THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM
of the right end of his reason. That strange and unique way of his, to express himself in terms wonderfully adequate for his thought, 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 Frédéric Larsan.
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