“Ah, I shall find something--something that will save us.” I answered, looking at M. Darzac: “Aren’t we saved already?” “Which will save our brains,” Rouletabille went on. “The boy is right!” exclaimed M. Darzac. “It is absolutely necessary for us to know how that man got into the room.” Suddenly Rouletabille rose to his feet, holding in his hand a revolver which he had found under the panel. “Ah! you have found his revolver!” cried M. Darzac. “Fortunately, he did not have time to use it.” As he spoke M. Darzac took from his pocket his own revolver--the revolver which had saved his life--and held it out to the young man. “This is a good weapon!” he said. Rouletabille examined it closely and looked into the empty barrel out of which had sped the ball which had dealt death; then he compared the pistol with that which he had found under the panel and which had fallen from the hand of the assassin. The latter was a “bull dog” and bore the mark of a London gunsmith; it seemed to be quite new, every barrel was filled and Rouletabille declared that it had never been fired. “Larsan only avails himself of firearms in the last extremity,” said the young man. “He hates noise of any kind. You may be sure that he intended merely to frighten you with his revolver, otherwise he would have fired it immediately.” [Illustration: Rouletabille examined the barrel of Darzac’s revolver, and then compared the weapon with the other which he held.] And Rouletabille returned M. Darzac’s revolver and put Larsan’s in his pocket. “Of what use is it to be armed now?” cried M. Darzac, shaking his head. “I assure you it is quite futile.” “You believe so?” demanded Rouletabille. “I am certain of it.” Rouletabille made a few steps through the room and said: “With Larsan, one can never be sure of anything. Where is the body?” M. Darzac replied. “Ask my wife. I want to forget all about it. I know nothing more about this horrible thing. When the remembrance of that dreadful journey shall return to me, I shall try to make myself believe that it was a nightmare. And I will drive it away. Never speak to me of it again. No one save Mme. Darzac knows where the body is. She may tell you, if she likes.” “I have forgotten, too!” said Mathilde. “I was obliged to do so.” “Nevertheless,” insisted Rouletabille, shaking his head, “you must tell me. You said that he was in his agony. Are you sure that he is dead now?” “I am perfectly sure,” replied M. Darzac, simply. “Oh, it is finished. Is it not entirely ended?” pleaded Mathilde. She arose and walked to the window. “See! there is the sun! This horrible night is dead--dead, forever! Everything is over!” Poor Lady in Black! The yearnings of her soul revealed themselves in her words. “It is finished!” And the fact, as she believed it, made her forget all the horror of the scene which had passed in this room. Larsan no more! Larsan buried! Buried in the potato sack!