Bernier walked in front of us, his head bent, looking like an accused man who is being led on his way to trial. And when we reached Rouletabille’s room, the young reporter bade Bernier sit down facing us. I lighted the lamp. Rouletabille sat silent for a moment, looking at Bernier, lighting his pipe the while, and evidently seeking to read in the face of the concierge all the honesty which he could find. Soon his knitted brows relaxed, his eye grew clearer and, after he had blown a few rings of smoke toward the ceiling, he said: “Well, Bernier, how did they kill him?” Bernier shook his shaggy head. “I have sworn to say nothing and I will say nothing, monsieur. And, upon my word of honor, I know nothing.” “All right,” went on Rouletabille, unconcernedly. “Tell me what you don’t know. For if you do not tell me what you don’t know, Bernier, I will be responsible for nothing, no matter what happens.” “And for what could you be responsible in any case, monsieur?” “For one thing, I won’t answer for your safety, Bernier.” “For my safety? I have done nothing.” “For the safety of all of us, then--for our lives, even!” replied Rouletabille, arising from his chair and pacing restlessly across the room, in order, doubtless, to give himself an opportunity to perform some necessary mental algebraic operation. Then he paused and went on, “Where was he? In the Square Tower?” Bernier did not speak but he nodded assent. “Where? In Old Bob’s bedroom?” “No,” Bernier shook his head. “Hidden in your rooms?” Bernier shook his head vehemently. “Well, where was he then? He could certainly not have been in the apartments of M. and Mme. Darzac!” Bernier bowed his head. “Miserable hound!” cried Rouletabille and he leaped at Bernier’s throat. I rushed to the rescue of the concierge and snatched him from the young man’s clutches. As soon as he could breathe, the old servant looked up, piteously. “Why did you try to strangle me, M. Rouletabille?” he asked. “How dare you ask, Bernier? How dare you? And you acknowledge that _he_ was in the apartment of M. and Mme. Darzac! Who, then, gained him entrance to that apartment? No one but yourself. You, the only person who had the key when the Darzacs were not there!” Bernier arose to his feet. He was as pale as a ghost, but his look and attitude were full of dignity. “M. Rouletabille, do you accuse me of being an accomplice of Larsan?” “I forbid you to pronounce that name!” shouted the reporter. “You know very well that Larsan is dead--and has been dead for months!” “For months!” echoed Bernier, ironically. “Yes, that is true--I was wrong to forget it. When one devotes oneself to his masters and permits himself to be beaten and abused for them, it is necessary to ignore everything, no matter what they may do to you. I beg your pardon, sir.” “Listen to me, Bernier. I know that you are a brave man and I respect you. It is not your good faith that I am questioning, but I am censuring your negligence.”