The Mystery of the Yellow Room

were sold by them to the landlord of the Donjon Inn, who served them

  to his customers, or sent them to Paris. That was the truth, as I

  had guessed from the first. Do you remember what I said, on

  entering the Donjon Inn?--'We shall have to eat red meat--now!'

  I had heard the words on the same morning when we arrived at the

  park gate. You heard them also, but you did not attach any

  importance to them. You recollect, when we reached the park gate,

  that we stopped to look at a man who was running by the side of the

  wall, looking every minute at his watch. That was Larsan. Well,

  behind us the landlord of the Donjon Inn, standing on his doorstep,

  said to someone inside: 'We shall have to eat red meat--now.'

  "Why that 'now'? When you are, as I am, in search of some hidden

  secret, you can't afford to have anything escape you. You've got

  to know the meaning of everything. We had come into a rather

  out-of-the-way part of the country which had been turned topsy-turvey

  by a crime, and my reason led me to suspect every phrase that could

  bear upon the event of the day. 'Now,' I took to mean, 'since the

  outrage.' In the course of my inquiry, therefore, I sought to find

  a relation between that phrase and the tragedy. We went to the

  Donjon Inn for breakfast; I repeated the phrase and saw, by the

  surprise and trouble on Daddy Mathieu's face, that I had not

  exaggerated its importance, so far as he was concerned.

  "I had just learned that the concierges had been arrested. Daddy

  Mathieu spoke of them as of dear friends--people for whom one is

  sorry. That was a reckless conjunction of ideas, I said to myself.

  'Now,' that the concierges are arrested, 'we shall have to eat red

  meat.' No more concierges, no more game! The hatred expressed by

  Daddy Mathieu for Monsieur Stangerson's forest-keeper--a hatred he

  pretended was shared by the concierges led me easily to think of

  poaching. Now as all the evidence showed the concierges had not

  been in bed at the time of the tragedy, why were they abroad that

  night? As participants in the crime? I was not disposed to think

  so. I had already arrived at the conclusion, by steps of which I

  will tell you later--that the assassin had had no accomplice, and

  that the tragedy held a mystery between Mademoiselle Stangerson and

  the murderer, a mystery with which the concierges had nothing to do.

  "With that theory in my mind, I searched for proof in their lodge,

  which, as you know, I entered. I found there under their bed, some

  springs and brass wire. 'Ah!' I thought, 'these things explain why

  they were out in the park at night!' I was not surprised at the

  dogged silence they maintained before the examining magistrate, even

  under the accusation so grave as that of being accomplices in the

  crime. Poaching would save them from the Assize Court, but it would

  lose them their places; and, as they were perfectly sure of their

  innocence of the crime they hoped it would soon be established, and

  then their poaching might go on as usual. They could always confess

  later. I, however, hastened their confession by means of the

  document Monsieur Stangerson signed. They gave all the necessary

  'proofs,' were set at liberty, and have now a lively gratitude for me.

  Why did I not get them released sooner? Because I was not sure that

  nothing more than poaching was against them. I wanted to study the

  ground. As the days went by, my conviction became more and more

  certain. The day after the events of the inexplicable gallery I had

  need of help I could rely on, so I resolved to have them released

  at once."

  That was how Joseph Rouletabille explained himself. Once more I

  could not but be astonished at the simplicity of the reasoning which

  had brought him to the truth of the matter. Certainly this was no

  big thing; but I think, myself, that the young man will, one of

  these days, explain with the same simplicity, the fearful tragedy

  in The Yellow Room as well as the phenomenon of the inexplicable

  gallery.

  We reached the Donjon Inn and entered it.

  This time we did not see the landlord, but were received with a

  pleasant smile by the hostess. I have already described the room

  in which we found ourselves, and I have given a glimpse of the

  charming blonde woman with the gentle eyes who now immediately began

  to prepare our breakfast.

  "How's Daddy Mathieu?" asked Rouletabille.

  "Not much better--not much better; he is still confined to his bed."

