"With pleasure, monsieur," he responded. "It is this way, then. You will comprehend that Madame, my spouse, and myself are of the busiest. We do not keep a great staff; accordingly we have much to do ourselves. Consequently we have not much time to go out, to take the air. Madame, my spouse, she has a love for the dogs--she keeps two, Fifi and Chou-Chou--pogs. What they call pedigree dogs--valuable. Beautiful animals--but needing exercise. It is a trouble to Madame that they cannot disport themselves more frequently. Now, about the beginning of this spring, a young man--compatriot of my own--a Swiss from the Vaud canton--he begins coming to my cafe. Sometimes he comes for his lunch--sometimes he drops in, as they say, for a cup of coffee. We find out, he and I, that we come from the same district. In the event, we become friendly." "This young man's name, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief. "What we knew him by--Federman," replied M. Bonnechose. "Carl Federman. He told me he was looking out for a job as valet to a rich man. He had been a waiter--somewhere in London--some hotel, I think--I did not pay much attention. Anyway, while he was looking for his job he certainly had plenty of money--plenty! He do himself very well with his lunches--sometimes he come and have his dinner at night. We are not expensive, you understand--nice lunch for two shillings, nice dinner for three--nothing to him, that--he always carry plenty of money in his pockets. Well, then, of course, having nothing to do, often he talks to me and Madame. One day we talk of the pogs, then walking about the establishment. He remarks that they are too fat. Madame sighs and says the poor darlings do not get sufficient exercise. He is good-natured, this Federman--he say at once 'I will exercise them--I, myself,' So he come next day, like a good friend, Madame puts blue ribbons on the pogs, and bids them behave nicely--away they go with Federman for the excursion. Many days he thus takes them--to Hyde Park, to Kensington Gardens--out of the neighbourliness, you understand. Madame is much obliged to him--she regards him as a kind young man--eh? And then, all of a sudden, we do not see Federman any more--no. Nor hear of him until monsieur asks for news of him in the papers. I see that news last night--Madame sees it! We start--we look at each other--we regard ourselves with comprehension. We both make the same exclamation--'It is Federman! He is wanted! He has done something!' Then Madame says, 'Aristide, in the morning, you will go to the police commissary,' I say 'It shall be done--we will have no mystery around the Cafe Bonnechose.' Monsieur, I am here--and I have spoken!" "And that is all you know, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief. "All, monsieur, absolutely all!" "About when was it that this young man first came to your cafe, then?" "About the beginning of March, or end of February, monsieur--it was the beginning of the good weather, you understand."