e he carefully examined
the hole made by the second bullet, he approached the window, and, once
more, examined the iron bars and blinds, all of which were solid and
intact. At last, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and declared "Now I am
at ease!"

"Well,--do you believe that the poor dear young lady was shut up when
she was being murdered--when she cried out for help?" wailed Daddy
Jacques.

"Yes," said the young reporter, drying his forehead, "The Yellow Room
was as tightly shut as an iron safe."

"That," I said, "is why this mystery is the most surprising I know.
Edgar Allan Poe, in 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' invented nothing
like it. The place of that crime was sufficiently closed to prevent the
escape of a man; but there was that window through which the monkey, the
perpetrator of the murder, could slip away! But here, there can be no
question of an opening of any sort. The door was fastened, and through
the window blinds, secure as they were, not even a fly could enter or
get out."

"True, true," assented Rouletabille as he kept on drying his forehead,
which seemed to be perspiring less from his recent bodily exertion than
from his mental agitation. "Indeed, it's a great, a beautiful, and a
very curious mystery."

"The Bete du bon Dieu," muttered Daddy Jacques, "the Bete du bon Dieu
herself, if she had committed the crime, could not have escaped. Listen!
Do you hear it? Hush!"

Daddy Jacques made us a sign to keep quiet and, stretching his arm
towards the wall nearest the forest, listened to something which we
could not hear.

"It's answering," he said at length. "I must kill it. It is too wicked,
but it's the Bete du bon Dieu, and, every night, it goes to pray on the
tomb of Sainte-Genevieve and nobody dares to touch her, for fear that
Mother Angenoux should cast an evil spell on them."

"How big is the Bete du bon Dieu?"

"Nearly as big as a small retriever,--a monster, I tell you. Ah!--I have
asked myself more than once whether it was not her that took our poor
Mademoiselle by the throat with her claws. But the Bete du bon Dieu does
not wear hobnailed boots, nor fire revolvers, nor has she a hand like
that!" exclaimed Daddy Jacques, again pointing out to us the red mark
on the wall. "Besides, we should have seen her as well as we would have
seen a man--"

"Evidently," I said. "Before we had seen this Yellow Room, I had also
asked myself whether the cat of Mother Angenoux--"

"You also!" cri