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Title: The Mystery of the Yellow Room

Author: Gaston Leroux

Illustrator: Simont

Release date: March 1, 1999 [eBook #1685]
Most recently updated: June 4, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1685

Credits: Transcribed and produced by Brian Raiter

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY
OF THE YELLOW ROOM ***

THE MYSTERY OF THE
YELLOW ROOM
EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES
OF JOSEPH ROULETABILLE
REPORTER

by

GASTON LEROUX

Contents
I In which we Begin not to Understand
II “In which Joseph Rouletabille Appears for the First Time
III “A Man Has Passed like a Shadow through the Blinds”
IV “In the Bosom of Wild Nature”
V In which Joseph Rouletabille Makes a Remark to Monsieur
Robert Darzac which Produces its Little Effect
VI In the Heart of the Oak Grove
VII In which Rouletabille Sets out on an Expedition under the Bed
VIII The Examining Magistrate Questions Mademoiselle Stangerson
IX Reporter and Detective
X “We shall have to eat Red Meat—Now”
XI In which Frédéric Larsan Explains how the Murderer was Able
to get out of The Yellow Room
XII Frédéric Larsan’s Cane
XIII “The Presbytery has Lost Nothing of its Charm, nor the Garden
its Brightness”
XIV “I Expect the Assassin this Evening”
XV The Trap
XVI Strange Phenomenon of the Dissociation of Matter
XVII The Inexplicable Gallery
XVIII Rouletabille has Drawn a Circle between the Two Bumps on his
Forehead
XIX Rouletabille Invites me to Breakfast at the Donjon Inn
XX An Act of Mademoiselle Stangerson
XXI On the Watch
XXII The Incredible Body
XXIII The Double Scent

XXIV Rouletabille Knows the Two Halves of the Murderer
XXV Rouletabille Goes on a Journey
XXVI In which Joseph Rouletabille is Awaited with Impatience
XXVII In which Joseph Rouletabille Appears in all his Glory
XXVIII In which it is Proved that one does not Always Think of
Everything
XXIX The Mystery of Mademoiselle Stangerson

Frontispiece

JOSEPH ROULETABILLE

Chapter I.
In Which We Begin not to Understand
It is not without a certain emotion that I begin to recount here the
extraordinary adventures of Joseph Rouletabille. Down to the present time
he had so firmly opposed my doing it that I had come to despair of ever
publishing the most curious of police stories of the past fifteen years. I had
even imagined that the public would never know the whole truth of the
prodigious case known as that of “The Yellow Room,” out of which grew so
many mysterious, cruel, and sensational dramas, with which my friend was
so closely mixed up, if, à propos of a recent nomination of the illustrious
Stangerson to the grade of grand-cross of the Legion of Honour, an evening
journal—in an article, miserable for its ignorance, or audacious for its
perfidy—had not resuscitated a terrible adventure of which Joseph
Rouletabille had told me he wished to be for ever forgotten.
“The Yellow Room!” Who now remembers this affair which caused so
much ink to flow fifteen years ago? Events are so quickly forgotten in Paris.
Has not the very name of the Nayves trial and the tragic history of the death
of little Menaldo passed out of mind? And yet the public attention was so
deeply interested in the details of the trial that the occurrence of a
ministerial crisis was completely unnoticed at the time. Now “The Yellow
Room” trial, which preceded that of the Nayves by some years, made far
more noise. The entire world hung for months over this obscure problem—
the most obscure, it seems to me, that has ever challenged the perspicacity
of our police or taxed the conscience of our judges. The solution of the
problem baffled everybody who tried to find it. It was like a dramatic rebus
with which old Europe and new America alike became fascinated. That is,
in truth—I am permitted to say, because there cannot be any author’s vanity
in all this, since I do nothing more than transcribe facts on which an
exceptional documentation enables me to throw a new light—that is
because, in truth, I do not know that, in the domain of reality or

imagination, one can discover or recall to mind anything comparable, in its
mystery, with the natural mystery of “The Yellow Room.”
That which nobody could find out, Joseph Rouletabille, aged eighteen,
then a reporter engaged on a leading journal, succeeded in discovering. But
when, at the Assize Court, he brought in the key to the whole case, he did
not tell the whole truth. He only allowed so much of it to appear as sufficed
to ensure the acquittal of an innocent man. The reasons which he had for his
reticence no longer exist. Better still, the time has come for my friend to
speak out fully. You are going to know all; and, without further preamble, I
am going to place before your eyes the problem of “The Yellow Room” as it
was placed before the eyes of the entire world on the day following the
enactment of the drama at the Château du Glandier.
On the 25th of October, 1892, the following note appeared in the latest
edition of the “Temps”:—
“A frightful crime has been committed at the Glandier, on the border of
the forest of Sainte-Geneviève, above Epinay-sur-Orge, at the house of
Professor Stangerson. On that night, while the master was working in his
laboratory, an attempt was made to assassinate Mademoiselle Stangerson,
who was sleeping in a chamber adjoining this laboratory. The doctors do
not answer for the life of Mdlle. Stangerson.”
The impression made on Paris by this news may be easily imagined.
Already, at that time, the learned world was deeply interested in the labours
of Professor Stangerson and his daughter. These labours—the first that were
attempted in radiography—served to open the way for Monsieur and
Madame Curie to the discovery of radium. It was expected the Professor
would shortly read to the Academy of Sciences a sensational paper on his
new theory,—the Dissociation of Matter,—a theory destined to overthrow
from its base the whole of official science, which based itself on the
principle of the Conservation of Energy.
On the following day, the newspapers were full of the tragedy. The
“Matin,” among others, published the following article, entitled: “A
Supernatural Crime”:—
“These are the only details,” wrote the anonymous writer in the
“Matin”—“we have been able to obtain concerning the crime of the
Château du Glandier. The state of despair in which Professor Stangerson is
plunged, and the impossibility of getting any information from the lips of
the victim, have rendered our investigations and those of justice so difficult

that, at present, we cannot form the least idea of what has passed in ‘The
Yellow Room’ in which Mdlle. Stangerson, in her night-dress, was found
lying on the floor in the agonies of death. We have, at least, been able to
interview Daddy Jacques—as he is called in the country—an old servant in
the Stangerson family. Daddy Jacques entered ‘The Yellow Room’ at the
same time as the Professor. This chamber adjoins the laboratory. Laboratory
and Yellow Room are in a pavilion at the end of the park, about three
hundred metres (a thousand feet) from the château.
“ ‘It was half-past twelve at night,’ this honest old man told us, ‘and I
was in the laboratory, where Monsieur Stangerson was still working, when
the thing happened. I had been cleaning and putting instruments in order all
the evening and was waiting for Monsieur Stangerson to go to bed.
Mademoiselle Stangerson had worked with her father up to midnight; when
the twelve strokes of midnight had sounded by the cuckoo-clock in the
laboratory, she rose, kissed Monsieur Stangerson and bade him good-night.
To me she said “bon soir, Daddy Jacques” as she passed into “The Yellow
Room.” We heard her lock the door and shoot the bolt, so that I could not
help laughing, and said to Monsieur: “There’s Mademoiselle double-
locking herself in,—she must be afraid of the ‘Bête du bon Dieu!’ ”
Monsieur did not even hear me, he was so deeply absorbed in what he was
doing. Just then we heard the distant miawing of a cat. “Is that going to
keep us awake all night?” I said to myself; for I must tell you, Monsieur,
that, to the end of October, I live in an attic of the pavilion over The Yellow
Room, so that Mademoiselle should not be left alone through the night in
the lonely park. It was the fancy of Mademoiselle to spend the fine weather
in the pavilion; no doubt, she found it more cheerful than the château and,
for the four years it had been built, she had never failed to take up her
lodging there in the spring. With the return of winter, Mademoiselle returns
to the château, for there is no fireplace in The Yellow Room.
“ ‘We were staying in the pavilion, then—Monsieur Stangerson and me.
We made no noise. He was seated at his desk. As for me, I was sitting on a
chair, having finished my work and, looking at him, I said to myself: “What
a man!—what intelligence!—what knowledge!” I attach importance to the
fact that we made no noise; for, because of that, the assassin certainly
thought that we had left the place. And, suddenly, while the cuckoo was
sounding the half after midnight, a desperate clamour broke out in The
Yellow Room. It was the voice of Mademoiselle, crying “Murder!—

murder!—help!” Immediately afterwards revolver shots rang out and there
was a great noise of tables and furniture being thrown to the ground, as if in
the course of a struggle, and again the voice of Mademoiselle calling,
“Murder!—help!—Papa!—Papa!—”
“ ‘You may be sure that we quickly sprang up and that Monsieur
Stangerson and I threw ourselves upon the door. But alas! it was locked,
fast locked, on the inside, by the care of Mademoiselle, as I have told you,
with key and bolt. We tried to force it open, but it remained firm. Monsieur
Stangerson was like a madman, and truly, it was enough to make him one,
for we heard Mademoiselle still calling “Help!—help!” Monsieur
Stangerson showered terrible blows on the door, and wept with rage and
sobbed with despair and helplessness.
“ ‘It was then that I had an inspiration. “The assassin must have entered
by the window!” I cried;—“I will go to the window!” and I rushed from the
pavilion and ran like one out of his mind.
“ ‘The inspiration was that the window of The Yellow Room looks out in
such a way that the park wall, which abuts on the pavilion, prevented my at
once reaching the window. To get up to it one has first to go out of the park.
I ran towards the gate and, on my way, met Bernier and his wife, the gate-
keepers, who had been attracted by the pistol reports and by our cries. In a
few words I told them what had happened, and directed the concierge to
join Monsieur Stangerson with all speed, while his wife came with me to
open the park gate. Five minutes later she and I were before the window of
The Yellow Room.
“ ‘The moon was shining brightly and I saw clearly that no one had
touched the window. Not only were the bars that protect it intact, but the
blinds inside of them were drawn, as I had myself drawn them early in the
evening, as I did every day, though Mademoiselle, knowing that I was tired
from the heavy work I had been doing, had begged me not to trouble
myself, but leave her to do it; and they were just as I had left them, fastened
with an iron catch on the inside. The assassin, therefore, could not have
passed either in or out that way; but neither could I get in.
“ ‘It was unfortunate,—enough to turn one’s brain! The door of the room
locked on the inside and the blinds on the only window also fastened on the
inside; and Mademoiselle still calling for help!—No! she had ceased to call.
She was dead, perhaps. But I still heard her father, in the pavilion, trying to
break down the door.

“ ‘With the concierge I hurried back to the pavilion. The door, in spite of
the furious attempts of Monsieur Stangerson and Bernier to burst it open,
was still holding firm; but at length, it gave way before our united efforts,—
and then what a sight met our eyes! I should tell you that, behind us, the
concierge held the laboratory lamp—a powerful lamp, that lit the whole
chamber.
“ ‘I must also tell you, monsieur, that The Yellow Room is a very small
room. Mademoiselle had furnished it with a fairly large iron bedstead, a
small table, a night-commode, a dressing-table, and two chairs. By the light
of the big lamp we saw all at a glance. Mademoiselle, in her night-dress,
was lying on the floor in the midst of the greatest disorder. Tables and
chairs had been overthrown, showing that there had been a violent struggle.
Mademoiselle had certainly been dragged from her bed. She was covered
with blood and had terrible marks of finger-nails on her throat,—the flesh
of her neck having been almost torn by the nails. From a wound on the right
temple a stream of blood had run down and made a little pool on the floor.
When Monsieur Stangerson saw his daughter in that state, he threw himself
on his knees beside her, uttering a cry of despair. He ascertained that she
still breathed. As to us, we searched for the wretch who had tried to kill our
mistress, and I swear to you, monsieur, that, if we had found him, it would
have gone hard with him!
“ ‘But how to explain that he was not there, that he had already escaped?
It passes all imagination!—Nobody under the bed, nobody behind the
furniture!—All that we discovered were traces, blood-stained marks of a
man’s large hand on the walls and on the door; a big handkerchief red with
blood, without any initials, an old cap, and many fresh footmarks of a man
on the floor,—footmarks of a man with large feet whose boot-soles had left
a sort of sooty impression. How had this man got away? How had he
vanished? Don’t forget, monsieur, that there is no chimney in The Yellow
Room. He could not have escaped by the door, which is narrow, and on the
threshold of which the concierge stood with the lamp, while her husband
and I searched for him in every corner of the little room, where it is
impossible for anyone to hide himself. The door, which had been forced
open against the wall, could not conceal anything behind it, as we assured
ourselves. By the window, still in every way secured, no flight had been
possible. What then?—I began to believe in the Devil.

