The Mystery of the Yellow Room

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 should 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 Stangerson 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 right nail 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 about 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 Frédéric Larsan, and to anybody in the château.’ “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 coincidence. “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 Mademoiselle 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 Élysée.” 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 come it that so sorry a specimen of a man should be so intimate with Monsieur Stangerson? Some days later, I learned from Frédéric Larsan—who, like ourselves, was surprised and mystified by his appearance and reception at the château—that Mr. Rance had been an inebriate for about fifteen years only; 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 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. Frédéric 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 château 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 Frédéric Larsan. 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