As soon as the second shot was heard, the countenance of Rouletabille changed completely. His face seemed transformed and his whole being appeared to vibrate with a savage energy. Laying aside the half bantering manner which he had used toward M. Darzac and which we had all found extremely disagreeable, he gently released himself from the clasp of the Lady in Black, who still clung to him, walked toward the door, folded his arms and said: “You see, my friends, in an affair like this, it does not do to neglect any point. There were two manifestations of Robert Darzac which entered the Square Tower. There were two manifestations which came out--and one of these was in the sack! That is where one loses oneself. And _even now_, I do not wish to make any mistakes! Will M. Darzac, here present, permit me to say that I had a hundred excuses for suspecting him?” Then I thought to myself: “How unlucky that he did not mention his suspicions to me! I would have told him about the map of Australia!” M. Darzac strode across the room and planted himself in front of the young reporter and said in a tone nearly inaudible from anger: “What excuses? I ask you, what excuses?” “You will soon understand, my friend,” said the reporter with the utmost calmness. “The first thing that I said to myself while I was examining the conditions surrounding _your_ manifestation of Larsan, was this: ‘Nonsense! if he were Larsan, would not Professor Stangerson’s daughter have perceived it?’ That is self evident--the common sense of that thought--is it not? But when I tried to look into the mind of the lady who has become Mme. Darzac, I discovered beyond a doubt, Monsieur, that all the while she could not free herself from just this fear--the fear that you might be Larsan!” Mathilde, who had fallen half fainting into a chair, gathered strength enough to start up and to protest against the words with a frightened, despairing gesture. As for M. Darzac, his face was a picture of hopeless anguish. He sank upon a couch and said in a voice so low that it was scarcely audible and so full of wretchedness that it pierced our hearts: “And could you have thought that, Mathilde?” His wife dropped her eyes and spoke not a word. Rouletabille, still merciless, continued: