had written at length the story of the phenomenon of the inexplicable
gallery. On the day I arrived at the Glandier and joined him in his
room, he recounted to me, with the greatest detail, all that I have now
related, telling me also how he had spent several hours in Paris where
he had learned nothing that could be of any help to him.

The event of the inexplicable gallery had occurred on the night between
the 29th and 30th of October, that is to say, three days before my
return to the chateau. It was on the 2nd of November, then, that I went
back to the Glandier, summoned there by my friend's telegram, and taking
the revolvers with me.

I am now in Rouletabille's room and he has finished his recital.

While he had been telling me the story I noticed him continually rubbing
the glass of the eyeglasses he had found on the side table. From the
evident pleasure he was taking in handling them I felt they must be one
of those sensible evidences destined to enter what he had called the
circle of the right end of his reason. That strange and unique way of
his, to express himself in terms wonderfully adequate for his thoughts,
no longer surprised me. It was often necessary to know his thought to
understand the terms he used; and it was not easy to penetrate into
Rouletabille's thinking.

This lad's brain was one of the most curious things I have ever
observed. Rouletabille went on the even tenor of his way without
suspecting the astonishment and even bewilderment he roused in others. I
am sure he was not himself in the least conscious of the originality of
his genius. He was himself and at ease wherever he happened to be.

When he had finished his recital he asked me what I thought of it. I
replied that I was much puzzled by his question. Then he begged me to
try, in my turn, to take my reason in hand "by the right end."

"Very well," I said. "It seems to me that the point of departure of
my reason would be this--there can be no doubt that the murderer you
pursued was in the gallery." I paused.

"After making so good a start, you ought not to stop so soon," he
exclaimed. "Come, make another effort."

"I'll try. Since he disappeared from the gallery without passing through
any door or window, he must have escaped by some other opening."

Rouletabille looked at me pityingly, smiled carelessly, and remarked
that I was reasoning like a postman, or--like Frederic Larsan.

Rouletabille had alternate fits of admiration and