The next moment all six were standing round a narrow bed on which was laid out the dead body of a young man. The face, calm, composed, looked more like that of a man who lay quietly and peacefully asleep than one who had died under suspicious circumstances.
"Well?" asked the chief presently. "What do you say, Miss Lennard?"
Celia caught her breath.
"This—this is the man who came to Hull," she whispered. "The man, you know, who called himself Lisette's brother. I knew him instantly."
"And you, M. Bonnechose?" said the chief. "Do you recognize him?"
The cafe-keeper, who had been making inarticulate murmurs of surprise and grief, nodded.
"Federman!" he said. "Oh, yes, monsieur—Federman, without doubt.
Poor fellow!"
The chief turned to leave the room, saying quietly that that was all he wished. But Fullaway, who had been staring moodily at the dead man, suddenly stopped him. "Look here!" he said. "I know this man, too—but not as Federman. I'm not mistaken about him, and I don't think Miss Lennard or M. Bonnechose are, either. But I knew him as Fritz Ebers. He acted as my valet at the Waldorf from the beginning of April to about the end of the first week in May last. And—since we now know what we do—it's my opinion that there—there in that dead man—is the last of the puppets! The Frenchwoman—Lydenberg—now this fellow—all three got rid of! Now, then—where's the man who pulled the strings! Where's the arch-murderer!"