“ ‘But we discovered my revolver on the floor!—Yes, my revolver! Oh!
that brought me back to the reality! The Devil would not have needed to
steal my revolver to kill Mademoiselle. The man who had been there had
first gone up to my attic and taken my revolver from the drawer where I
kept it. We then ascertained, by counting the cartridges, that the assassin
had fired two shots. Ah! it was fortunate for me that Monsieur Stangerson
was in the laboratory when the affair took place and had seen with his own
eyes that I was there with him; for otherwise, with this business of my
revolver, I don’t know where we should have been,—I should now be under
lock and bar. Justice wants no more to send a man to the scaffold!’ ”
The editor of the “Matin” added to this interview the following lines:—
“We have, without interrupting him, allowed Daddy Jacques to recount
to us roughly all he knows about the crime of The Yellow Room. We have
reproduced it in his own words, only sparing the reader the continual
lamentations with which he garnished his narrative. It is quite understood,
Daddy Jacques, quite understood, that you are very fond of your masters;
and you want them to know it, and never cease repeating it—especially
since the discovery of your revolver. It is your right, and we see no harm in
it. We should have liked to put some further questions to Daddy Jacques—
Jacques—Louis Moustier—but the inquiry of the examining magistrate,
which is being carried on at the château, makes it impossible for us to gain
admission at the Glandier; and, as to the oak wood, it is guarded by a wide
circle of policemen, who are jealously watching all traces that can lead to
the pavilion, and that may perhaps lead to the discovery of the assassin.
“We have also wished to question the concierges, but they are invisible.
Finally, we have waited in a roadside inn, not far from the gate of the
château, for the departure of Monsieur de Marquet, the magistrate of
Corbeil. At half-past five we saw him and his clerk and, before he was able
to enter his carriage, had an opportunity to ask him the following question:
—
“ ‘Can you, Monsieur de Marquet, give us any information as to this
affair, without inconvenience to the course of your inquiry?’
“ ‘It is impossible for us to do it,’ replied Monsieur de Marquet. ‘I can
only say that it is the strangest affair I have ever known. The more we think
we know something, the further we are from knowing anything!’
“We asked Monsieur de Marquet to be good enough to explain his last
words; and this is what he said,—the importance of which no one will fail

to recognise:—
“ ‘If nothing is added to the material facts so far established, I fear that
the mystery which surrounds the abominable crime of which Mademoiselle
Stangerson has been the victim will never be brought to light; but it is to be
hoped, for the sake of our human reason, that the examination of the walls,
and of the ceiling of The Yellow Room—an examination which I shall to-
morrow intrust to the builder who constructed the pavilion four years ago—
will afford us the proof that may not discourage us. For the problem is this:
we know by what way the assassin gained admission,—he entered by the
door and hid himself under the bed, awaiting Mademoiselle Stangerson. But
how did he leave? How did he escape? If no trap, no secret door, no hiding-
place, no opening of any sort is found; if the examination of the walls—
even to the demolition of the pavilion—does not reveal any passage
practicable—not only for a human being, but for any being whatsoever—if
the ceiling shows no crack, if the floor hides no underground passage, one
must really believe in the Devil, as Daddy Jacques says!’ ”
And the anonymous writer in the “Matin” added in this article—which I
have selected as the most interesting of all those that were published on the
subject of this affair—that the examining magistrate appeared to place a
peculiar significance to the last sentence: “One must really believe in the
Devil, as Jacques says.”
The article concluded with these lines: “We wanted to know what
Daddy Jacques meant by the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu. The landlord of
the Donjon Inn explained to us that it is the particularly sinister cry which is
uttered sometimes at night by the cat of an old woman,—Mother Angenoux,
as she is called in the country. Mother Angenoux is a sort of saint, who lives
in a hut in the heart of the forest, not far from the grotto of Sainte-
Geneviève.
“The Yellow Room, the Bête du Bon Dieu, Mother Angenoux, the
Devil, Sainte-Geneviève, Daddy Jacques,—here is a well entangled crime
which the stroke of a pickaxe in the wall may disentangle for us to-morrow.
Let us at least hope that, for the sake of our human reason, as the examining
magistrate says. Meanwhile, it is expected that Mademoiselle Stangerson—
who has not ceased to be delirious and only pronounces one word distinctly,
‘Murderer! Murderer!’—will not live through the night.”
In conclusion, and at a late hour, the same journal announced that the
Chief of the Sûreté had telegraphed to the famous detective, Frédéric

Larsan, who had been sent to London for an affair of stolen securities, to
return immediately to Paris.

Chapter II.
In Which Joseph Rouletabille Appears for the
First Time
I remember as well as if it had occurred yesterday, the entry of young
Rouletabille into my bedroom that morning. It was about eight o’clock and
I was still in bed reading the article in the “Matin” relative to the Glandier
crime.
But, before going further, it is time that I present my friend to the reader.
I first knew Joseph Rouletabille when he was a young reporter. At that
time I was a beginner at the Bar and often met him in the corridors of
examining magistrates, when I had gone to get a “permit to communicate”
for the prison of Mazas, or for Saint-Lazare. He had, as they say, “a good
nut.” He seemed to have taken his head—round as a bullet—out of a box of
marbles, and it is from that, I think, that his comrades of the press—all
determined billiard-players—had given him that nickname, which was to
stick to him and be made illustrious by him. He was always as red as a
tomato, now gay as a lark, now grave as a judge. How, while still so young
—he was only sixteen and a half years old when I saw him for the first time
—had he already won his way on the press? That was what everybody who
came into contact with him might have asked, if they had not known his
history. At the time of the affair of the woman cut in pieces in the Rue
Oberskampf—another forgotten story—he had taken to one of the editors of
the “Epoque,”—a paper then rivalling the “Matin” for information,—the
left foot, which was missing from the basket in which the gruesome remains
were discovered. For this left foot the police had been vainly searching for a
week, and young Rouletabille had found it in a drain where nobody had
thought of looking for it. To do that he had dressed himself as an extra
sewer-man, one of a number engaged by the administration of the city of
Paris, owing to an overflow of the Seine.
When the editor-in-chief was in possession of the precious foot and
informed as to the train of intelligent deductions the boy had been led to

make, he was divided between the admiration he felt for such detective
cunning in a brain of a lad of sixteen years, and delight at being able to
exhibit, in the “morgue window” of his paper, the left foot of the Rue
Oberkampf.
“This foot,” he cried, “will make a great headline.”
Then, when he had confided the gruesome packet to the medical lawyer
attached to the journal, he asked the lad, who was shortly to become famous
as Rouletabille, what he would expect to earn as a general reporter on the
“Epoque”?
“Two hundred francs a month,” the youngster replied modestly, hardly
able to breathe from surprise at the proposal.
“You shall have two hundred and fifty,” said the editor-in-chief; “only
you must tell everybody that you have been engaged on the paper for a
month. Let it be quite understood that it was not you but the ‘Epoque’ that
discovered the left foot of the Rue Oberkampf. Here, my young friend, the
man is nothing, the paper everything.”
Having said this, he begged the new reporter to retire, but before the
youth had reached the door he called him back to ask his name. The other
replied:—
“Joseph Josephine.”
“That’s not a name,” said the editor-in-chief, “but since you will not be
required to sign what you write it is of no consequence.”
The boy-faced reporter speedily made himself many friends, for he was
serviceable and gifted with a good humour that enchanted the most severe-
tempered and disarmed the most zealous of his companions. At the Bar
café, where the reporters assembled before going to any of the courts, or to
the Prefecture, in search of their news of crime, he began to win a
reputation as an unraveller of intricate and obscure affairs which found its
way to the office of the Chief of the Sûreté. When a case was worth the
trouble and Rouletabille—he had already been given his nickname—had
been started on the scent by his editor-in-chief, he often got the better of the
most famous detective.
It was at the Bar café that I became intimately acquainted with him.
Criminal lawyers and journalists are not enemies, the former need
advertisement, the latter information. We chatted together, and I soon
warmed towards him. His intelligence was so keen, and so original!—and
he had a quality of thought such as I have never found in any other person.

Some time after this I was put in charge of the law news of the “Cri du
Boulevard.” My entry into journalism could not but strengthen the ties
which united me to Rouletabille. After a while, my new friend being
allowed to carry out an idea of a judicial correspondence column, which he
was allowed to sign “Business,” in the “Epoque,” I was often able to furnish
him with the legal information of which he stood in need.
Nearly two years passed in this way, and the better I knew him, the
more I learned to love him; for, in spite of his careless extravagance, I had
discovered in him what was, considering his age, an extraordinary
seriousness of mind. Accustomed as I was to seeing him gay and, indeed,
often too gay, I would many times find him plunged in the deepest
melancholy. I tried then to question him as to the cause of this change of
humour, but each time he laughed and made me no answer. One day, having
questioned him about his parents, of whom he never spoke, he left me,
pretending not to have heard what I said.
While things were in this state between us, the famous case of “The
Yellow Room” took place. It was this case which was to rank him as the
leading newspaper reporter, and to obtain for him the reputation of being
the greatest detective in the world. It should not surprise us to find in the
one man the perfection of two such lines of activity if we remember that the
daily press was already beginning to transform itself and to become what it
is to-day—the gazette of crime.
Morose-minded people may complain of this; for myself I regard it a
matter for congratulation. We can never have too many arms, public or
private, against the criminal. To this some people may answer that, by
continually publishing the details of crimes, the press ends by encouraging
their commission. But then, with some people we can never do right.
Rouletabille, as I have said, entered my room that morning of the 26th
of October, 1892. He was looking redder than usual, and his eyes were
bulging out of his head, as the phrase is, and altogether he appeared to be in
a state of extreme excitement. He waved the “Matin” with a trembling
hand, and cried:—
“Well, my dear Sainclair,—have you read it?”
“The Glandier crime?”
“Yes; ‘The Yellow Room’!—What do you think of it?”
“I think that it must have been the Devil or the Bête du Bon Dieu that
committed the crime.”

“Be serious!”
“Well, I don’t much believe in murderers who make their escape
through walls of solid brick. I think Daddy Jacques did wrong to leave
behind him the weapon with which the crime was committed and, as he
occupied the attic immediately above Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room, the
builder’s job ordered by the examining magistrate will give us the key of
the enigma and it will not be long before we learn by what natural trap, or
by what secret door, the old fellow was able to slip in and out, and return
immediately to the laboratory to Monsieur Stangerson, without his absence
being noticed. That, of course, is only an hypothesis.”
Rouletabille sat down in an armchair, lit his pipe, which he was never
without, smoked for a few minutes in silence—no doubt to calm the
excitement which, visibly, dominated him—and then replied:—
“Young man,” he said, in a tone the sad irony of which I will not
attempt to render, “young man, you are a lawyer and I doubt not your
ability to save the guilty from conviction; but if you were a magistrate on
the bench, how easy it would be for you to condemn innocent persons!—
You are really gifted, young man!”
He continued to smoke energetically, and then went on:—
“No trap will be found, and the mystery of ‘The Yellow Room’ will
become more and more mysterious. That’s why it interests me. The
examining magistrate is right; nothing stranger than this crime has ever
been known.”
“Have you any idea of the way by which the murderer escaped?” I
asked.
“None,” replied Rouletabille—“none, for the present. But I have an idea
as to the revolver; the murderer did not use it.”
“Good Heavens! By whom, then, was it used?”
“Why—by Mademoiselle Stangerson.”
“I don’t understand,—or rather, I have never understood,” I said.
Rouletabille shrugged his shoulders.
“Is there nothing in this article in the ‘Matin’ by which you were
particularly struck?”
“Nothing,—I have found the whole of the story it tells equally strange.”
“Well, but—the locked door—with the key on the inside?”
“That’s the only perfectly natural thing in the whole article.”
“Really!—And the bolt?”

“The bolt?”
“Yes, the bolt—also inside the room—a still further protection against
entry? Mademoiselle Stangerson took quite extraordinary precautions! It is
clear to me that she feared someone. That was why she took such
precautions—even Daddy Jacques’s revolver—without telling him of it. No
doubt she didn’t wish to alarm anybody, and least of all, her father. What
she dreaded took place, and she defended herself. There was a struggle, and
she used the revolver skilfully enough to wound the assassin in the hand—
which explains the impression on the wall and on the door of the large,
blood-stained hand of the man who was searching for a means of exit from
the chamber. But she didn’t fire soon enough to avoid the terrible blow on
the right temple.”
“Then the wound on the temple was not done with the revolver?”
“The paper doesn’t say it was, and I don’t think it was; because
logically it appears to me that the revolver was used by Mademoiselle
Stangerson against the assassin. Now, what weapon did the murderer use?
The blow on the temple seems to show that the murderer wished to stun
Mademoiselle Stangerson,—after he had unsuccessfully tried to strangle
her. He must have known that the attic was inhabited by Daddy Jacques,
and that was one of the reasons, I think, why he must have used a quiet
weapon,—a life-preserver, or a hammer.”
“All that doesn’t explain how the murderer got out of ‘The Yellow
Room,’ ” I observed.
“Evidently,” replied Rouletabille, rising, “and that is what has to be
explained. I am going to the Château du Glandier, and have come to see
whether you will go with me.”
“I?”—
“Yes, my boy. I want you. The ‘Epoque’ has definitely entrusted this
case to me, and I must clear it up as quickly as possible.”
“But in what way can I be of any use to you?”
“Monsieur Robert Darzac is at the Château du Glandier.”
“That’s true. His despair must be boundless.”
“I must have a talk with him.”
Rouletabille said it in a tone that surprised me.
“Is it because—you think there is something to be got out of him?” I
asked.
“Yes.”

That was all he would say. He retired to my sitting-room, begging me to
dress quickly.
I knew Monsieur Robert Darzac from having been of great service to
him in a civil action, while I was acting as secretary to Maître Barbet
Delatour. Monsieur Robert Darzac, who was at that time about forty years
of age, was a professor of physics at the Sorbonne. He was intimately
acquainted with the Stangersons, and, after an assiduous seven years’
courtship of the daughter, had been on the point of marrying her. In spite of
the fact that she has become, as the phrase goes, “a person of a certain age,”
she was still remarkably good-looking.
While I was dressing I called out to Rouletabille, who was impatiently
moving about my sitting-room:—
“Have you any idea as to the murderer’s station in life?”
“Yes,” he replied; “I think if he isn’t a man in society, he is, at least, a
man belonging to the upper class. But that, again, is only an impression.”
“What has led you to form it?”
“Well,—the greasy cap, the common handkerchief, and the marks of the
rough boots on the floor,” he replied.
“I understand,” I said; “murderers don’t leave traces behind them which
tell the truth.”
“We shall make something out of you yet, my dear Sainclair,”
concluded Rouletabille.

