“Not I!—I like the press and journalists too well to be in any way disagreeable to them; but Monsieur Stangerson has given orders for his door to be closed against everybody, and it is well guarded. Not a journalist was able to pass through the gate of the Glandier yesterday.” Monsieur de Marquet compressed his lips and seemed ready to relapse into obstinate silence. He only relaxed a little when Rouletabille no longer left him in ignorance of the fact that we were going to the Glandier for the purpose of shaking hands with an “old and intimate friend,” Monsieur Robert Darzac—a man whom Rouletabille had perhaps seen once in his life. “Poor Robert!” continued the young reporter, “this dreadful affair may be his death,—he is so deeply in love with Mademoiselle Stangerson.” “His sufferings are truly painful to witness,” escaped like a regret from the lips of Monsieur de Marquet. “But it is to be hoped that Mademoiselle Stangerson’s life will be saved.” “Let us hope so. Her father told me yesterday that, if she does not recover, it will not be long before he joins her in the grave. What an incalculable loss to science his death would be!” “The wound on her temple is serious, is it not?” “Evidently; but, by a wonderful chance, it has not proved mortal. The blow was given with great force.” “Then it was not with the revolver she was wounded,” said Rouletabille, glancing at me in triumph. Monsieur de Marquet appeared greatly embarrassed. “I didn’t say anything—I don’t want to say anything—I will not say anything,” he said. And he turned towards his Registrar as if he no longer knew us. But Rouletabille was not to be so easily shaken off. He moved nearer to the examining magistrate and, drawing a copy of the “Matin” from his pocket, he showed it to him and said:— “There is one thing, Monsieur, which I may enquire of you without committing an indiscretion. You have, of course, seen the account given in the ‘Matin’? It is absurd, is it not?” “Not in the slightest, Monsieur.” “What! The Yellow Room has but one barred window—the bars of which have not been moved—and only one door, which had to be broken open—and the assassin was not found!” “That’s so, monsieur,—that’s so. That’s how the matter stands.” Rouletabille said no more but plunged into thought. A quarter of an hour thus passed. Coming back to himself again he said, addressing the magistrate:— “How did Mademoiselle Stangerson wear her hair on that evening?” “I don’t know,” replied Monsieur de Marquet. “That’s a very important point,” said Rouletabille. “Her hair was done up in bands, wasn’t it? I feel sure that on that evening, the evening of the crime, she had her hair arranged in bands.”