  "His rheumatism still sticks to him, then?"

  "Yes. Last night I was again obliged to give him morphine--the

  only drug that gives him any relief."

  She spoke in a soft voice. Everything about her expressed

  gentleness. She was, indeed, a beautiful woman; somewhat with an

  air of indolence, with great eyes seemingly black and blue--amorous

  eyes. Was she happy with her crabbed, rheumatic husband? The scene

  at which we had once been present did not lead us to believe that

  she was; yet there was something in her bearing that was not

  suggestive of despair. She disappeared into the kitchen to prepare

  our repast, leaving on the table a bottle of excellent cider.

  Rouletabille filled our earthenware mugs, loaded his pipe, and

  quietly explained to me his reason for asking me to come to the

  Glandier with revolvers.

  "Yes," he said, contemplatively looking at the clouds of smoke he

  was puffing out, "yes, my dear boy, I expect the assassin to-night."

  A brief silence followed, which I took care not to interrupt, and

  then he went on:

  "Last night, just as I was going to bed, Monsieur Robert Darzac

  knocked at my room. When he came in he confided to me that he was

  compelled to go to Paris the next day, that is, this morning. The

  reason which made this journey necessary was at once peremptory and

  mysterious; it was not possible for him to explain its object to me.

  'I go, and yet,' he added, 'I would give my life not to leave

  Mademoiselle Stangerson at this moment.' He did not try to hide

  that he believed her to be once more in danger. 'It will not

  greatly astonish me if something happens to-morrow night,' he avowed,

  'and yet I must be absent. I cannot be back at the Glandier before

  the morning of the day after to-morrow.'

  "I asked him to explain himself, and this is all he would tell me.

  His anticipation of coming danger had come to him solely from the

  coincidence that Mademoiselle Stangerson had been twice attacked,

  and both times when he had been absent. On the night of the incident

  of the inexplicable gallery he had been obliged to be away from the

  Glandier. On the night of the tragedy in The Yellow Room he had

  also not been able to be at the Glandier, though this was the first

  time he had declared himself on the matter. Now a man so moved who

  would still go away must be acting under compulsion--must be obeying

  a will stronger than his own. That was how I reasoned, and I told

  him so. He replied 'Perhaps.'--I asked him if Mademoiselle

  Stangerso
n was compelling him. He protested that she was not. His

  determination to go to Paris had been taken without any conference

  with Mademoiselle Stangerson.

  "To cut the story short, he repeated that his belief in the

  possibility of a fresh attack was founded entirely on the

  extraordinary coincidence. 'If anything happens to Mademoiselle

  Stangerson,' he said, 'it would be terrible for both of us. For her,

  because her life would be in danger; for me because I could neither

  defend her from the attack nor tell of where I had been. I am

  perfectly aware of the suspicions cast on me. The examining

  magistrate and Monsieur Larsan are both on the point of believing

  in my guilt. Larsan tracked me the last time I went to Paris, and

  I had all the trouble in the world to get rid of him.'

  "'Why do you not tell me the name of the murderer now, if you know

  it?' I cried.

  "Monsieur Darzac appeared extremely troubled by my question, and

  replied to me in a hesitating tone:

  "'I?--I know the name of the murderer? Why, how could I know

  his name?'

  "I at once replied: 'From Mademoiselle Stangerson.'

  "He grew so pale that I thought he was about to faint, and I saw

  that I had hit the nail right on the head. Mademoiselle and he

  knew the name of the murderer! When he recovered himself, he said

  to me: 'I am going to leave you. Since you have been here I have

  appreciated your exceptional intelligence and your unequalled

  ingenuity. But I ask this service of you. Perhaps I am wrong to

  fear an attack during the coming night; but, as I must act with

  foresight, I count on you to frustrate any attempt that may be made.

  Take every step needful to protect Mademoiselle Stangerson. Keep a

  most careful watch of her room. Don't go to sleep, nor allow

  yourself one moment of repose. The man we dread is remarkably

  cunning--with a cunning that has never been equalled. If you keep

  watch his very cunning may save her; because it's impossible that

  he should not know that you are watching; and knowing it, he may

  not venture.'