Chapter III.
“A Man Has Passed like a Shadow through the
Blinds”
Half an hour later Rouletabille and I were on the platform of the Orleans
station, awaiting the departure of the train which was to take us to Epinay-
sur-Orge.
On the platform we found Monsieur de Marquet and his Registrar, who
represented the Judicial Court of Corbeil. Monsieur de Marquet had spent
the night in Paris, assisting in the final rehearsal, at the Scala, of a little play
of which he was the unknown author, signing himself simply “Castigat
Ridendo.”
Monsieur Marquet was beginning to be a “noble old gentleman.”
Generally he was extremely polite and full of gay humour, and in all his life
had had but one passion,—that of dramatic art. Throughout his magisterial
career he was interested solely in cases capable of furnishing him with
something in the nature of a drama. Though he might very well have
aspired to the highest judicial positions, he had never really worked for
anything but to win a success at the romantic Porte-Saint-Martin, or at the
sombre Odéon.
Because of the mystery which shrouded it, the case of “The Yellow
Room” was certain to fascinate so theatrical a mind. It interested him
enormously, and he threw himself into it, less as a magistrate eager to know
the truth, than as an amateur of dramatic embroglios, tending wholly to
mystery and intrigue, who dreads nothing so much as the explanatory final
act.
So that, at the moment of meeting him, I heard Monsieur de Marquet
say to the Registrar with a sigh:—
“I hope, my dear Monsieur Maleine, this builder with his pickaxe will
not destroy so fine a mystery.”
“Have no fear,” replied Monsieur Maleine, “his pickaxe may demolish
the pavilion, perhaps, but it will leave our case intact. I have sounded the

walls and examined the ceiling and floor and I know all about it. I am not to
be deceived.”
Having thus reassured his chief, Monsieur Maleine, with a discreet
movement of the head, drew Monsieur de Marquet’s attention to us. The
face of that gentleman clouded, and, as he saw Rouletabille approaching,
hat in hand, he sprang into one of the empty carriages saying, half aloud to
his Registrar, as he did so, “Above all, no journalists!”
Monsieur Maleine replied in the same tone, “I understand!” and then
tried to prevent Rouletabille from entering the same compartment with the
examining magistrate.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,—this compartment is reserved.”
“I am a journalist, Monsieur, engaged on the ‘Epoque,’ ” said my young
friend with a great show of gesture and politeness, “and I have a word or
two to say to Monsieur de Marquet.”
“Monsieur is very much engaged with the inquiry he has in hand.”
“Ah! his inquiry, pray believe me, is absolutely a matter of indifference
to me. I am no scavenger of odds and ends,” he went on, with infinite
contempt in his lower lip, “I am a theatrical reporter; and this evening I
shall have to give a little account of the play at the Scala.”
“Get in, sir, please,” said the Registrar.
Rouletabille was already in the compartment. I went in after him and
seated myself by his side. The Registrar followed and closed the carriage-
door.
Monsieur de Marquet looked at him.
“Ah, sir,” Rouletabille began, “You must not be angry with Monsieur de
Maleine. It is not with Monsieur de Marquet that I desire to have the honour
of speaking, but with Monsieur ‘Castigat Ridendo.’ Permit me to
congratulate you—personally, as well as the writer for the ‘Epoque.’ ” And
Rouletabille, having first introduced me, introduced himself.
Monsieur de Marquet, with a nervous gesture, caressed his beard into a
point, and explained to Rouletabille, in a few words, that he was too modest
an author to desire that the veil of his pseudonym should be publicly raised,
and that he hoped the enthusiasm of the journalist for the dramatist’s work
would not lead him to tell the public that Monsieur “Castigat Ridendo” and
the examining magistrate of Corbeil were one and the same person.
“The work of the dramatic author may interfere,” he said, after a slight
hesitation, “with that of the magistrate, especially in a province where one’s

labours are little more than routine.”
“Oh, you may rely on my discretion!” cried Rouletabille.
The train was in motion.
“We have started!” said the examining magistrate, surprised at seeing us
still in the carriage.
“Yes, Monsieur,—truth has started,” said Rouletabille, smiling amiably,
—“on its way to the Château du Glandier. A fine case, Monsieur de
Marquet,—a fine case!”
“An obscure—incredible, unfathomable, inexplicable affair—and there
is only one thing I fear, Monsieur Rouletabille,—that the journalists will be
trying to explain it.”
My friend felt this a rap on his knuckles.
“Yes,” he said simply, “that is to be feared. They meddle in everything.
As for my interest, monsieur, I only referred to it by mere chance,—the
mere chance of finding myself in the same train with you, and in the same
compartment of the same carriage.”
“Where are you going, then?” asked Monsieur de Marquet.
“To the Château du Glandier,” replied Rouletabille, without turning.
“You’ll not get in, Monsieur Rouletabille!”
“Will you prevent me?” said my friend, already prepared to fight.
“Not I!—I like the press and journalists too well to be in any way
disagreeable to them; but Monsieur Stangerson has given orders for his
door to be closed against everybody, and it is well guarded. Not a journalist
was able to pass through the gate of the Glandier yesterday.”
Monsieur de Marquet compressed his lips and seemed ready to relapse
into obstinate silence. He only relaxed a little when Rouletabille no longer
left him in ignorance of the fact that we were going to the Glandier for the
purpose of shaking hands with an “old and intimate friend,” Monsieur
Robert Darzac—a man whom Rouletabille had perhaps seen once in his
life.
“Poor Robert!” continued the young reporter, “this dreadful affair may
be his death,—he is so deeply in love with Mademoiselle Stangerson.”
“His sufferings are truly painful to witness,” escaped like a regret from
the lips of Monsieur de Marquet.
“But it is to be hoped that Mademoiselle Stangerson’s life will be
saved.”

“Let us hope so. Her father told me yesterday that, if she does not
recover, it will not be long before he joins her in the grave. What an
incalculable loss to science his death would be!”
“The wound on her temple is serious, is it not?”
“Evidently; but, by a wonderful chance, it has not proved mortal. The
blow was given with great force.”
“Then it was not with the revolver she was wounded,” said Rouletabille,
glancing at me in triumph.
Monsieur de Marquet appeared greatly embarrassed.
“I didn’t say anything—I don’t want to say anything—I will not say
anything,” he said. And he turned towards his Registrar as if he no longer
knew us.
But Rouletabille was not to be so easily shaken off. He moved nearer to
the examining magistrate and, drawing a copy of the “Matin” from his
pocket, he showed it to him and said:—
“There is one thing, Monsieur, which I may enquire of you without
committing an indiscretion. You have, of course, seen the account given in
the ‘Matin’? It is absurd, is it not?”
“Not in the slightest, Monsieur.”
“What! The Yellow Room has but one barred window—the bars of
which have not been moved—and only one door, which had to be broken
open—and the assassin was not found!”
“That’s so, monsieur,—that’s so. That’s how the matter stands.”
Rouletabille said no more but plunged into thought. A quarter of an hour
thus passed.
Coming back to himself again he said, addressing the magistrate:—
“How did Mademoiselle Stangerson wear her hair on that evening?”
“I don’t know,” replied Monsieur de Marquet.
“That’s a very important point,” said Rouletabille. “Her hair was done
up in bands, wasn’t it? I feel sure that on that evening, the evening of the
crime, she had her hair arranged in bands.”
“Then you are mistaken, Monsieur Rouletabille,” replied the magistrate;
“Mademoiselle Stangerson that evening had her hair drawn up in a knot on
the top of her head,—her usual way of arranging it—her forehead
completely uncovered. I can assure you, for we have carefully examined the
wound. There was no blood on the hair, and the arrangement of it has not
been disturbed since the crime was committed.”

“You are sure! You are sure that, on the night of the crime, she had not
her hair in bands?”
“Quite sure,” the magistrate continued, smiling, “because I remember
the Doctor saying to me, while he was examining the wound, ‘It is a great
pity Mademoiselle Stangerson was in the habit of drawing her hair back
from her forehead. If she had worn it in bands, the blow she received on the
temple would have been weakened.’ It seems strange to me that you should
attach so much importance to this point.”
“Oh! if she had not her hair in bands, I give it up,” said Rouletabille,
with a despairing gesture.
“And was the wound on her temple a bad one?” he asked presently.
“Terrible.”
“With what weapon was it made?”
“That is a secret of the investigation.”
“Have you found the weapon—whatever it was?”
The magistrate did not answer.
“And the wound in the throat?”
Here the examining magistrate readily confirmed the decision of the
doctor that, if the murderer had pressed her throat a few seconds longer,
Mademoiselle Stangerson would have died of strangulation.
“The affair as reported in the ‘Matin,’ ” said Rouletabille eagerly,
“seems to me more and more inexplicable. Can you tell me, Monsieur, how
many openings there are in the pavilion? I mean doors and windows.”
“There are five,” replied Monsieur de Marquet, after having coughed
once or twice, but no longer resisting the desire he felt to talk of the whole
of the incredible mystery of the affair he was investigating. “There are five,
of which the door of the vestibule is the only entrance to the pavilion,—a
door always automatically closed, which cannot be opened, either from the
outer or inside, except with the two special keys which are never out of the
possession of either Daddy Jacques or Monsieur Stangerson. Mademoiselle
Stangerson had no need for one, since Daddy Jacques lodged in the pavilion
and because, during the daytime, she never left her father. When they, all
four, rushed into The Yellow Room, after breaking open the door of the
laboratory, the door in the vestibule remained closed as usual and, of the
two keys for opening it, Daddy Jacques had one in his pocket, and
Monsieur Stangerson the other. As to the windows of the pavilion, there are
four; the one window of The Yellow Room and those of the laboratory

looking out on to the country; the window in the vestibule looking into the
park.”
“It is by that window that he escaped from the pavilion!” cried
Rouletabille.
“How do you know that?” demanded Monsieur de Marquet, fixing a
strange look on my young friend.
“We’ll see later how he got away from The Yellow Room,” replied
Rouletabille, “but he must have left the pavilion by the vestibule window.”
“Once more,—how do you know that?”
“How? Oh, the thing is simple enough! As soon as he found he could
not escape by the door of the pavilion his only way out was by the window
in the vestibule, unless he could pass through a grated window. The window
of The Yellow Room is secured by iron bars, because it looks out upon the
open country; the two windows of the laboratory have to be protected in
like manner for the same reason. As the murderer got away, I conceive that
he found a window that was not barred,—that of the vestibule, which opens
on to the park,—that is to say, into the interior of the estate. There’s not
much magic in all that.”
“Yes,” said Monsieur de Marquet, “but what you have not guessed is
that this single window in the vestibule, though it has no iron bars, has solid
iron blinds. Now these iron blinds have remained fastened by their iron
latch; and yet we have proof that the murderer made his escape from the
pavilion by that window! Traces of blood on the inside wall and on the
blinds as well as on the floor, and footmarks, of which I have taken the
measurements, attest the fact that the murderer made his escape that way.
But then, how did he do it, seeing that the blinds remained fastened on the
inside? He passed through them like a shadow. But what is more
bewildering than all is that it is impossible to form any idea as to how the
murderer got out of The Yellow Room, or how he got across the laboratory
to reach the vestibule! Ah, yes, Monsieur Rouletabille, it is altogether as
you said, a fine case, the key to which will not be discovered for a long
time, I hope.”
“You hope, Monsieur?”
Monsieur de Marquet corrected himself.
“I do not hope so,—I think so.”
“Could that window have been closed and refastened after the flight of
the assassin?” asked Rouletabille.

“That is what occurred to me for a moment; but it would imply an
accomplice or accomplices,—and I don’t see—”
After a short silence he added:—
“Ah—if Mademoiselle Stangerson were only well enough to-day to
allow of her being questioned!”
Rouletabille following up his thought, asked:—
“And the attic?—There must be some opening to that?”
“Yes; there is a window, or rather skylight, in it, which, as it looks out
towards the country, Monsieur Stangerson has had barred, like the rest of
the windows. These bars, as in the other windows, have remained intact,
and the blinds, which naturally open inwards, have not been unfastened. For
the rest, we have not discovered anything to lead us to suspect that the
murderer had passed through the attic.”
“It seems clear to you, then, Monsieur, that the murderer escaped—
nobody knows how—by the window in the vestibule?”
“Everything goes to prove it.”
“I think so, too,” confessed Rouletabille gravely.
After a brief silence, he continued:—
“If you have not found any traces of the murderer in the attic, such as
the dirty footmarks similar to those on the floor of The Yellow Room, you
must come to the conclusion that it was not he who stole Daddy Jacques’s
revolver.”
“There are no footmarks in the attic other than those of Daddy Jacques
himself,” said the magistrate with a significant turn of his head. Then, after
an apparent decision, he added: “Daddy Jacques was with Monsieur
Stangerson in the laboratory—and it was lucky for him he was.”
“Then what part did his revolver play in the tragedy?—It seems very
clear that this weapon did less harm to Mademoiselle Stangerson than it did
to the murderer.”
The magistrate made no reply to this question, which doubtless
embarrassed him. “Monsieur Stangerson,” he said, “tells us that the two
bullets have been found in The Yellow Room, one embedded in the wall
stained with the impression of a red hand—a man’s large hand—and the
other in the ceiling.”
“Oh! oh! in the ceiling!” muttered Rouletabille. “In the ceiling! That’s
very curious!—In the ceiling!”

