“Bernier’s wife, who knows one of the three old women whom Mrs. Edith told about at luncheon. I have made an investigation. She is the mother of one of the three men hanged at Kazan for the attempted assassination of the Emperor. I have seen the photograph of the poor wretches. The other two old women are the other two mothers. There’s nothing interesting about that!” I could not refrain from a gesture of admiration. “Ah, you haven’t lost any time.” “Neither has _he_!” he muttered. I folded my arms. “And Old Bob?” I asked. “No, dear boy, no!” scoffed Rouletabille, almost angrily. “Not he, either. You have noticed that he wears a wig, I suppose. Well, I assure you that when my father wears a wig, it will fit him.” He spoke so mechanically that I rose to leave him, thinking he had no more to say to me. He stopped me: “Wait a minute. We have said nothing of Arthur Rance.” “Oh, he has not changed at all since we were at Glandier,” I exclaimed. “That is out of the question.” “Always the eyes! Take care of your eyes, Sainclair!” And he put his hand on my shoulder for a moment as I turned away. Through my clothing I felt that his flesh was burning. He left the room and I remained for a moment where I stood, lost in thought. In thought of what? Of the fact that I had been wrong in saying that Arthur Rance had not changed at all. For one thing, now, he wore a slight moustache, something very rarely seen in an American of his type; next, his hair had grown longer with a lock falling over the forehead. And again, I had not seen him in two years--and everyone changes in two years--and again, Arthur Rance, who had used to drink heavily, now tasted only water. But then, there was Edith--what about Edith? Ah! was I going insane, I, too? Why do I say, ‘I, too,’ like--like the Lady in Black; like--like Rouletabille. Did I believe that Rouletabille’s brain was becoming slightly turned? Ah, the Lady in Black had us all under her spell. Because the Lady in Black lived in the perpetual fear of her memories, here were we all trembling with the same horror as she. Fear is as contagious as the cholera. (3) _How I Spent My Afternoon up to Five O’clock._