Lying with the utmost audacity, he said: "Monsieur, I have lived several years in Russia, where I have acquired the habit of never taking any but an ungloved hand." I thought that the Sorbonne professor would express his anger openly, but, on the contrary, by a visibly violent effort, he calmed himself, took off his gloves, and showed his hands; they were unmarked by any cicatrix.
"Are you satisfied ?" "No!" replied Rouletabille.

"My dear friend," he said, turning to me, "I am obliged to ask you to leave us alone for a moment." I bowed and retired; stupefied by what I had seen and heard.

I could not understand why Monsieur Robert Darzac had not already shown the door to my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend.

I was angry myself with Rouletabille at that moment, for his suspicions, which had led to this scene of the gloves.
For some twenty minutes I walked about in front of the chateau, trying vainly to link together the different events of the day.

What was in Rouletabille's mind?
Was it possible that he thought Monsieur Robert Darzac to be the murderer?
How could it be thought that this man, who was to have married Mademoiselle Stangerson in the course of a few days, had introduced himself into The Yellow Room to assassinate his fiancee?
I could find no explanation as to how the murderer had been able to leave The Yellow Room; and so long as that mystery, which appeared to me so inexplicable, remained unexplained, I thought it was the duty of all of us to refrain from suspecting anybody.