He puffed awhile in silence at his pipe, enveloping himself in the
smoke. When we reached Savigny-sur-Orge, I had to tap him on the
shoulder to arouse him from his dream and come out on to the platform of
the station.
There the magistrate and his Registrar bowed to us, and, by rapidly
getting into a cab that was awaiting them, made us understand that they had
seen enough of us.
“How long will it take to walk to the Château du Glandier?”
Rouletabille asked one of the railway porters.
“An hour and a half or an hour and three quarters—easy walking,” the
man replied.
Rouletabille looked up at the sky and, no doubt, finding its appearance
satisfactory, took my arm and said:—
“Come on!—I need a walk.”
“Are things getting less entangled?” I asked.
“Not a bit of it!” he said, “more entangled than ever! It’s true, I have an
idea—”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you what it is just at present—it’s an idea involving the life
or death of two persons at least.”
“Do you think there were accomplices?”
“I don’t think it—”
We fell into silence. Presently he went on:—
“It was a bit of luck, our falling in with that examining magistrate and
his Registrar, eh? What did I tell you about that revolver?”
His head was bent down, he had his hands in his pockets, and he was
whistling. After a while I heard him murmur:—
“Poor woman!”
“Is it Mademoiselle Stangerson you are pitying?”
“Yes; she’s a noble woman and worthy of being pitied!—a woman of a
great, a very great character—I imagine—I imagine.”
“You know her then?”
“Not at all. I have never seen her but once.”
“Why, then, do you say that she is a woman of great character?”
“Because she bravely faced the murderer; because she courageously
defended herself—and, above all, because of the bullet in the ceiling.”

I looked at Rouletabille and inwardly wondered whether he was not
mocking me, or whether he had not suddenly gone out of his senses. But I
saw that he had never been less inclined to laugh, and the brightness of his
keenly intelligent eyes assured me that he retained all his reason. Then, too,
I was used to his broken way of talking, which only left me puzzled as to
his meaning, till, with a very few clear, rapidly uttered words, he would
make the drift of his ideas clear to me, and I saw that what he had
previously said, and which had appeared to me void of meaning, was so
thoroughly logical that I could not understand how it was I had not
understood him sooner.

Chapter IV.
“In the Bosom of Wild Nature”
The Château du Glandier is one of the oldest châteaux in the Ile de
France, where so many building remains of the feudal period are still
standing. Built originally in the heart of the forest, in the reign of Philip le
Bel, it now could be seen a few hundred yards from the road leading from
the village of Sainte-Geneviève to Monthery. A mass of inharmonious
structures, it is dominated by a donjon. When the visitor has mounted the
crumbling steps of this ancient donjon, he reaches a little plateau where, in
the seventeenth century, Georges Philibert de Sequigny, Lord of the
Glandier, Maisons-Neuves and other places, built the existing town in an
abominably rococo style of architecture.
It was in this place, seemingly belonging entirely to the past, that
Professor Stangerson and his daughter installed themselves to lay the
foundations for the science of the future. Its solitude, in the depths of
woods, was what, more than all, had pleased them. They would have none
to witness their labours and intrude on their hopes, but the aged stones and
grand old oaks. The Glandier—ancient Glandierum—was so called from
the quantity of glands (acorns) which, in all times, had been gathered in that
neighbourhood. This land, of present mournful interest, had fallen back,
owing to the negligence or abandonment of its owners, into the wild
character of primitive nature. The buildings alone, which were hidden there,
had preserved traces of their strange metamorphoses. Every age had left on
them its imprint; a bit of architecture with which was bound up the
remembrance of some terrible event, some bloody adventure. Such was the
château in which science had taken refuge—a place seemingly designed to
be the theatre of mysteries, terror, and death.
Having explained so far, I cannot refrain from making one further
reflexion. If I have lingered a little over this description of the Glandier, it is
not because I have reached the right moment for creating the necessary
atmosphere for the unfolding of the tragedy before the eyes of the reader.

Indeed, in all this matter, my first care will be to be as simple as is possible.
I have no ambition to be an author. An author is always something of a
romancer, and God knows, the mystery of “The Yellow Room” is quite full
enough of real tragic horror to require no aid from literary effects. I am, and
only desire to be, a faithful “reporter.” My duty is to report the event; and I
place the event in its frame—that is all. It is only natural that you should
know where the things happened.
I return to Monsieur Stangerson. When he bought the estate, fifteen
years before the tragedy with which we are engaged occurred, the Château
du Glandier had for a long time been unoccupied. Another old château in
the neighbourhood, built in the fourteenth century by Jean de Belmont, was
also abandoned, so that that part of the country was very little inhabited.
Some small houses on the side of the road leading to Corbeil, an inn, called
the “Auberge du Donjon,” which offered passing hospitality to waggoners;
these were about all to represent civilisation in this out-of-the-way part of
the country, but a few leagues from the capital.
But this deserted condition of the place had been the determining reason
for the choice made by Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter. Monsieur
Stangerson was already celebrated. He had returned from America, where
his works had made a great stir. The book which he had published at
Philadelphia, on the “Dissociation of Matter by Electric Action,” had
aroused opposition throughout the whole scientific world. Monsieur
Stangerson was a Frenchman, but of American origin. Important matters
relating to a legacy had kept him for several years in the United States,
where he had continued the work begun by him in France, whither he had
returned in possession of a large fortune. This fortune was a great boon to
him; for, though he might have made millions of dollars by exploiting two
or three of his chemical discoveries relative to new processes of dyeing, it
was always repugnant to him to use for his own private gain the wonderful
gift of invention he had received from nature. He considered he owed it to
mankind, and all that his genius brought into the world went, by this
philosophical view of his duty, into the public lap.
If he did not try to conceal his satisfaction at coming into possession of
this fortune, which enabled him to give himself up to his passion for pure
science, he had equally to rejoice, it seemed to him, for another cause.
Mademoiselle Stangerson was, at the time when her father returned from
America and bought the Glandier estate, twenty years of age. She was

exceedingly pretty, having at once the Parisian grace of her mother, who
had died in giving her birth, and all the splendour, all the riches of the
young American blood of her parental grandfather, William Stangerson. A
citizen of Philadelphia, William Stangerson had been obliged to become
naturalised in obedience to family exigencies at the time of his marriage
with a French lady, she who was to be the mother of the illustrious
Stangerson. In that way the professor’s French nationality is accounted for.
Twenty years of age, a charming blonde, with blue eyes, milk-white
complexion, and radiant with divine health, Mathilde Stangerson was one
of the most beautiful marriageable girls in either the old or the new world. It
was her father’s duty, in spite of the inevitable pain which a separation from
her would cause him, to think of her marriage; and he was fully prepared
for it. Nevertheless, he buried himself and his child at the Glandier at the
moment when his friends were expecting him to bring her out into society.
Some of them expressed their astonishment, and to their questions he
answered: “It is my daughter’s wish. I can refuse her nothing. She has
chosen the Glandier.”
Interrogated in her turn, the young girl replied calmly: “Where could we
work better than in this solitude?” For Mademoiselle Stangerson had
already begun to collaborate with her father in his work. It could not at the
time be imagined that her passion for science would lead her so far as to
refuse all the suitors who presented themselves to her for over fifteen years.
So secluded was the life led by the two, father and daughter, that they
showed themselves only at a few official receptions and, at certain times in
the year, in two or three friendly drawing-rooms, where the fame of the
professor and the beauty of Mathilde made a sensation. The young girl’s
extreme reserve did not at first discourage suitors; but at the end of a few
years, they tired of their quest.
One alone persisted with tender tenacity and deserved the name of
“eternal fiancé,” a name he accepted with melancholy resignation; that was
Monsieur Robert Darzac. Mademoiselle Stangerson was now no longer
young, and it seemed that, having found no reason for marrying at five-and-
thirty, she would never find one. But such an argument evidently found no
acceptance with Monsieur Robert Darzac. He continued to pay his court—if
the delicate and tender attention with which he ceaselessly surrounded this
woman of five-and-thirty could be called courtship—in face of her declared
intention never to marry.

Suddenly, some weeks before the events with which we are occupied, a
report—to which nobody attached any importance, so incredible did it
sound—was spread about Paris, that Mademoiselle Stangerson had at last
consented to “crown” the inextinguishable flame of Monsieur Robert
Darzac! It needed that Monsieur Robert Darzac himself should not deny
this matrimonial rumour to give it an appearance of truth, so unlikely did it
seem to be well founded. One day, however, Monsieur Stangerson, as he
was leaving the Academy of Science, announced that the marriage of his
daughter and Monsieur Robert Darzac would be celebrated in the privacy of
the Château du Glandier, as soon as he and his daughter had put the
finishing touches to their report summing up their labours on the
“Dissociation of Matter.” The new household would install itself in the
Glandier, and the son-in-law would lend his assistance in the work to which
the father and daughter had dedicated their lives.
The scientific world had barely had time to recover from the effect of
this news, when it learned of the attempted assassination of Mademoiselle
under the extraordinary conditions which we have detailed and which our
visit to the château was to enable us to ascertain with yet greater precision. I
have not hesitated to furnish the reader with all these retrospective details,
known to me through my business relations with Monsieur Robert Darzac.
On crossing the threshold of “The Yellow Room” he was as well posted as I
was.

Chapter V.
In Which Joseph Rouletabille Makes a Remark to
Monsieur Robert Darzac Which Produces its
Little Effect
Rouletabille and I had been walking for several minutes, by the side of a
long wall bounding the vast property of Monsieur Stangerson and had
already come within sight of the entrance gate, when our attention was
drawn to an individual who, half bent to the ground, seemed to be so
completely absorbed in what he was doing as not to have seen us coming
towards him. At one time he stooped so low as almost to touch the ground;
at another he drew himself up and attentively examined the wall; then he
looked into the palm of one of his hands, and walked away with rapid
strides. Finally he set off running, still looking into the palm of his hand.
Rouletabille had brought me to a standstill by a gesture.
“Hush! Frédéric Larsan is at work! Don’t let us disturb him!”
Rouletabille had a great admiration for the celebrated detective. I had
never before seen him, but I knew him well by reputation. At that time,
before Rouletabille had given proof of his unique talent, Larsan was reputed
as the most skilful unraveller of the most mysterious and complicated
crimes. His reputation was world-wide, and the police of London, and even
of America, often called him in to their aid when their own national
inspectors and detectives found themselves at the end of their wits and
resources.
No one was astonished, then, that the head of the Sûreté had, at the
outset of the mystery of “The Yellow Room,” telegraphed his precious
subordinate to London, where he had been sent on a big case of stolen
securities, to return with all haste. Frédéric who, at the Sûreté, was called
the “great Frédéric,” had made all speed, doubtless knowing by experience
that, if he was interrupted in what he was doing, it was because his services

were urgently needed in another direction; so, as Rouletabille said, he was
that morning already “at work.” We soon found out in what it consisted.
What he was continually looking at in the palm of his right hand was
nothing but his watch, the minute hand of which he appeared to be noting
intently. Then he turned back still running, stopping only when he reached
the park gate, where he again consulted his watch and then put it away in
his pocket, shrugging his shoulders with a gesture of discouragement. He
pushed open the park gate, reclosed and locked it, raised his head and,
through the bars, perceived us. Rouletabille rushed after him, and I
followed. Frédéric Larsan waited for us.
“Monsieur Fred,” said Rouletabille, raising his hat and showing the
profound respect, based on admiration, which the young reporter felt for the
celebrated detective, “can you tell me whether Monsieur Robert Darzac is
at the château at this moment? Here is one of his friends, of the Paris Bar,
who desires to speak with him.”
“I really don’t know, Monsieur Rouletabille,” replied Fred, shaking
hands with my friend, whom he had several times met in the course of his
difficult investigations. “I have not seen him.”
“The concierges will be able to inform us no doubt?” said Rouletabille,
pointing to the lodge the door and windows of which were close shut.
“The concierges will not be able to give you any information, Monsieur
Rouletabille.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were arrested half an hour ago.”
“Arrested!” cried Rouletabille; “then they are the murderers!”
Frédéric Larsan shrugged his shoulders.
“When you can’t arrest the real murderer,” he said with an air of
supreme irony, “you can always indulge in the luxury of discovering
accomplices.”
“Did you have them arrested, Monsieur Fred?”
“Not I!—I haven’t had them arrested. In the first place, I am pretty sure
that they have not had anything to do with the affair, and then because—”
“Because of what?” asked Rouletabille eagerly.
“Because of nothing,” said Larsan, shaking his head.
“Because there were no accomplices!” said Rouletabille.
“Aha!—you have an idea, then, about this matter?” said Larsan, looking
at Rouletabille intently, “yet you have seen nothing, young man,—you have

not yet gained admission here!”
“I shall get admission.”
“I doubt it. The orders are strict.”
“I shall gain admission, if you let me see Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do
that for me. You know we are old friends. I beg of you, Monsieur Fred. Do
you remember the article I wrote about you on the gold bar case?”
The face of Rouletabille at the moment was really funny to look at. It
showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond which some
prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much eloquence, not
only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features, that I could not refrain
from bursting into laughter. Frédéric Larsan, no more than myself, could
retain his gravity. Meanwhile, standing on the other side of the gate, he
calmly put the key in his pocket. I closely scrutinised him.
He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair
turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His forehead was
prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper lip, without
moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather small and round, with
a look in them that was at once searching and disquieting. He was of middle
height and well built, with a general bearing elegant and gentlemanly. There
was nothing about him of the vulgar policeman. In his way, he was an artist,
and one felt that he had a high opinion of himself. The sceptical tone of his
conversation was that of a man who had been taught by experience. His
strange profession had brought him into contact with so many crimes and
villainies that it would have been remarkable if his nature had not been a
little hardened.
Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from
the château and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab which
had conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from the station at
Epinay.
“Ah!” said Frédéric Larsan, “if you want to speak with Monsieur Robert
Darzac, he is here.”
The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging
Frédéric Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed for time
to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he recognised me.
While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac inquired what had
brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment. I noticed that he was

frightfully pale, and that his face was lined as if from the effects of some
terrible suffering.
“Is Mademoiselle getting better?” I immediately asked.
“Yes,” he said. “She will be saved perhaps. She must be saved!”
He did not add “or it will be my death”; but I felt that the phrase
trembled on his pale lips.
Rouletabille intervened:—
“You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have
something of the greatest importance to tell you.”
Frédéric Larsan interrupted:—
“May I leave you?” he asked of Robert Darzac. “Have you a key, or do
you wish me to give you this one.”
“Thank you. I have a key and will lock the gate.”
Larsan hurried off in the direction of the château, the imposing pile of
which could be perceived a few hundred yards away.
Robert Darzac, with knit brow, was beginning to show impatience. I
presented Rouletabille as a good friend of mine, but, as soon as he learnt
that the young man was a journalist, he looked at me very reproachfully,
excused himself, under the necessity of having to reach Epinay in twenty
minutes, bowed, and whipped up his horse. But Rouletabille had seized the
bridle and, to my utter astonishment, stopped the carriage with a vigorous
hand. Then he gave utterance to a sentence which was utterly meaningless
to me.
“The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its
brightness.”
The words had hardly left the lips of Rouletabille than I saw Robert
Darzac quail. Pale as he was, he became paler. His eyes were fixed on the
young man in terror, and he immediately descended from the vehicle in an
inexpressible state of agitation.
“Come!—come in!” he stammered.
Then, suddenly, and with a sort of fury, he repeated:—
“Let us go, monsieur.”
He turned up by the road he had come from the château, Rouletabille
still retaining his hold on the horse’s bridle. I addressed a few words to
Monsieur Darzac, but he made no answer. My looks questioned
Rouletabille, but his gaze was elsewhere.

