“I shall gain admission, if you let me see Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do that for me. You know we are old friends. I beg of you, Monsieur Fred. Do you remember the article I wrote about you on the gold bar case?” The face of Rouletabille at the moment was really funny to look at. It showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond which some prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much eloquence, not only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features, that I could not refrain from bursting into laughter. Frédéric Larsan, no more than myself, could retain his gravity. Meanwhile, standing on the other side of the gate, he calmly put the key in his pocket. I closely scrutinised him. He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His forehead was prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper lip, without moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather small and round, with a look in them that was at once searching and disquieting. He was of middle height and well built, with a general bearing elegant and gentlemanly. There was nothing about him of the vulgar policeman. In his way, he was an artist, and one felt that he had a high opinion of himself. The sceptical tone of his conversation was that of a man who had been taught by experience. His strange profession had brought him into contact with so many crimes and villainies that it would have been remarkable if his nature had not been a little hardened. Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from the château and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab which had conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from the station at Epinay. “Ah!” said Frédéric Larsan, “if you want to speak with Monsieur Robert Darzac, he is here.” The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging Frédéric Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed for time to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he recognised me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac inquired what had brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment. I noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was lined as if from the effects of some terrible suffering. “Is Mademoiselle getting better?” I immediately asked. “Yes,” he said. “She will be saved perhaps. She _must_ be saved!” He did not add “or it will be my death”; but I felt that the phrase trembled on his pale lips. Rouletabille intervened:— “You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.” Frédéric Larsan interrupted:— “May I leave you?” he asked of Robert Darzac. “Have you a key, or do you wish me to give you this one.” “Thank you. I have a key and will lock the gate.”