The usher hurried to the side door, opened it, and disappeared. The door remained open, while all eyes turned expectantly towards it. The clerk re-appeared and, stepping forward, said: “Monsieur President, Frédéric Larsan is not here. He left at about four o’clock and has not been seen since.” “That is my proof!” cried Rouletabille, triumphantly. “Explain yourself?” demanded the President. “My proof is Larsan’s flight,” said the young reporter. “He will not come back. You will see no more of Frédéric Larsan.” “Unless you are playing with the court, Monsieur, why did you not accuse him when he was present? He would then have answered you.” “He could give no other answer than the one he has now given by his flight.” “We cannot believe that Larsan has fled. There was no reason for his doing so. Did he know you’d make this charge?” “He _did_. I told him I would.” “Do you mean to say that knowing Larsan was the murderer you gave him the opportunity to escape?” “Yes, Monsieur President, I did,” replied Rouletabille, proudly. “I am not a policeman, I am a journalist; and my business is not to arrest people. My business is in the service of truth, and is not that of an executioner. If you are just, Monsieur, you will see that I am right. You can now understand why I refrained until this hour to divulge the name. I gave Larsan time to catch the 4-17 train for Paris, where he would know where to hide himself, and leave no traces. You will not find Frédéric Larsan,” declared Rouletabille, fixing his eyes on Monsieur Robert Darzac. “He is too cunning. He is a man who has _always_ escaped you and whom you have long searched for in vain. If he did not succeed in outwitting me, he can yet easily outwit any police. This man who, four years ago, introduced himself to the Sûreté, and became celebrated as Frédéric Larsan, is notorious under another name—a name well known to crime. Frédéric Larsan, Monsieur President, is Ballmeyer!” “Ballmeyer!” cried the President. “Ballmeyer!” exclaimed Robert Darzac, springing to his feet. “Ballmeyer!—It was true, then!” “Ah! Monsieur Darzac; you don’t think I am mad, now!” cried Rouletabille. Ballmeyer! Ballmeyer! No other word could be heard in the court-room. The President adjourned the hearing. * * * * * Those of my readers who may not have heard of Ballmeyer will wonder at the excitement the name caused. And yet the doings of this remarkable criminal form the subject-matter of the most dramatic narratives of the newspapers and criminal records of the past twenty years. It had been reported that he was dead, and thus had eluded the police as he had eluded them throughout the whole of his career.