your doing it, I’m going to tell you ...” “Tell me then!” “This ...” and the mysterious workman with a quick movement, stripped off his blouse, and, beneath his working garment, he appeared elegantly attired in a dark blue suit; he wore a silk neckerchief of a quiet, gentlemanly cut and colour, a collar of immaculate whiteness. Removing his cap, which till then had been pulled well down over his ears, he displayed a broad, intellectual forehead; his hair was of a light blonde, sprinkled with silvery threads at the temples. Without giving a thought to the intense surprise he had created, the _soi-disant_ workman looked the Commissary hard in the eyes, as he declared gravely: “I am Tom Bob, American detective; a week ago I arrived in Paris, having crossed the Atlantic with the express purpose of tracking down Fantômas and effecting his arrest!”—adding courteously: “Monsieur le Commissaire, I am grateful to circumstances that have afforded me the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”