Chapter VI.
In the Heart of the Oak Grove
We reached the château, and, as we approached it, saw four gendarmes
pacing in front of a little door in the ground floor of the donjon. We soon
learned that in this ground floor, which had formerly served as a prison,
Monsieur and Madame Bernier, the concierges, were confined.
Monsieur Robert Darzac led us into the modern part of the château by a
large door, protected by a projecting awning—a “marquise” as it is called.
Rouletabille who had resigned the horse and the cab to the care of a servant,
never took his eyes off Monsieur Darzac. I followed his look and perceived
that it was directed solely towards the gloved hands of the Sorbonne
professor. When we were in a tiny sitting-room fitted with old furniture,
Monsieur Darzac turned to Rouletabille and said sharply:—
“What do you want?”
The reporter answered in an equally sharp tone:—
“To shake you by the hand.”
Darzac shrank back.
“What does that mean?”
Evidently he understood, what I also understood, that my friend
suspected him of the abominable attempt on the life of Mademoiselle
Stangerson. The impression of the blood-stained hand on the walls of “The
Yellow Room” was in his mind. I looked at the man closely. His haughty
face with its expression ordinarily so straightforward was at this moment
strangely troubled. He held out his right hand and, referring to me, said:—
“As you are a friend of Monsieur Sainclair who has rendered me
invaluable services in a just cause, monsieur, I see no reason for refusing
you my hand—”
Rouletabille did not take the extended hand. Lying with the utmost
audacity, he said:—
“Monsieur, I have lived several years in Russia, where I have acquired
the habit of never taking any but an ungloved hand.”

I thought that the Sorbonne professor would express his anger openly,
but, on the contrary, by a visibly violent effort, he calmed himself, took off
his gloves, and showed his hands; they were unmarked by any cicatrice.
“Are you satisfied?”
“No!” replied Rouletabille. “My dear friend,” he said, turning to me, “I
am obliged to ask you to leave us alone for a moment.”
I bowed and retired, stupefied by what I had seen and heard. I could not
understand why Monsieur Robert Darzac had not already shown the door to
my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend. I was angry myself with
Rouletabille at that moment, for his suspicions, which had led to this scene
of the gloves.
For some twenty minutes I walked about in front of the château, trying
vainly to link together the different events of the day. What was in
Rouletabille’s mind? Was it possible that he thought Monsieur Robert
Darzac to be the murderer? How could it be thought that this man, who was
to have married Mademoiselle Stangerson in the course of a few days, had
introduced himself into “The Yellow Room” to assassinate his fiancée? I
could find no explanation as to how the murderer had been able to leave
“The Yellow Room”; and so long as that mystery, which appeared to me so
inexplicable, remained unexplained, I thought it was the duty of all of us to
refrain from suspecting anybody. But, then, that seemingly senseless phrase
—“The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its
brightness”—still rung in my ears. What did it mean? I was eager to rejoin
Rouletabille and question him.
At that moment the young man came out of the château in the company
of Monsieur Robert Darzac, and, extraordinary to relate, I saw, at a glance,
that they were the best of friends.
“We are going to ‘The Yellow Room.’ Come with us,” Rouletabille said
to me. “You know, my dear boy, I am going to keep you with me all day.
We’ll breakfast together somewhere about here—”
“You’ll breakfast with me, here, gentlemen—”
“No, thanks,” replied the young man. “We shall breakfast at the Donjon
Inn.”
“You’ll fare very badly there; you’ll not find anything—”
“Do you think so? Well, I hope to find something there,” replied
Rouletabille. “After breakfast, we’ll set to work again. I’ll write my article
and if you’ll be so good as to take it to the office for me—”

“Won’t you come back with me to Paris?”
“No; I shall remain here.”
I turned towards Rouletabille. He spoke quite seriously, and Monsieur
Robert Darzac did not appear to be in the least degree surprised.
We were passing by the donjon and heard wailing voices. Rouletabille
asked:
“Why have these people been arrested?”
“It is a little my fault,” said Monsieur Darzac. “I happened to remark to
the examining magistrate yesterday that it was inexplicable that the
concierges had had time to hear the revolver shots, to dress themselves, and
to cover so great a distance as that which lies between their lodge and the
pavilion, in the space of two minutes; for not more than that interval of time
had elapsed after the firing of the shots when they were met by Daddy
Jacques.”
“That was suspicious evidently,” acquiesced Rouletabille. “And were
they dressed?”
“That is what is so incredible—they were dressed—completely—not
one part of their costume wanting. The woman wore sabots, but the man
had on laced boots. Now they assert that they went to bed at half-past nine.
On arriving this morning, the examining magistrate brought with him from
Paris a revolver of the same calibre as that found in the room (for he
couldn’t use the one held for evidence), and made his Registrar fire two
shots in ‘The Yellow Room’ while the doors and windows were closed. We
were with him in the lodge of the concierges, and yet we heard nothing, not
a sound. The concierges have lied, of that there can be no doubt. They must
have been already waiting, not far from the pavilion, waiting for something!
Certainly they are not to be accused of being the authors of the crime, but
their complicity is not improbable. That was why Monsieur de Marquet had
them arrested at once.”
“If they had been accomplices,” said Rouletabille, “they would not have
been there at all. When people throw themselves into the arms of justice
with the proofs of complicity on them, you can be sure they are not
accomplices. I don’t believe there are any accomplices in this affair.”
“Then, why were they abroad at midnight? Why don’t they say?”
“They have certainly some reason for their silence. What that reason is,
has to be found out; for, even if they are not accomplices, it may be of
importance. Everything that took place on such a night is important.”

We had crossed an old bridge thrown over the Douve and were entering
the part of the park called the Oak Grove. The oaks here were centuries old.
Autumn had already shrivelled their tawny leaves, and their high branches,
black and contorted, looked like horrid heads of hair, mingled with quaint
reptiles such as the ancient sculptors have made on the head of Medusa.
This place, which Mademoiselle found cheerful and in which she lived in
the summer season, appeared to us as sad and funereal now. The soil was
black and muddy from the recent rains and the rotting of the fallen leaves;
the trunks of the trees were black and the sky above us was now, as if in
mourning, charged with great, heavy clouds.
And it was in this sombre and desolate retreat that we saw the white
walls of the pavilion as we approached. A queer-looking building without a
window visible on the side by which we neared it. A little door alone
marked the entrance to it. It might have passed for a tomb, a vast
mausoleum in the midst of a thick forest. As we came nearer, we were able
to make out its disposition. The building obtained all the light it needed
from the south, that is to say, from the open country. The little door closed
on the park. Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson must have found it an
ideal seclusion for their work and their dreams.

Here is the ground plan of the pavilion. It had a ground-floor which was
reached by a few steps, and above it was an attic, with which we need not
concern ourselves. The plan of the ground-floor only, sketched roughly, is
what I here submit to the reader.

1. The Yellow Room, with its one window and its one door opening into
the laboratory.
2. Laboratory, with its two large, barred windows and its doors, one
serving for the vestibule, the other for The Yellow Room.
3. Vestibule, with its unbarred window and door opening into the park.
4. Lavatory.
5. Stairs leading to the attic.
6. Large and the only chimney in the pavilion, serving for the
experiments of the laboratory.
The plan was drawn by Rouletabille, and I assured myself that there was
not a line in it that was wanting to help to the solution of the problem then
set before the police. With the lines of this plan and the description of its
parts before them, my readers will know as much as Rouletabille knew
when he entered the pavilion for the first time. With him they may now ask:
How did the murderer escape from The Yellow Room?
Before mounting the three steps leading up to the door of the pavilion,
Rouletabille stopped and asked Monsieur Darzac point blank:—
“What was the motive for the crime?”
“Speaking for myself, Monsieur, there can be no doubt on the matter,”
said Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé, greatly distressed. “The marks of
the fingers, the deep scratches on the chest and throat of Mademoiselle
Stangerson show that the wretch who attacked her attempted to commit a
frightful crime. The medical experts who examined these traces yesterday
affirm that they were made by the same hand as that which left its red
imprint on the wall; an enormous hand, Monsieur, much too large to go into
my gloves,” he added with an indefinable smile.
“Could not that blood-stained hand,” I interrupted, “have been the hand
of Mademoiselle Stangerson who, in the moment of falling, had pressed it
against the wall, and, in slipping, enlarged the impression?”
“There was not a drop of blood on either of her hands when she was
lifted up,” replied Monsieur Darzac.
“We are now sure,” said I, “that it was Mademoiselle Stangerson who
was armed with Daddy Jacques’s revolver, since she wounded the hand of
the murderer. She was in fear, then, of somebody or something.”
“Probably.”
“Do you suspect anybody?”
“No,” replied Monsieur Darzac, looking at Rouletabille.

Rouletabille then said to me:—
“You must know, my friend, that the inquiry is a little more advanced
than Monsieur de Marquet has chosen to tell us. He not only knows that
Mademoiselle Stangerson defended herself with the revolver, but he knows
what the weapon was that was used to attack her. Monsieur Darzac tells me
it was a mutton-bone. Why is Monsieur de Marquet surrounding this
mutton-bone with so much mystery? No doubt for the purpose of
facilitating the inquiries of the agents of the Sûreté? He imagines, perhaps,
that the owner of this instrument of crime, the most terrible invented, is
going to be found amongst those who are well-known in the slums of Paris
who use it. But who can ever say what passes through the brain of an
examining magistrate?” Rouletabille added with contemptuous irony.
“Has a mutton-bone been found in The Yellow Room?” I asked him.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Robert Darzac, “at the foot of the bed; but I beg
of you not to say anything about it.” (I made a gesture of assent.) “It was an
enormous mutton-bone, the top of which, or rather the joint, was still red
with the blood of the frightful wound. It was an old bone, which may,
according to appearances, have served in other crimes. That’s what
Monsieur de Marquet thinks who has had it sent to the municipal laboratory
at Paris to be analysed. In fact, he thinks he has detected on it, not only the
blood of the last victim, but other stains of dried blood, evidences of
previous crimes.”
“A mutton-bone in the hand of a skilled assassin is a frightful weapon,”
said Rouletabille, “a more certain weapon than a heavy hammer.”
“The scoundrel has proved it to be so,” said Monsieur Robert Darzac,
sadly. “The joint of the bone found exactly fits the wound inflicted. My
belief is that the wound would have been mortal, if the murderer’s blow had
not been arrested in the act by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s revolver.
Wounded in the hand, he dropped the mutton-bone and fled. Unfortunately,
the blow had been already given, and Mademoiselle was stunned after
having been nearly strangled. If she had succeeded in wounding the man
with the first shot of the revolver, she would, doubtless, have escaped the
blow with the bone. But she had certainly employed her revolver too late;
the first shot deviated and lodged in the ceiling; it was the second only that
took effect.”
Having said this, Monsieur Darzac knocked at the door of the pavilion. I
must confess to feeling a strong impatience to reach the spot where the

crime had been committed. It was some time before the door was opened by
a man whom I at once recognised as Daddy Jacques.
He appeared to be well over sixty years of age. He had a long white
beard and white hair, on which he wore a flat Basque cap. He was dressed
in a complete suit of chestnut-coloured velveteen, worn at the sides; sabots
were on his feet. He had rather a waspish-looking face, the expression of
which lightened, however, as soon as he saw Monsieur Darzac.
“Friends,” said our guide. “Nobody in the pavilion, Daddy Jacques?”
“I ought not to allow anybody to enter, Monsieur Robert, but of course
the order does not apply to you. These gentlemen of justice have seen
everything there is to be seen, and made enough drawings, and drawn up
enough reports—”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Jacques, one question before anything else,” said
Rouletabille.
“What is it, young man? If I can answer it—”
“Did your mistress wear her hair in bands, that evening? You know
what I mean—over her forehead?”
“No, young man. My mistress never wore her hair in the way you
suggest, neither on that day nor on any other. She had her hair drawn up, as
usual, so that her beautiful forehead could be seen, pure as that of an unborn
child!”
Rouletabille grunted and set to work examining the door, finding that it
fastened itself automatically. He satisfied himself that it could never remain
open and needed a key to open it. Then we entered the vestibule, a small,
well-lit room paved with square red tiles.
“Ah! This is the window by which the murderer escaped!” said
Rouletabille.
“So they keep on saying, monsieur, so they keep on saying! But if he
had gone off that way, we should have been sure to have seen him. We are
not blind, neither Monsieur Stangerson nor me, nor the concierges who are
in prison. Why have they not put me in prison, too, on account of my
revolver?”
Rouletabille had already opened the window and was examining the
shutters.
“Were these closed at the time of the crime?”
“And fastened with the iron catch inside,” said Daddy Jacques, “and I
am quite sure that the murderer did not get out that way.”

