“To it, once again! Go back to the gallery. Take your stand on your reason and rest there as Frédéric Larsan rests on his cane. You will then soon prove that the great Fred is nothing but a fool.—30th October. Noon. “Joseph Rouletabille.” * * * * * “I acted as I planned. With head on fire, I retraced my way to the gallery, and without having found anything more than I had seen on the previous night, the right hold I had taken of my reason drew me to something so important that I was obliged to cling to it to save myself from falling. “Now for the strength and patience to find _sensible_ traces to fit in with my thinking—and these must come within the circle I have drawn between the two bumps on my forehead!—30th of October. Midnight. “Joseph Rouletabille.” Chapter XIX Rouletabille Invites Me to Breakfast at the Donjon Inn It was not until later that Rouletabille sent me the Note-Book in which he had written at length the story of the phenomenon of the inexplicable gallery. On the day I arrived at the Glandier and joined him in his room, he recounted to me, with the greatest detail, all that I have now related, telling me also how he had spent several hours in Paris where he had learned nothing that could be of any help to him. The event of the inexplicable gallery had occurred on the night between the 29th and 30th of October, that is to say, three days before my return to the château. It was on the 2nd of November, then, that I went back to the Glandier, summoned there by my friend’s telegram, and taking the revolvers with me. I am now in Rouletabille’s room and he has finished his recital. While he had been telling me the story I noticed him continually rubbing the glass of the eye-glasses he had found on the side table. From the evident pleasure he was taking in handling them I felt they must be one of those _sensible_ evidences destined to enter, what he had called, the circle of the right end of his reason. That strange and unique way of his, to express himself in terms wonderfully adequate for his thought, no longer surprised me. It was often necessary to know his thought to understand the terms he used; and it was not easy to penetrate into Rouletabille’s thinking. This lad’s brain was one of the most curious things I have ever observed. Rouletabille went on the even tenor of his way without suspecting the astonishment and even bewilderment he roused in others. I am sure he was not himself in the least conscious of the originality of his genius. He was himself and at ease wherever he happened to be. When he had finished his recital he asked me what I thought of it. I replied that I was much puzzled by his question. Then he begged me to try, in my turn, to take my reason in hand “by the right end.” “Very well,” I said. “It seems to me that the point of departure of my reason would be this—there can be no doubt that the murderer you pursued was in the gallery.” I paused.