them he began to cut. In a short time he had made a perfect pattern which he handed to me, begging me not to lose it.
He then returned to the window and, pointing to the figure of Frédéric Larsan, who had not quitted the side of the lake, asked Daddy Jacques whether the detective had, like himself, been working in The Yellow Room?
"No," replied Robert Darzac, who, since Rouletabille had handed him the piece of scorched paper, had not uttered a word, "He pretends that he does not need to examine The Yellow Room. He says that the murderer made his escape from it in quite a natural way, and that he will, this evening, explain how he did it."
As he listened to what Monsieur Darzac had to say, Rouletabille turned pale.
"Has Frédéric Larsan found out the truth, which I can only guess at?" he murmured. "He is very clever—very clever—and I admire him. But what we have to do to-day is something more than the work of a policeman, something quite different from the teachings of experience. We have to take hold of our reason by the right end."
The reporter rushed into the open air, agitated by the thought that the great and famous Fred might anticipate him in the solution of the problem of The Yellow Room.
I managed to reach him on the threshold of the pavilion.
"Calm yourself, my dear fellow," I said. "Aren't you satisfied?"
"Yes," he confessed to me, with a deep sigh.
74