“Are there any blood stains?”
“Yes, on the stones outside; but blood of what?”
“Ah!” said Rouletabille, “there are footmarks visible on the path—the
ground was very moist. I will look into that presently.”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Daddy Jacques; “the murderer did not go that
way.”
“Which way did he go, then?”
“How do I know?”
Rouletabille looked at everything, smelled everything. He went down
on his knees and rapidly examined every one of the paving tiles. Daddy
Jacques went on:—
“Ah!—you can’t find anything, monsieur. Nothing has been found. And
now it is all dirty; too many persons have tramped over it. They wouldn’t
let me wash it, but on the day of the crime I had washed the floor
thoroughly, and if the murderer had crossed it with his hobnailed boots, I
should not have failed to see where he had been; he has left marks enough
in Mademoiselle’s chamber.”
Rouletabille rose.
“When was the last time you washed these tiles?” he asked, and he
fixed on Daddy Jacques a most searching look.
“Why—as I told you—on the day of the crime, towards half-past five—
while Mademoiselle and her father were taking a little walk before dinner,
here in this room; they had dined in the laboratory. The next day, the
examining magistrate came and saw all the marks there were on the floor as
plainly as if they had been made with ink on white paper. Well, neither in
the laboratory nor in the vestibule, which were both as clean as a new pin,
were there any traces of a man’s footmarks. Since they have been found
near this window outside, he must have made his way through the ceiling of
The Yellow Room into the attic, then cut his way through the roof and
dropped to the ground outside the vestibule window. But—there’s no hole,
neither in the ceiling of The Yellow Room nor in the roof of my attic—
that’s absolutely certain! So you see we know nothing—nothing! And
nothing will ever be known! It’s a mystery of the devil’s own making.”
Rouletabille went down upon his knees again almost in front of a small
lavatory at the back of the vestibule. In that position he remained for about
a minute.
“Well?” I asked him when he got up.

“Oh! nothing very important,—a drop of blood,” he replied, turning
towards Daddy Jacques as he spoke. “While you were washing the
laboratory and this vestibule, was the vestibule window open?” he asked.
“No, Monsieur, it was closed; but after I had done washing the floor, I
lit some charcoal for Monsieur in the laboratory furnace, and, as I lit it with
old newspapers, it smoked, so I opened both the windows in the laboratory
and this one, to make a current of air; then I shut those in the laboratory and
left this one open when I went out. When I returned to the pavilion, this
window had been closed and Monsieur and Mademoiselle were already at
work in the laboratory.”
“Monsieur or Mademoiselle Stangerson had, no doubt, shut it?”
“No doubt.”
“You did not ask them?”
“No.”
After a close scrutiny of the little lavatory and of the staircase leading
up to the attic, Rouletabille—to whom we seemed no longer to exist—
entered the laboratory. I followed him. It was, I confess, in a state of great
excitement. Robert Darzac lost none of my friend’s movements. As for me,
my eyes were drawn at once to the door of The Yellow Room. It was closed
and, as I immediately saw, partially shattered and out of commission.
My friend, who went about his work methodically, silently studied the
room in which we were. It was large and well-lighted. Two big windows—
almost bays—were protected by strong iron bars and looked out upon a
wide extent of country. Through an opening in the forest, they commanded
a wonderful view through the length of the valley and across the plain to the
large town which could be clearly seen in fair weather. To-day, however, a
mist hung over the ground—and blood in that room!
The whole of one side of the laboratory was taken up with a large
chimney, crucibles, ovens, and such implements as are needed for chemical
experiments; tables, loaded with phials, papers, reports, an electrical
machine,—an apparatus, as Monsieur Darzac informed me, employed by
Professor Stangerson to demonstrate the Dissociation of Matter under the
action of solar light—and other scientific implements.
Along the walls were cabinets, plain or glass-fronted, through which
were visible microscopes, special photographic apparatus, and a large
quantity of crystals.

Rouletabille, who was ferreting in the chimney, put his fingers into one
of the crucibles. Suddenly he drew himself up, and held up a piece of half-
consumed paper in his hand. He stepped up to where we were talking by
one of the windows.
“Keep that for us, Monsieur Darzac,” he said.
I bent over the piece of scorched paper which Monsieur Darzac took
from the hand of Rouletabille, and read distinctly the only words that
remained legible:—
“Presbytery—lost nothing—charm, nor the gar—its brightness.”
Twice since the morning these same meaningless words had struck me,
and, for the second time, I saw that they produced on the Sorbonne
professor the same paralysing effect. Monsieur Darzac’s first anxiety
showed itself when he turned his eyes in the direction of Daddy Jacques.
But, occupied as he was at another window, he had seen nothing. Then
tremblingly opening his pocket-book he put the piece of paper into it,
sighing: “My God!”
During this time, Rouletabille had mounted into the opening of the fire-
grate—that is to say, he had got upon the bricks of a furnace—and was
attentively examining the chimney, which grew narrower towards the top,
the outlet from it being closed with sheets of iron, fastened into the
brickwork, through which passed three small chimneys.
“Impossible to get out that way,” he said, jumping back into the
laboratory. “Besides, even if he had tried to do it, he would have brought all
that ironwork down to the ground. No, no; it is not on that side we have to
search.”
Rouletabille next examined the furniture and opened the doors of the
cabinet. Then he came to the windows, through which he declared no one
could possibly have passed. At the second window he found Daddy Jacques
in contemplation.
“Well, Daddy Jacques,” he said, “what are you looking at?”
“That policeman who is always going round and round the lake.
Another of those fellows who think they can see better than anybody else!”
“You don’t know Frédéric Larsan, Daddy Jacques, or you wouldn’t
speak of him in that way,” said Rouletabille in a melancholy tone. “If there
is anyone who will find the murderer, it will be he.” And Rouletabille
heaved a deep sigh.

“Before they find him, they will have to learn how they lost him,” said
Daddy Jacques, stolidly.
At length we reached the door of The Yellow Room itself.
“There is the door behind which some terrible scene took place,” said
Rouletabille, with a solemnity which, under any other circumstances, would
have been comical.

Chapter VII.
In Which Rouletabille Sets out on an Expedition
under the Bed
Rouletabille having pushed open the door of The Yellow Room paused
on the threshold saying, with an emotion which I only later understood,
“Ah, the perfume of the lady in black!”
The chamber was dark. Daddy Jacques was about to open the blinds
when Rouletabille stopped him.
“Did not the tragedy take place in complete darkness?” he asked.
“No, young man, I don’t think so. Mademoiselle always had a night-
light on her table, and I lit it every evening before she went to bed. I was a
sort of chambermaid, you must understand, when the evening came. The
real chambermaid did not come here much before the morning.
Mademoiselle worked late—far into the night.”
“Where did the table with the night-light stand,—far from the bed?”
“Some way from the bed.”
“Can you light the burner now?”
“The lamp is broken and the oil that was in it was spilled when the table
was upset. All the rest of the things in the room remain just as they were. I
have only to open the blinds for you to see.”
“Wait.”
Rouletabille went back into the laboratory, closed the shutters of the two
windows and the door of the vestibule. When we were in complete
darkness, he lit a wax vesta, and asked Daddy Jacques to move to the
middle of the chamber with it to the place where the night-light was burning
that night.
Daddy Jacques who was in his stockings—he usually left his sabots in
the vestibule—entered The Yellow Room with his bit of a vesta. We
vaguely distinguished objects overthrown on the floor, a bed in one corner,
and, in front of us, to the left, the gleam of a looking-glass hanging on the
wall, near to the bed.

“That will do!—you may now open the blinds,” said Rouletabille.
“Don’t come any further,” Daddy Jacques begged, “you may make
marks with your boots, and nothing must be deranged; it’s an idea of the
magistrate’s—though he has nothing more to do here.”
And he pushed open the shutter. The pale daylight entered from without,
throwing a sinister light on the saffron-coloured walls. The floor—for
though the laboratory and the vestibule were tiled, The Yellow Room had a
flooring of wood—was covered with a single yellow mat which was large
enough to cover nearly the whole room, under the bed and under the
dressing-table—the only piece of furniture that remained upright. The
centre round table, the night-table and two chairs had been overturned.
These did not prevent a large stain of blood being visible on the mat, made,
as Daddy Jacques informed us, by the blood which had flowed from the
wound on Mademoiselle Stangerson’s forehead. Besides these stains, drops
of blood had fallen in all directions, in line with the visible traces of the
footsteps—large and black—of the murderer. Everything led to the
presumption that these drops of blood had fallen from the wound of the man
who had, for a moment, placed his red hand on the wall. There were other
traces of the same hand on the wall, but much less distinct.
“See!—see this blood on the wall!” I could not help exclaiming. “The
man who pressed his hand so heavily upon it in the darkness must certainly
have thought that he was pushing at a door! That’s why he pressed on it so
hard, leaving on the yellow paper the terrible evidence. I don’t think there
are many hands in the world of that sort. It is big and strong and the fingers
are nearly all one as long as the other! The thumb is wanting and we have
only the mark of the palm; but if we follow the trace of the hand,” I
continued, “we see that, after leaving its imprint on the wall, the touch
sought the door, found it, and then felt for the lock—”
“No doubt,” interrupted Rouletabille, chuckling,—“only there is no
blood, either on the lock or on the bolt!”
“What does that prove?” I rejoined with a good sense of which I was
proud; “he might have opened the lock with his left hand, which would
have been quite natural, his right hand being wounded.”
“He didn’t open it at all!” Daddy Jacques again exclaimed. “We are not
fools; and there were four of us when we burst open the door!”
“What a queer hand!—Look what a queer hand it is!” I said.

“It is a very natural hand,” said Rouletabille, “of which the shape has
been deformed by its having slipped on the wall. The man dried his hand on
the wall. He must be a man about five feet eight in height.”
“How do you come at that?”
“By the height of the marks on the wall.”
My friend next occupied himself with the mark of the bullet in the wall.
It was a round hole.
“This ball was fired straight, not from above, and consequently, not
from below.”
Rouletabille went back to the door and carefully examined the lock and
the bolt, satisfying himself that the door had certainly been burst open from
the outside, and, further, that the key had been found in the lock on the
inside of the chamber. He finally satisfied himself that with the key in the
lock, the door could not possibly be opened from without with another key.
Having made sure of all these details, he let fall these words: “That’s
better!”—Then sitting down on the ground, he hastily took off his boots
and, in his socks, went into the room.
The first thing he did was to examine minutely the overturned furniture.
We watched him in silence.
“Young fellow, you are giving yourself a great deal of trouble,” said
Daddy Jacques ironically.
Rouletabille raised his head and said:—
“You have spoken the simple truth, Daddy Jacques; your mistress did
not have her hair in bands that evening. I was a donkey to have believed she
did.”
Then, with the suppleness of a serpent, he slipped under the bed.
Presently we heard him ask:—
“At what time, Monsieur Jacques, did Monsieur and Mademoiselle
Stangerson arrive at the laboratory?”
“At six o’clock.”
The voice of Rouletabille continued:
“Yes,—he’s been under here,—that’s certain; in fact, there was no
where else where he could have hidden himself. Here, too, are the marks of
his hobnails. When you entered—all four of you—did you look under the
bed?”
“At once,—we drew it right out of its place—”
“And between the mattresses?”

“There was only one on the bed, and on that Mademoiselle was placed;
and Monsieur Stangerson and the concierge immediately carried it into the
laboratory. Under the mattress there was nothing but the metal netting,
which could not conceal anything or anybody. Remember, monsieur, that
there were four of us and we couldn’t fail to see everything—the chamber is
so small and scantily furnished, and all was locked behind in the pavilion.”
I ventured on a hypothesis:—
“Perhaps he got away with the mattress—in the mattress!—Anything is
possible, in the face of such a mystery! In their distress of mind Monsieur
Stangerson and the concierge may not have noticed they were bearing a
double weight; especially if the concierge were an accomplice! I throw out
this hypothesis for what it is worth, but it explains many things,—and
particularly the fact that neither the laboratory nor the vestibule bear any
traces of the footmarks found in the room. If, in carrying Mademoiselle on
the mattress from the laboratory of the château, they rested for a moment,
there might have been an opportunity for the man in it to escape.”
“And then?” asked Rouletabille, deliberately laughing under the bed.
I felt rather vexed and replied:—
“I don’t know,—but anything appears possible”—
“The examining magistrate had the same idea, monsieur,” said Daddy
Jacques, “and he carefully examined the mattress. He was obliged to laugh
at the idea, monsieur, as your friend is doing now,—for whoever heard of a
mattress having a double bottom?”
I was myself obliged to laugh, on seeing that what I had said was
absurd; but in an affair like this one hardly knows where an absurdity
begins or ends.
My friend alone seemed able to talk intelligently. He called out from
under the bed.
“The mat here has been moved out of place,—who did it?”
“We did, monsieur,” explained Daddy Jacques. “When we could not
find the assassin, we asked ourselves whether there was not some hole in
the floor—”
“There is not,” replied Rouletabille. “Is there a cellar?”
“No, there’s no cellar. But that has not stopped our searching, and has
not prevented the examining magistrate and his Registrar from studying the
floor plank by plank, as if there had been a cellar under it.”