  "'Have you spoken of all this to Monsieur Stangerson?'

  "'No. I do not wish him to ask me, as you just now did, for the

  name of the murderer. I tell you all this, Monsieur Rouletabille,

  because I have great, very great, confidence in you. I know that

  you do not suspect me.'

  "The poor man spoke in jerks. He was evidently suffering. I pitied

  him, the more because I felt sure that he would rather allow himself

  to be killed than tell me who the murderer was. As for Mademoiselle

  Stangerson, I felt that she would rather allow herself to be murdered

  than denounce the man of The Yellow Room and of the inexplicable

  gallery. The man must be dominating her, or both, by some

  inscrutable power. They were dreading nothing so much as the chance

  of Monsieur Stangerson knowing that his daughter was 'held' by her

  assailant. I made Monsieur Darzac understand that he had explained

  himself sufficiently, and that he might refrain from telling me any

  more than he had already told me. I promised him to watch through

  the night. He insisted that I should establish an absolutely

  impassable barrier around Mademoiselle Stangerson's chamber, around

  the boudoir where the nurses were sleeping, and around the

  drawing-room where, since the affair of the inexplicable gallery,

  Monsieur Stangerson had slept. In short, I was to put a cordon

  round the whole apartment.

  "From his insistence I gathered that Monsieur Darzac intended not

  only to make it impossible for the expected man to reach the chamber

  of Mademoiselle Stangerson, but to make that impossibility so

  visibly clear that, seeing himself expected, he would at once go

  away. That was how I interpreted his final words when we parted:

  'You may mention your suspicions of the expected attack to Monsieur

  Stangerson, to Daddy Jacques, to Frederic Larsan, and to anybody in

  the chateau.'

  "The poor fellow left me hardly knowing what he was saying. My

  silence and my eyes told him that I had guessed a large part of his

  secret. And, indeed, he must have been at his wits' end, to have

  come to me at such a time, and to abandon Mademoiselle Stangerson

  in spite of his fixed idea as to the consequence.

  "When he was gone, I began to think that I should have to use even

  a greater cunning than his so that if the man should come that

  night, he might not for a moment suspect that his coming had been

  expected. Certainly! I would allow him to get in far enough, so

  that, dead or alive, I might see his face clearly! He must be got

  rid of. Mademoiselle Stangerson must be freed from this continual

  impending danger.

  "Yes, my boy," said Rouletabille, after placing his pipe on the

  table, and emptying his mug of cider, "I must see his face

  distinctly, so as to make sure to impress it on that part of my

  brain where I have drawn my circle of reasoning."

  The landlady re-appeared at that moment, bringing in the

  traditional bacon omelette. Rouletabille chaffed her a little, and

  she took the chaff with the most charming good humour.

  "She is much jollier when Daddy Mathieu is in bed with his

  rheumatism," Rouletabille said to me.

  But I had eyes neither for Rouletabille nor for the landlady's

  smiles. I was entirely absorbed over the last words of my young

  friend and in thinking over Monsieur Robert Darzac's strange

  behaviour.

  When he had finished his omelette and we were again alone,

  Rouletabille continued the tale of his confidences.

  "When I sent you my telegram this morning," he said, "I had only

  the word of Monsieur Darzac, that 'perhaps' the assassin would

  come to-night. I can now say that he will certainly come. I

  expect him."

  "What has made you feel this certainty?"

  "I have been sure since half-past ten o'clock this morning that he

  would come. I knew that before we saw Arthur Rance at the window

  in the court."

  "Ah!" I said, "But, again--what made you so sure? And why since

  half-past ten this morning?"

  "Because, at half-past ten, I had proof that Mademoiselle Stangerson

  was making as many efforts to permit of the murderer's entrance as

  Monsieur Robert Darzac had taken precautions against it."

  "Is that possible!" I cried. "Haven't you told me that Mademoiselle

  Stangerson loves Monsieur Robert Darzac?"

