“No!” replied Monsieur Darzac. “There is not. I took mine, four days ago, to Paris, the last time I came to the château before the crime.” “That’s a pity!” replied Fred, very coldly. Then, turning to Rouletabille, he said: “If we go on at this rate, we’ll both come to the same conclusion. Have you any idea, as to how the murderer got away from The Yellow Room?” “Yes,” said my young friend; “I have an idea.” “So have I,” said Fred, “and it must be the same as yours. There are no two ways of reasoning in this affair. I am waiting for the arrival of my chief before offering any explanation to the examining magistrate.” “Ah! Is the Chief of the Sûreté coming?” “Yes, this afternoon. He is going to summon, before the magistrate, in the laboratory, all those who have played any part in this tragedy. It will be very interesting. It is a pity you won’t be able to be present.” “I shall be present,” said Rouletabille confidently. “Really—you are an extraordinary fellow—for your age!” replied the detective in a tone not wholly free from irony. “You’d make a wonderful detective—if you had a little more method—if you didn’t follow your instincts and that bump on your forehead. As I have already several times observed, Monsieur Rouletabille, you reason too much; you do not allow yourself to be guided by what you have seen. What do you say to the handkerchief full of blood, and the red mark of the hand on the wall? You have seen the stain on the wall, but I have only seen the handkerchief.” “Bah!” cried Rouletabille, “the murderer was wounded in the hand by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s revolver!” “Ah!—a simply instinctive observation! Take care!—You are becoming too strictly logical, Monsieur Rouletabille; logic will upset you if you use it indiscriminatively. You are right, when you say that Mademoiselle Stangerson fired her revolver, but you are wrong when you say that she wounded the murderer in the hand.” “I am sure of it,” cried Rouletabille. Fred, imperturbable, interrupted him:— “Defective observation—defective observation!—the examination of the handkerchief, the numberless little round scarlet stains, the impression of drops which I found in the tracks of the footprints, at the moment when they were made on the floor, prove to me that the murderer was not wounded at all. Monsieur Rouletabille, the murderer bled at the nose!” The great Fred spoke quite seriously. However, I could not refrain from uttering an exclamation. The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him. And Fred immediately concluded:— “The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief, and dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important,” he added, “because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand for him to be the murderer.” Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he said:—