“Is it your opinion that the red which we see upon that under jaw is no different from the red which would be taken off by any object coming in contact with your plan?” “I don’t see how there could be any doubt of it! The skull was upside down on my drawing when we entered the workshop.” “Let us continue then to remain of the same opinion!” said the reporter. Then he arose, holding the skull in the crook of his arm, and went into the alcove in the wall, lighted by a large window and crossed by bars, which had been a loophole for cannon in the ancient times, and which M. Darzac had used as a dressing room. There he struck a match and lighted a lamp filled with spirits of wine which stood upon a little table. Upon this lamp he set a little pot which he had previously filled with water. The skull still lay in the crook of his arm. * * * * * During this weird cookery, we never took our eyes off him. Never had Rouletabille’s behavior appeared to us so incomprehensible nor so mysterious nor so disturbing. The more he explained matters to us and the more he did, the less we understood. And we were afraid because we felt that someone--_someone among us--one of ourselves_--had reason for fear. Who was this one? Perhaps the most calm of us all! But the calmest of all was Rouletabille between his skull and his casserole. But what? Why did we all suddenly recoil with a single movement? Why were the eyes of M. Darzac wide with a new terror--why did the Lady in Black--Arthur Rance--I, myself--utter the same syllable--a name which expired on our lips: “_Larsan!_”? Where had we seen him? Where had we discovered him this time, we who were gazing at Rouletabille? Ah, that profile, in the red shadow of the approaching twilight, that brow in the background of the alcove upon which the sunset rays stream as did the dawn on the morning of the crime! Oh, that stern jaw, bespeaking an iron will, which appeared before us, not, as in the light of day, gentle though a little bitter, but evil and threatening. How like Rouletabille was to Larsan! How in that moment the son resembled his father! It was Larsan’s very self! [Illustration: Ah! that profile standing out darkly from the depths of the embrasure, lighted up by the red glow of the falling night.] Another transformation. At a moan from his mother Rouletabille came out of his funereal frame and appeared before us as a bandit, and as he hurried toward us, he was Rouletabille once more. Mme. Edith, who had never seen Larsan, could not understand. She whispered to me, “What is going on?” Rouletabille was there before us with his hot water in the casserole, a napkin and his skull. And he washed the skull.