  "I told you so because it is the truth."

  "Then do you see nothing strange--"

  "Everything in this business is strange, my friend; but take my word

  for it, the strangeness you now feel is nothing to the strangeness

  that's to come!"

  "It must be admitted, then," I said, "that Mademoiselle Stangerson

  and her murderer are in communication--at any rate in writing?"

  "Admit it, my friend, admit it! You don't risk anything! I told

  you about the letter left on her table, on the night of the

  inexplicable gallery affair,--the letter that disappeared into

  the pocket of Made
moiselle Stangerson. Why should it not have been

  a summons to a meeting? Might he not, as soon as he was sure of

  Darzac's absence, appoint the meeting for 'the coming night?"

  And my friend laughed silently. There are moments when I ask

  myself if he is not laughing at me.

  The door of the inn opened. Rouletabille was on his feet so

  suddenly that one might have thought he had received an electric

  shock.

  "Mr. Arthur Rance!" he cried.

  Mr. Arthur Rance stood before us calmly bowing.

  CHAPTER XX

  An Act of Mademoiselle Stangerson

  "You remember me, Monsieur?" asked Rouletabille.

  "Perfectly!" replied Arthur Rance. "I recognise you as the lad at

  the bar. [The face of Rouletabille crimsoned at being called a

  "lad."] I want to shake hands with you. You are a bright little

  fellow."

  The American extended his hand and Rouletabille, relaxing his frown,

  shook it and introduced Mr. Arthur Rance to me. He invited him to

  share our meal.

  "No thanks. I breakfasted with Monsieur Stangerson."

  Arthur Rance spoke French perfectly,--almost without an accent.

  "I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again,

  Monsieur. I thought you were to have left France the day after the

  reception at the Elysee."

  Rouletabille and I, outwardly indifferent, listened most intently

  for every word the American would say.

  The man's purplish red face, his heavy eyelids, the nervous

  twitchings, all spoke of his addiction to drink. How came it that

  so sorry a specimen of a man should be so intimate with Monsieur

  Stangerson?

  Some days later, I learned from Frederic Larsan--who, like

  ourselves, was surprised and mystified by his appearance and

  reception at the chateau--that Mr. Rance had been an inebriate

  for only about fifteen years; that is to say, since the professor

  and his daughter left Philadelphia. During the time the Stangersons

  lived in America they were very intimate with Arthur Rance, who was

  one of the most distinguished phrenologists of the new world. Owing

  to new experiments, he had made enormous strides beyond the science

  of Gall and Lavater. The friendliness with which he was received at

  the Glandier may be explained by the fact that he had once rendered

  Mademoiselle Stangerson a great service by stopping, at the peril of

  his own life, the runaway horses of her carriage. The immediate

  result of that could, however, have been no more than a mere

  friendly association with the Stangersons; certainly, not a love

  affair.

  Frederic Larsan did not tell me where he had picked up this

  information; but he appeared to be quite sure of what he said.

  Had we known these facts at the time Arthur Rance met us at the

  Donjon Inn, his presence at the chateau might not have puzzled us,

  but they could not have failed to increase our interest in the man

  himself. The American must have been at least forty-five years old.

  He spoke in a perfectly natural tone in reply to Rouletabille's

  question.

  "I put off my return to America when I heard of the attack on

  Mademoiselle Stangerson. I wanted to be certain the lady had not

  been killed, and I shall not go away until she is perfectly

  recovered."

  Arthur Rance then took the lead in talk, paying no heed to some of

  Rouletabille's questions. He gave us, without our inviting him, his

  personal views on the subject of the tragedy,--views which, as well

  as I could make out, were not far from those held by Frederic Larzan.

  The American also thought that Robert Darzac had something to do

  with the matter. He did not mention him by name, but there was no

  room to doubt whom he meant. He told us he was aware of the efforts

  young Rouletabille was making to unravel the tangled skein of The

  Yellow Room mystery. He explained that Monsieur Stangerson had