“It was the first time that Frédéric Larsan, like myself, found himself face to face with Mademoiselle Stangerson since the attack in The Yellow Room. Like me, he had insisted on being allowed to question the unhappy lady; but he had not, any more than had I, been permitted. To him, as to me, the same answer had always been given: Mademoiselle Stangerson was too weak to receive us. The questionings of the examining magistrate had over-fatigued her. It was evidently intended not to give us any assistance in our researches. I was not surprised; but Frédéric Larsan had always resented this conduct. It is true that he and I had a totally different theory of the crime. “I still catch myself repeating from the depths of my heart: ‘Save her!—save her without _his_ speaking!’ Who is _he_—the murderer? Take him and shut his mouth. But Monsieur Darzac made it clear that in order to shut his mouth he must be killed. Have I the right to kill Mademoiselle Stangerson’s murderer? No, I had not. But let him only give me the chance! Let me find out whether he is really a creature of flesh and blood!—Let me see his dead body, since it cannot be taken alive. “If I could but make this woman, who does not even look at us, understand! She is absorbed by her fears and by her father’s distress of mind. And I can do nothing to save her. Yes, I will go to work once more and accomplish wonders. “I move towards her. I would speak to her. I would entreat her to have confidence in me. I would, in a word, make her understand—she alone—that I know how the murderer escaped from The Yellow Room—that I have guessed the motives for her secrecy—and that I pity her with all my heart. But by her gestures she begged us to leave her alone, expressing weariness and the need for immediate rest. Monsieur Stangerson asked us to go back to our rooms and thanked us. Frédéric Larsan and I bowed to him and, followed by Daddy Jacques, we regained the gallery. I heard Larsan murmur: ‘Strange! strange!’ He made a sign to me to go with him into his room. On the threshold he turned towards Daddy Jacques. “‘Did you see him distinctly?’ he asked. “‘Who?’ “‘The man?’ “‘Saw him!—why, he had a big red beard and red hair.’ “‘That’s how he appeared to me,’ I said. “‘And to me,’ said Larsan. “The great Fred and I were alone in his chamber, now, to talk over this thing. We talked for an hour, turning the matter over and viewing it from every side. From the questions put by him, from the explanation which he gives me, it is clear to me that—in spite of all our senses he is persuaded the man disappeared by some secret passage in the château known to him alone. “‘He knows the château,’ he said to me; ‘he knows it well.’ “‘He is a rather tall man—well-built,’ I suggested. “‘He is as tall as he wants to be,’ murmured Fred. “‘I understand,’ I said; ‘but how do you account for his red hair and beard?’ “‘Too much beard—too much hair—false,’ says Fred.