We have seen how the apparition of Larsan in the station at Bourg had overthrown all the plans of M. and Mme. Darzac, and had completely overwhelmed them both with grief and consternation, and had made them turn to the Rances’ home as to a refuge, casting them, figuratively speaking, into the arms of these people who were not especially congenial to them, but whom they believed to be honest, loyal and willing to protect them. We know that M. Stangerson, to whom nothing had been told of what had occurred, was beginning to suspect something, and we know that all three of the party had called Rouletabille to their aid. It was a veritable panic. And, so far as M. Darzac was concerned, the terror which he felt was increased by news brought to us by M. Arthur Rance when he met us at Nice. But before this there had occurred a little incident which I cannot pass by in silence. As soon as we reached the Nice station, I had jumped from the train and hurried into the telegraph office to ask whether there was any message for me. A dispatch was handed to me, and, without opening it, I went back to M. Darzac and Rouletabille. “Read this!” I said to the young reporter. Rouletabille opened the envelope and read: “Brignolles has not been away from Paris since April 6th. This is an absolute certainty.” Rouletabille looked at me for a moment and then said: “Well, what does this amount to, now that you have it? What did you suspect, anyway?” “It was at Dijon,” I rejoined, vexed at the attitude of the lad toward the affair, “that the idea came to me that Brignolles might be in some way concerned in the misfortunes that seem to be crowding upon us, and of which warning was given by the telegrams that you received. I wired one of my friends to make inquiries for me in regard to the movements of the fellow during the last few days. I was anxious to learn whether he had left Paris.” “Well,” said Rouletabille. “You have your inquiries answered. Are you willing to admit now that Brignolles is not and has never been Larsan in disguise?” “I never thought of any such thing as that!” I exclaimed with some vexation, for I suspected that Rouletabille was laughing at me. The truth was that the idea, absurd as it was, had actually entered my mind. “Will you never stop thinking ill of poor Brignolles?” asked M. Darzac, with a sad smile at me. “He is quiet and shy, I grant you, but he is a good lad, just the same.” “That’s where we differ,” I retorted.