"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."
"And he left off coming—when?"
"Beginning of April, monsieur—after that we never see him again. Often we say to ourselves, 'Where is Federman?' The pogs, they look at the seat which he was accustomed to take, as much as to ask the same question. But," concluded M. Bonnechose, with a dismal shake of his close-cropped head, and a spreading forth of his hands, "he never visit us no more—no!"
"Now, listen, M. Bonnechose," said the chief; "did this man ever give you any particulars about himself?"
"None but what I have told you, monsieur—and which I do not now remember."
"Ever tell you where he lived in London—-at the time he was visiting you?"
"No, monsieur—never."
"Did he ever come to your place accompanied by anybody? Bring any friends there?"
M. Bonnechose put himself into an attitude of deep thought. He remained in it for a moment or two; then he exchanged it for one of joyful recollection.