st few days to my own certain
knowledge," I said.

"In Brussels," echoed the man seated in the writing chair. "Where?"

"Here, in your city. And I expect he is here now."

"And you know him?" asked the _Chef du Surete_, his eyes betraying slight
excitement.

"Quite well. He was my friend."

"I see he is accused of murdering a woman, name unknown, in his
apartment," remarked the official.

"The name is now known--it has been discovered by me, m'sieur. The name
of the dead girl is Marie Bracq."

The little man half rose from his chair and stared at me.

"Is this the truth, m'sieur?" he cried. "Is this man named Kemsley, or
Cane, accused of the assassination of Marie Bracq?"

"Yes," I replied.

"But this is most astounding," the Belgian functionary declared
excitedly. "Marie Bracq dead! Ah! it cannot be possible, m'sieur! You do
not know what this information means to us--what an enormous sensation it
will cause if the press scents the truth. Tell me quickly--tell me all
you know," he urged, at the same time taking up the telephone receiver
from his table and then listening for a second, said in a quick,
impetuous voice, "I want Inspector Fremy at once!"

CHAPTER XXV.

FREMY, OF THE SURETE.

After a few moments a short, stout, clean-shaven man with a round,
pleasant face, and dressed in black, entered and bowed to his chief.

He carried his soft felt hat and cane in his hand, and seated himself at
the invitation of Van Huffel.

"This is Inspector Fremy--Monsieur Edouard Royle, of Londres," exclaimed
the _Chef du Surete_, introducing us.

The detective, the most famous police officer in Belgium, who had been
for years under Monsieur Hennion, in Paris, and had now transferred his
services to Belgium, bowed and looked at me with his small, inquisitive
eyes.

"Monsieur Fremy. This gentleman has called with regard to the case of
Marie Bracq," said Van Huffel in French.

The detective was quickly interested.

"She is dead--been assassinated in London," his chief went on.

Fremy stared at the speaker in surprise, and the two men exchanged
strange glances.

"Monsieur tells me that the man, Sir Digby Kemsley, wanted by Scotland
Yard, is accused of the murder of Marie Bracq--and, further," added Van
Huffel, "the accused has been here in Brussels quite recently."

"In Brussels?" echoed the round-faced man.

"Yes," I said. "He has letters addressed to the Poste Restante in the
name of Bryant." An