“Ah!” he cried. “It isn’t necessary to fill it any fuller.” And he picked up the tiny cup with infinite care and carried it to the cabinet. Then he took me by the hand and bade me look at him carefully--carefully--and tell him whether he had not really gone suddenly insane. [Illustration: His eyes seemed glued to his drawing. They never moved from the paper.] “Let us go! let us go!” he said, drearily, at last. “The time is come, Sainclair. No matter what happens, we can never turn back now! The Lady in Black must tell us everything--_everything about the man who is in that sack_! Ah, if M. Darzac were to return immediately--immediately!--it might be less painful--but I dare wait no longer!” Wait for what? Wait for whom? And why should he be so terrified now? What fear had made his eyes so wild? Why did his teeth chatter? I could not restrain myself from asking him again: “What are you afraid of? Do you think that Larsan is not dead?” And he answered, gripping my hand as though he would never release it: “I tell you I fear his death more than I fear his life!” And he knocked at the door of the Square Tower before which we were standing as he spoke. I asked him whether he did not wish me to leave him alone with his mother. But, to my great surprise, he begged me not to abandon him “for anything in the world--so that the circle should not be closed.” And he added mournfully. “Perhaps it may never be!” The door of the Tower remained closed. He knocked again; then it was opened and we saw Bernier’s face appear. He seemed embarrassed at the sight of us. “What do you want? What are you doing here again?” he demanded. “Speak low. Madame is in Old Bob’s sitting room. And the old man has not come in yet.” “Let us enter, Bernier!” said Rouletabille. And he pushed the door further open. “But whatever you do, don’t let Madame suspect----” “No, no!” replied Rouletabille, impatiently. We were in the vestibule of the Tower. The darkness was almost impenetrable. “What is Madame doing in Old Bob’s sitting room?” asked the reporter in a low voice. “She is waiting--waiting for the return of M. Darzac. She dare not reënter _the room_ until he comes--nor I, either!” “Well, go back into your lodge, Bernier!” ordered Rouletabille. “And wait until I call you.” The young reporter opened the door of Old Bob’s salon, and we saw the form of the Lady in Black, or, rather, her shadow, for the apartment was very dark and the first faint rays of the sun had scarcely penetrated it. The tall, sombre silhouette of Mathilde was standing but it leaned against the corner of the window which looked out upon the court of Charles the Bold. She never moved at our entrance, but her lips opened and a voice that I should never have recognized as hers, murmured: “Why are you come? I saw you crossing the court. You have been there all night. You know all. What do you want now?” And she added in a tone of unutterable misery: