y funny to look at. It
showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond
which some prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much
eloquence, not only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features,
that I could not refrain from bursting into laughter. Frederic Larsan,
no more than myself, could retain his gravity. Meanwhile, standing
on the other side of the gate, he calmly put the key in his pocket. I
closely scrutinised him.

He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair
turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His forehead
was prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper lip, without
moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather small and round,
with a look in them that was at once searching and disquieting. He was
of middle height and well built, with a general bearing elegant and
gentlemanly. There was nothing about him of the vulgar policeman. In
his way, he was an artist, and one felt that he had a high opinion of
himself. The sceptical tone of his conversation was that of a man who
had been taught by experience. His strange profession had brought him
into contact with so many crimes and villanies that it would have been
remarkable if his nature had not been a little hardened.

Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from the
chateau and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab which had
conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from the station at
Epinay.

"Ah!" said Frederic Larsan, "if you want to speak with Monsieur Robert
Darzac, he is here."

The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging
Frederic Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed
for time to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he
recognised me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac
inquired what had brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment. I
noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was lined as if
from the effects of some terrible suffering.

"Is Mademoiselle getting better?" I immediately asked.

"Yes," he said. "She will be saved perhaps. She must be saved!"

He did not add "or it will be my death"; but I felt that the phrase
trembled on his pale lips.

Rouletabille intervened:

"You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have
something of the greatest importance to tell you."

Frederic Larsan inter