Fred, it will trip you up!"

And laughing a little, in a slightly bantering tone, his hands in his
pockets, Rouletabille fixed his cunning eyes on the great Fred.

Frederic Larsan silently contemplated the young reporter who pretended
to be as wise as himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he bowed to us and
moved quickly away, hitting the stones on his path with his stout cane.

Rouletabille watched his retreat, and then turned toward us, his face
joyous and triumphant.

"I shall beat him!" he cried. "I shall beat the great Fred, clever as he
is; I shall beat them all!"

And he danced a double shuffle. Suddenly he stopped. My eyes followed
his gaze; they were fixed on Monsieur Robert Darzac, who was looking
anxiously at the impression left by his feet side by side with the
elegant footmarks. There was not a particle of difference between them!

We thought he was about to faint. His eyes, bulging with terror, avoided
us, while his right hand, with a spasmodic movement, twitched at the
beard that covered his honest, gentle, and now despairing face. At
length regaining his self-possession, he bowed to us, and remarking, in
a changed voice, that he was obliged to return to the chateau, left us.

"The deuce!" exclaimed Rouletabille.

He, also, appeared to be deeply concerned. From his pocket-book he
took a piece of white paper as I had seen him do before, and with his
scissors, cut out the shape of the neat bootmarks that were on the
ground. Then he fitted the new paper pattern with the one he had
previously made--the two were exactly alike. Rising, Rouletabille
exclaimed again: "The deuce!" Presently he added: "Yet I believe
Monsieur Robert Darzac to be an honest man." He then led me on the road
to the Donjon Inn, which we could see on the highway, by the side of a
small clump of trees.

CHAPTER X. "We Shall Have to Eat Red Meat--Now"

The Donjon Inn was of no imposing appearance; but I like these
buildings with their rafters blackened with age and the smoke of their
hearths--these inns of the coaching-days, crumbling erections that will
soon exist in the memory only. They belong to the bygone days, they are
linked with history. They make us think of the Road, of those days when
highwaymen rode.

I saw at once that the Donjon Inn was at least two centuries
old--perhaps older. Under its sign-board, over the threshold, a man with
a crabbed-looking face was standing, seemingly plunged in unpleasant
thought, if