“Proofs, Monsieur?—Do you want proofs? Well, here is one,” cried Rouletabille shrilly. “Let Frédéric Larsan be called!”
“Usher, call Frédéric Larsan.”
The usher hurried to the side door, opened it, and disappeared. The door remained open, while all eyes turned expectantly towards it. The clerk re-appeared and, stepping forward, said:
“Monsieur President, Frédéric Larsan is not here. He left at about four o’clock and has not been seen since.”
“That is my proof!” cried Rouletabille, triumphantly.
“Explain yourself?” demanded the President.
“My proof is Larsan’s flight,” said the young reporter. “He will not come back. You will see no more of Frédéric Larsan.”
“Unless you are playing with the court, Monsieur, why did you not accuse him when he was present? He would then have answered you.”
“He could give no other answer than the one he has now given by his flight.”
“We cannot believe that Larsan has fled. There was no reason for his doing so. Did he know you ’d make this charge?”