Reduced facsimile of the last page of M. Rose's Manuscript.
"What if he is ill?" I said. "What if he is dead?"
"Oh! But how am I to find out? How am I to open his door? We should have to have a locksmith, witnesses, the commissaire...."
Without answering, I bolted up the stair-case. When I reached the door, on the fifth landing, I rang, knocked very loudly, and then bent to look through the crack, or glue my ear to the keyhole. It was dark, a small iron thing went into my eye. The key was in the door.
At that moment, I heard the voice of the concierge, who had followed me.
"Well! You see!"
"The key is in the door."
"Impossible; it was not there yesterday evening, and he has certainly not come in."
"Look!"