The reporter then reappeared. His eyes were sparkling and his nostrils
quivered. He remained on his hands and knees. He could not be better
likened than to an admirable sporting dog on the scent of some unusual
game. And, indeed, he was scenting the steps of a man,—the man whom he
has sworn to report to his master, the manager of the “Epoque.” It must not
be forgotten that Rouletabille was first and last a journalist.
Thus, on his hands and knees, he made his way to the four corners of
the room, so to speak, sniffing and going round everything—everything that
we could see, which was not much, and everything that we could not see,
which must have been infinite.
The toilette table was a simple table standing on four legs; there was
nothing about it by which it could possibly be changed into a temporary
hiding-place. There was not a closet or cupboard. Mademoiselle Stangerson
kept her wardrobe at the château.
Rouletabille literally passed his nose and hands along the walls,
constructed of solid brickwork. When he had finished with the walls, and
passed his agile fingers over every portion of the yellow paper covering
them, he reached to the ceiling, which he was able to touch by mounting on
a chair placed on the toilette table, and by moving this ingeniously
constructed stage from place to place he examined every foot of it. When he
had finished his scrutiny of the ceiling, where he carefully examined the
hole made by the second bullet, he approached the window, and, once more,
examined the iron bars and blinds, all of which were solid and intact. At
last, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and declared “Now I am at ease!”
“Well,—do you believe that the poor dear young lady was shut up when
she was being murdered—when she cried out for help?” wailed Daddy
Jacques.
“Yes,” said the young reporter, drying his forehead, “The Yellow Room
was as tightly shut as an iron safe.”
“That,” I said, “is why this mystery is the most surprising I know. Edgar
Allan Poe, in the ‘Double Assassination of the Rue Morgue,’ invented
nothing like it. The place of that crime was sufficiently closed to prevent the
escape of a man; but there was that window through which the monkey, the
perpetrator of the murder, could slip away! But here, there can be no
question of an opening of any sort. The door was fastened, and through the
window blinds, secure as they were, not even a fly could enter or get out.”

“True, true,” assented Rouletabille as he kept on drying his forehead,
which seemed to be perspiring less from his recent bodily exertion than
from his mental agitation. “Indeed, it’s a great, a beautiful, and a very
curious mystery.”
“The Bête du bon Dieu,” muttered Daddy Jacques, “the Bête du bon
Dieu herself, if she had committed the crime, could not have escaped.
Listen! Do you hear it? Hush!”
Daddy Jacques made us a sign to keep quiet and, stretching his arm
towards the wall nearest the forest, listened to something which we could
not hear.
“It’s answering,” he said at length. “I must kill it. It is too wicked, but
it’s the Bête du bon Dieu, and, every night, it goes to pray on the tomb of
Sainte-Geneviève and nobody dares to touch her, for fear that Mother
Angenoux should cast an evil spell on them.”
“How big is the Bête du bon Dieu?”
“Nearly as big as a small retriever,—a monster, I tell you. Ah!—I have
asked myself more than once whether it was not her that took our poor
Mademoiselle by the throat with her claws. But the Bête du bon Dieu does
not wear hobnailed boots, nor fire revolvers, nor has she a hand like that!”
exclaimed Daddy Jacques, again pointing out to us the red mark on the
wall. “Besides, we should have seen her as well as we would have seen a
man—”
“Evidently,” I said. “Before we had seen this Yellow Room, I had also
asked myself whether the cat of Mother Angenoux—”
“You also!” cried Rouletabille.
“Didn’t you?” I asked.
“Not for a moment. After reading the article in the ‘Matin,’ I knew that a
cat had nothing to do with the matter. But I swear now that a frightful
tragedy has been enacted here. You say nothing about the Basque cap, or
the handkerchief, found here, Daddy Jacques?”
“Of course, the magistrate has taken them,” the old man answered,
hesitatingly.
“I haven’t seen either the handkerchief or the cap, yet I can tell you how
they are made,” the reporter said to him gravely.
“Oh, you are very clever,” said Daddy Jacques, coughing and
embarrassed.

“The handkerchief is a large one, blue with red stripes and the cap is an
old Basque cap, like the one you are wearing now.”
“You are a wizard!” said Daddy Jacques, trying to laugh and not quite
succeeding. “How do you know that the handkerchief is blue with red
stripes?”
“Because, if it had not been blue with red stripes, it would not have
been found at all.”
Without giving any further attention to Daddy Jacques, my friend took a
piece of paper from his pocket, and taking out a pair of scissors, bent over
the footprints. Placing the paper over one of them he began to cut. In a short
time he had made a perfect pattern which he handed to me, begging me not
to lose it.
He then returned to the window and, pointing to the figure of Frédéric
Larsan, who had not quitted the side of the lake, asked Daddy Jacques
whether the detective had, like himself, been working in The Yellow Room?
“No,” replied Robert Darzac, who, since Rouletabille had handed him
the piece of scorched paper, had not uttered a word, “He pretends that he
does not need to examine The Yellow Room. He says that the murderer
made his escape from it in quite a natural way, and that he will, this
evening, explain how he did it.”
As he listened to what Monsieur Darzac had to say, Rouletabille turned
pale.
“Has Frédéric Larsan found out the truth, which I can only guess at?” he
murmured. “He is very clever—very clever—and I admire him. But what
we have to do to-day is something more than the work of a policeman,—
something quite different from the teachings of experience. We have to take
hold of our reason by the right end.”
The reporter rushed into the open air, agitated by the thought that the
great and famous Fred might anticipate him in the solution of the problem
of The Yellow Room.
I managed to reach him on the threshold of the pavilion.
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow,” I said. “Aren’t you satisfied?”
“Yes,” he confessed to me, with a deep sigh. “I am quite satisfied. I
have discovered many things.”
“Moral or material?”
“Several moral,—one material. This, for example.”

And rapidly he drew from his waistcoat pocket a piece of paper in
which he had placed a light coloured hair from a woman’s head.

Chapter VIII.
The Examining Magistrate Questions
Mademoiselle Stangerson
Two minutes later, as Rouletabille was bending over the footprints
discovered in the park, under the window of the vestibule, a man, evidently
a servant at the château, came towards us rapidly and called out to
Monsieur Darzac then coming out of the pavilion:—
“Monsieur Robert, the magistrate, you know, is questioning
Mademoiselle.”
Monsieur Darzac uttered a muttered excuse to us and set off running
towards the château, the man running after him.
“If the corpse can speak,” I said, “it would be interesting to be there.”
“We must know,” said my friend. “Let’s go to the château.” And he
drew me with him. But, at the château, a gendarme placed in the vestibule
denied us admission up the staircase of the first floor. We were obliged to
wait down stairs.
This is what passed in the chamber of the victim while we were waiting
below.
The family doctor, finding that Mademoiselle Stangerson was much
better, but fearing a relapse which would no longer permit of her being
questioned, had thought it his duty to inform the examining magistrate of
this, who decided to proceed immediately with a brief examination. At this
examination, the Registrar, Monsieur Stangerson, and the doctor were
present. Later, I obtained the text of the report of the examination, and I
give it here, in all its legal dryness:—
“Question. Are you able, mademoiselle, without too much fatiguing
yourself, to give some necessary details of the frightful attack of which you
have been the victim?
“Answer. I feel much better, monsieur, and I will tell you all I know.
When I entered my chamber I did not notice anything unusual there.

“Q. Excuse me, mademoiselle,—if you will allow me, I will ask you
some questions and you will answer them. That will fatigue you less than
making a long recital.
“A. Do so, monsieur.
“Q. What did you do on that day?—I want you to be as minute and
precise as possible. I wish to know all you did that day, if it is not asking
too much of you.
“A. I rose late, at ten o’clock, for my father and I had returned home
late on the night previously, having been to dinner at the reception given by
the President of the Republic, in honour of the Academy of Science of
Philadelphia. When I left my chamber, at half-past ten, my father was
already at work in the laboratory. We worked together till midday. We then
took half-an-hour’s walk in the park, as we were accustomed to do, before
breakfasting at the château. After breakfast, we took another walk for half
an hour, and then returned to the laboratory. There we found my
chambermaid, who had come to set my room in order. I went into The
Yellow Room to give her some slight orders and she directly afterwards left
the pavilion, and I resumed my work with my father. At five o’clock, we
again went for a walk in the park and afterward had tea.
“Q. Before leaving the pavilion at five o’clock, did you go into your
chamber?
“A. No, monsieur, my father went into it, at my request to bring me my
hat.
“Q. And he found nothing suspicious there?
“A. Evidently no, monsieur.
“Q. It is, then, almost certain that the murderer was not yet concealed
under the bed. When you went out, was the door of the room locked?
“A. No, there was no reason for locking it.
“Q. You were absent from the pavilion some length of time, Monsieur
Stangerson and you?
“A. About an hour.
“Q. It was during that hour, no doubt, that the murderer got into the
pavilion. But how? Nobody knows. Footmarks have been found in the park,
leading away from the window of the vestibule, but none has been found
going towards it. Did you notice whether the vestibule window was open
when you went out?
“A. I don’t remember.

“Monsieur Stangerson. It was closed.
“Q. And when you returned?
“Mademoiselle Stangerson. I did not notice.
“M. Stangerson. It was still closed. I remember remarking aloud:
‘Daddy Jacques must surely have opened it while we were away.’
“Q. Strange!—Do you recollect, Monsieur Stangerson, if during your
absence, and before going out, he had opened it? You returned to the
laboratory at six o’clock and resumed work?
“Mademoiselle Stangerson. Yes, monsieur.
“Q. And you did not leave the laboratory from that hour up to the
moment when you entered your chamber?
“M. Stangerson. Neither my daughter nor I, monsieur. We were engaged
on work that was pressing, and we lost not a moment,—neglecting
everything else on that account.
“Q. Did you dine in the laboratory?
“A. For that reason.
“Q. Are you accustomed to dine in the laboratory?
“A. We rarely dine there.
“Q. Could the murderer have known that you would dine there that
evening?
“M. Stangerson. Good Heavens!—I think not. It was only when we
returned to the pavilion at six o’clock, that we decided, my daughter and I,
to dine there. At that moment I was spoken to by my gamekeeper, who
detained me a moment, to ask me to accompany him on an urgent tour of
inspection in a part of the woods which I had decided to thin. I put this off
until the next day, and begged him, as he was going by the château, to tell
the steward that we should dine in the laboratory. He left me, to execute the
errand and I rejoined my daughter, who was already at work.
“Q. At what hour, mademoiselle, did you go to your chamber while
your father continued to work there?
“A. At midnight.
“Q. Did Daddy Jacques enter The Yellow Room in the course of the
evening?
“A. To shut the blinds and light the night-light.
“Q. He saw nothing suspicious?
“A. He would have told us if he had seen. Daddy Jacques is an honest
man and very attached to me.

“Q. You affirm, Monsieur Stangerson, that Daddy Jacques remained
with you all the time you were in the laboratory?
“M. Stangerson. I am sure of it. I have no doubt of that.
“Q. When you entered your chamber, mademoiselle, you immediately
shut the door and locked and bolted it? That was taking unusual
precautions, knowing that your father and your servant were there? Were
you in fear of something, then?
“A. My father would be returning to the château and Daddy Jacques
would be going to his bed. And, in fact, I did fear something.
“Q. You were so much in fear of something that you borrowed Daddy
Jacques’s revolver without telling him you had done so?
“A. That is true. I did not wish to alarm anybody,—the more, because
my fears might have proved to have been foolish.
“Q. What was it you feared?
“A. I hardly know how to tell you. For several nights, I seemed to hear,
both in the park and out of the park, round the pavilion, unusual sounds,
sometimes footsteps, at other times the cracking of branches. The night
before the attack on me, when I did not get to bed before three o’clock in
the morning, on our return from the Élysée, I stood for a moment before my
window, and I felt sure I saw shadows.
“Q. How many?
“A. Two. They moved round the lake,—then the moon became clouded
and I lost sight of them. At this time of the season, every year, I have
generally returned to my apartment in the château for the winter; but this
year I said to myself that I would not quit the pavilion before my father had
finished the résumé of his works on the ‘Dissociation of Matter’ for the
Academy. I did not wish that that important work, which was to have been
finished in the course of a few days, should be delayed by a change in our
daily habit. You can well understand that I did not wish to speak of my
childish fears to my father, nor did I say anything to Daddy Jacques who, I
knew, would not have been able to hold his tongue. Knowing that he had a
revolver in his room, I took advantage of his absence and borrowed it,
placing it in the drawer of my night-table.
“Q. You know of no enemies you have?
“A. None.
“Q. You understand, mademoiselle, that these precautions are calculated
to cause surprise?

