“I am a journalist, Monsieur, engaged on the ‘Epoque,’” said my young friend with a great show of gesture and politeness, “and I have a word or two to say to Monsieur de Marquet.” “Monsieur is very much engaged with the inquiry he has in hand.” “Ah! his inquiry, pray believe me, is absolutely a matter of indifference to me. I am no scavenger of odds and ends,” he went on, with infinite contempt in his lower lip, “I am a theatrical reporter; and this evening I shall have to give a little account of the play at the Scala.” “Get in, sir, please,” said the Registrar. Rouletabille was already in the compartment. I went in after him and seated myself by his side. The Registrar followed and closed the carriage-door. Monsieur de Marquet looked at him. “Ah, sir,” Rouletabille began, “You must not be angry with Monsieur de Maleine. It is not with Monsieur de Marquet that I desire to have the honour of speaking, but with Monsieur ‘Castigat Ridendo.’ Permit me to congratulate you—personally, as well as the writer for the ‘Epoque.’” And Rouletabille, having first introduced me, introduced himself. Monsieur de Marquet, with a nervous gesture, caressed his beard into a point, and explained to Rouletabille, in a few words, that he was too modest an author to desire that the veil of his pseudonym should be publicly raised, and that he hoped the enthusiasm of the journalist for the dramatist’s work would not lead him to tell the public that Monsieur “Castigat Ridendo” and the examining magistrate of Corbeil were one and the same person. “The work of the dramatic author may interfere,” he said, after a slight hesitation, “with that of the magistrate, especially in a province where one’s labours are little more than routine.” “Oh, you may rely on my discretion!” cried Rouletabille. The train was in motion. “We have started!” said the examining magistrate, surprised at seeing us still in the carriage. “Yes, Monsieur,—truth has started,” said Rouletabille, smiling amiably,—“on its way to the Château du Glandier. A fine case, Monsieur de Marquet,—a fine case!” “An obscure—incredible, unfathomable, inexplicable affair—and there is only one thing _I_ fear, Monsieur Rouletabille,—that the journalists will be trying to explain it.” My friend felt this a rap on his knuckles. “Yes,” he said simply, “that is to be feared. They meddle in everything. As for my interest, monsieur, I only referred to it by mere chance,—the mere chance of finding myself in the same train with you, and in the same compartment of the same carriage.” “Where are you going, then?” asked Monsieur de Marquet. “To the Château du Glandier,” replied Rouletabille, without turning. “You’ll not get in, Monsieur Rouletabille!” “Will you prevent me?” said my friend, already prepared to fight.