"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."