"On one occasion, a lady!" he exclaimed. "A Frenchwoman. Tall—that is, taller than is usual amongst Frenchwomen—slender—elegant. Dark—dark, black eyes—not beautiful, you understand, but—engaging."
"Lisette!" muttered Celia.
"On only one occasion, you say, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief.
"When was it?"
"About the time I speak of, monsieur. They came in one night—rather late. They had a light supper—nothing much."
"He did not tell you who she was?"
"Not a word, monsieur! He was, as a rule, very secretive, this Federman, saying little about his own affairs."
"You don't remember that he ever brought any one else there! No men, for instance?"
M. Bonnechose shook his head. Then, once again, his face brightened.
"No!" he said. "But once—just once—I saw Federman talking to a man in the street—Shaftesbury Avenue. A clean-shaven man, well built, brown hair—a Frenchman, I think. But, of course, a stranger to me."
The chief exchanged a glance with Allerdyke and Fullaway—both knew what that glance meant. M. Bonnechose's description tallied remarkably with that of the man who had gone to Eastbourne Terrace Hotel with Lisette Beaurepaire.