“M. Stangerson. Evidently, my child, such precautions are very
surprising.
“A. No;—because I have told you that I had been uneasy for two nights.
“M. Stangerson. You ought to have told me of that! This misfortune
would have been avoided.
“Q. The door of The Yellow Room locked, did you go to bed?
“A. Yes, and, being very tired, I at once went to sleep.
“Q. The night-light was still burning?
“A. Yes, but it gave a very feeble light.
“Q. Then, mademoiselle, tell us what happened.
“A. I do not know whether I had been long asleep, but suddenly I awoke
—and uttered a loud cry.
“M. Stangerson. Yes—a horrible cry—‘Murder!’—It still rings in my
ears.
“Q. You uttered a loud cry?
“A. A man was in my chamber. He sprang at me and tried to strangle
me. I was nearly stifled when suddenly I was able to reach the drawer of my
night-table and grasp the revolver which I had placed in it. At that moment
the man had forced me to the foot of my bed and brandished over my head
a sort of mace. But I had fired. He immediately struck a terrible blow at my
head. All that, monsieur, passed more rapidly than I can tell it, and I know
nothing more.
“Q. Nothing?—Have you no idea as to how the assassin could escape
from your chamber?
“A. None whatever—I know nothing more. One does not know what is
passing around one, when one is unconscious.
“Q. Was the man you saw tall or short, little or big?
“A. I only saw a shadow which appeared to me formidable.
“Q. You cannot give us any indication?
“A. I know nothing more, monsieur, than that a man threw himself upon
me and that I fired at him. I know nothing more.”

Here the interrogation of Mademoiselle Stangerson concluded.

Rouletabille waited patiently for Monsieur Robert Darzac, who soon
appeared.

From a room near the chamber of Mademoiselle Stangerson, he had
heard the interrogatory and now came to recount it to my friend with great
exactitude, aided by an excellent memory. His docility still surprised me.
Thanks to hasty pencil-notes, he was able to reproduce, almost textually, the
questions and the answers given.
It looked as if Monsieur Darzac were being employed as the secretary
of my young friend and acted as if he could refuse him nothing; nay, more,
as if under a compulsion to do so.
The fact of the closed window struck the reporter as it had struck the
magistrate. Rouletabille asked Darzac to repeat once more Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s account of how she and her father had spent their time on the
day of the tragedy, as she had stated it to the magistrate. The circumstance
of the dinner in the laboratory seemed to interest him in the highest degree;
and he had it repeated to him three times. He also wanted to be sure that the
forest-keeper knew that the professor and his daughter were going to dine in
the laboratory, and how he had come to know it.
When Monsieur Darzac had finished, I said: “The examination has not
advanced the problem much.”
“It has put it back,” said Monsieur Darzac.
“It has thrown light upon it,” said Rouletabille, thoughtfully.

Chapter IX.
Reporter and Detective
The three of us went back towards the pavilion. At some distance from
the building the reporter made us stop and, pointing to a small clump of
trees to the right of us, said:—
“That’s where the murderer came from to get into the pavilion.”
As there were other patches of trees of the same sort between the great
oaks, I asked why the murderer had chosen that one, rather than any of the
others. Rouletabille answered me by pointing to the path which ran quite
close to the thicket to the door of the pavilion.
“That path is, as you see, topped with gravel,” he said; “the man must
have passed along it going to the pavilion, since no traces of his steps have
been found on the soft ground. The man didn’t have wings; he walked; but
he walked on the gravel which left no impression of his tread. The gravel
has, in fact, been trodden by many other feet, since the path is the most
direct way between the pavilion and the château. As to the thicket, made of
the sort of shrubs that don’t flourish in the rough season—laurels and
fuchsias—it offered the murderer a sufficient hiding-place until it was time
for him to make his way to the pavilion. It was while hiding in that clump
of trees that he saw Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson, and then
Daddy Jacques, leave the pavilion. Gravel has been spread nearly, very
nearly, up to the windows of the pavilion. The footprints of a man, parallel
with the wall—marks which we will examine presently, and which I have
already seen—prove that he only needed to make one stride to find himself
in front of the vestibule window, left open by Daddy Jacques. The man
drew himself up by his hands and entered the vestibule.”
“After all it is very possible,” I said.
“After all what? After all what?” cried Rouletabille.
I begged of him not to be angry; but he was too much irritated to listen
to me and declared, ironically, that he admired the prudent doubt with
which certain people approached the most simple problems, risking nothing

by saying “that is so,” or “that is not so.” Their intelligence would have
produced about the same result if nature had forgotten to furnish their brain-
pan with a little grey matter. As I appeared vexed, my young friend took me
by the arm and admitted that he had not meant that for me; he thought more
of me than that.
“If I did not reason as I do in regard to this gravel,” he went on, “I
should have to assume a balloon!—My dear fellow, the science of the
aerostation of dirigible balloons is not yet developed enough for me to
consider it and suppose that a murderer would drop from the clouds! So
don’t say a thing is possible, when it could not be otherwise. We know now
how the man entered by the window, and we also know the moment at
which he entered,—during the five o’clock walk of the professor and his
daughter. The fact of the presence of the chambermaid—who had come to
clean up The Yellow Room—in the laboratory, when Monsieur Stangerson
and his daughter returned from their walk, at half-past one, permits us to
affirm that at half-past one the murderer was not in the chamber under the
bed, unless he was in collusion with the chambermaid. What do you say,
Monsieur Darzac?”
Monsieur Darzac shook his head and said he was sure of the
chambermaid’s fidelity, and that she was a thoroughly honest and devoted
servant.
“Besides,” he added, “at five o’clock Monsieur Stangerson went into
the room to fetch his daughter’s hat.”
“There is that also,” said Rouletabille.
“That the man entered by the window at the time you say, I admit,” I
said; “but why did he shut the window? It was an act which would
necessarily draw the attention of those who had left it open.”
“It may be the window was not shut at once,” replied the young
reporter. “But if he did shut the window, it was because of the bend in the
gravel path, a dozen yards from the pavilion, and on account of the three
oaks that are growing at that spot.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Monsieur Darzac, who had
followed us and listened with almost breathless attention to all that
Rouletabille had said.
“I’ll explain all to you later on, Monsieur, when I think the moment to
be ripe for doing so; but I don’t think I have anything of more importance to
say on this affair, if my hypothesis is justified.”

“And what is your hypothesis?”
“You will never know if it does not turn out to be the truth. It is of much
too grave a nature to speak of it, so long as it continues to be only a
hypothesis.”
“Have you, at least, some idea as to who the murderer is?”
“No, monsieur, I don’t know who the murderer is; but don’t be afraid,
Monsieur Robert Darzac—I shall know.”
I could not but observe that Monsieur Darzac was deeply moved; and I
suspected that Rouletabille’s confident assertion was not pleasing to him.
Why, I asked myself, if he was really afraid that the murderer should be
discovered, was he helping the reporter to find him? My young friend
seemed to have received the same impression, for he said, bluntly:—
“Monsieur Darzac don’t you want me to find out who the murderer
was?”
“Oh!—I should like to kill him with my own hand!” cried
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé, with a vehemence that amazed me.
“I believe you,” said Rouletabille gravely; “but you have not answered
my question.”
We were passing by the thicket, of which the young reporter had spoken
to us a minute before. I entered it and pointed out evident traces of a man
who had been hidden there. Rouletabille, once more, was right.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “We have to do with a thing of flesh and blood, who
uses the same means that we do. It’ll all come out on those lines.”
Having said this, he asked me for the paper pattern of the footprint
which he had given me to take care of, and applied it to a very clear
footmark behind the thicket. “Aha!” he said, rising.
I thought he was now going to trace back the track of the murderer’s
footmarks to the vestibule window; but he led us instead, far to the left,
saying that it was useless ferreting in the mud, and that he was sure, now, of
the road taken by the murderer.
“He went along the wall to the hedge and dry ditch, over which he
jumped. See, just in front of the little path leading to the lake, that was his
nearest way to get out.”
“How do you know he went to the lake?”
“Because Frédéric Larsan has not quitted the borders of it since this
morning. There must be some important marks there.”
A few minutes later we reached the lake.

It was a little sheet of marshy water, surrounded by reeds, on which
floated some dead water-lily leaves. The great Fred may have seen us
approaching, but we probably interested him very little, for he took hardly
any notice of us and continued to be stirring with his cane something which
we could not see.
“Look!” said Rouletabille, “here again are the footmarks of the escaping
man; they skirt the lake here and finally disappear just before this path,
which leads to the high road to Epinay. The man continued his flight to
Paris.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked, “since these footmarks are not
continued on the path?”
“What makes me think that?—Why these footprints, which I expected
to find!” he cried, pointing to the sharply outlined imprint of a neat boot.
“See!”—and he called to Frédéric Larsan.
“Monsieur Fred, these neat footprints seem to have been made since the
discovery of the crime.”
“Yes, young man, yes, they have been carefully made,” replied Fred
without raising his head. “You see, there are steps that come, and steps that
go back.”
“And the man had a bicycle!” cried the reporter.
Here, after looking at the marks of the bicycle, which followed, going
and coming, the neat footprints, I thought I might intervene.
“The bicycle explains the disappearance of the murderer’s big
footprints,” I said. “The murderer, with his rough boots, mounted a bicycle.
His accomplice, the wearer of the neat boots, had come to wait for him on
the edge of the lake with the bicycle. It might be supposed that the murderer
was working for the other.”
“No, no!” replied Rouletabille with a strange smile. “I have expected to
find these footmarks from the very beginning. These are not the footmarks
of the murderer!”
“Then there were two?”
“No—there was but one, and he had no accomplice.”
“Very good!—Very good!” cried Frédéric Larsan.
“Look!” continued the young reporter, showing us the ground where it
had been disturbed by big and heavy heels; “the man seated himself there,
and took off his hobnailed boots, which he had worn only for the purpose of
misleading detection, and then no doubt, taking them away with him, he

stood up in his own boots, and quietly and slowly regained the high road,
holding his bicycle in his hand, for he could not venture to ride it on this
rough path. That accounts for the lightness of the impression made by the
wheels along it, in spite of the softness of the ground. If there had been a
man on the bicycle, the wheels would have sunk deeply into the soil. No,
no; there was but one man there, the murderer on foot.”
“Bravo!—bravo!” cried Fred again, and coming suddenly towards us
and, planting himself in front of Monsieur Robert Darzac, he said to him:—
“If we had a bicycle here, we might demonstrate the correctness of the
young man’s reasoning, Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do you know whether
there is one at the château?”
“No!” replied Monsieur Darzac. “There is not. I took mine, four days
ago, to Paris, the last time I came to the château before the crime.”
“That’s a pity!” replied Fred, very coldly. Then, turning to Rouletabille,
he said: “If we go on at this rate, we’ll both come to the same conclusion.
Have you any idea, as to how the murderer got away from The Yellow
Room?”
“Yes,” said my young friend; “I have an idea.”
“So have I,” said Fred, “and it must be the same as yours. There are no
two ways of reasoning in this affair. I am waiting for the arrival of my chief
before offering any explanation to the examining magistrate.”
“Ah! Is the Chief of the Sûreté coming?”
“Yes, this afternoon. He is going to summon, before the magistrate, in
the laboratory, all those who have played any part in this tragedy. It will be
very interesting. It is a pity you won’t be able to be present.”
“I shall be present,” said Rouletabille confidently.
“Really—you are an extraordinary fellow—for your age!” replied the
detective in a tone not wholly free from irony. “You’d make a wonderful
detective—if you had a little more method—if you didn’t follow your
instincts and that bump on your forehead. As I have already several times
observed, Monsieur Rouletabille, you reason too much; you do not allow
yourself to be guided by what you have seen. What do you say to the
handkerchief full of blood, and the red mark of the hand on the wall? You
have seen the stain on the wall, but I have only seen the handkerchief.”
“Bah!” cried Rouletabille, “the murderer was wounded in the hand by
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s revolver!”

“Ah!—a simply instinctive observation! Take care!—You are becoming
too strictly logical, Monsieur Rouletabille; logic will upset you if you use it
indiscriminatively. You are right, when you say that Mademoiselle
Stangerson fired her revolver, but you are wrong when you say that she
wounded the murderer in the hand.”
“I am sure of it,” cried Rouletabille.
Fred, imperturbable, interrupted him:—
“Defective observation—defective observation!—the examination of
the handkerchief, the numberless little round scarlet stains, the impression
of drops which I found in the tracks of the footprints, at the moment when
they were made on the floor, prove to me that the murderer was not
wounded at all. Monsieur Rouletabille, the murderer bled at the nose!”
The great Fred spoke quite seriously. However, I could not refrain from
uttering an exclamation.
The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him. And
Fred immediately concluded:—
“The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief, and
dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important,” he added,
“because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand for him to be
the murderer.”
Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he said:—
“There is something—a something, Monsieur Frédéric Larsan, much
graver than the misuse of logic—the disposition of mind in some detectives
which makes them, in perfect good faith, twist logic to the necessities of
their preconceived ideas. You, already, have your idea about the murderer,
Monsieur Fred. Don’t deny it; and your theory demands that the murderer
should not have been wounded in the hand, otherwise it comes to nothing.
And you have searched, and have found something else. It’s dangerous,
very dangerous, Monsieur Fred, to go from a preconceived idea to find the
proofs to fit it. That method may lead you far astray. Beware of judicial
error, Monsieur 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.
Frédéric 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 château, 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 the wrinkles on his forehead and the knitting of his brows were
any indication.
When we were close to him, he deigned to see us and asked us, in a tone
anything but engaging, whether we wanted anything. He was, no doubt, the
not very amiable landlord of this charming dwelling-place. As we expressed
a hope that he would be good enough to furnish us with a breakfast, he
assured us that he had no provisions, regarding us, as he said this, with a
look that was unmistakably suspicious.
“You may take us in,” Rouletabille said to him, “we are not policemen.”
“I’m not afraid of the police—I’m not afraid of anyone!” replied the
man.
I had made my friend understand by a sign that we should do better not
to insist; but, being determined to enter the inn, he slipped by the man on
the doorstep and was in the common room.
“Come on,” he said, “it is very comfortable here.”
A good fire was blazing in the chimney, and we held our hands to the
warmth it sent out; it was a morning in which the approach of winter was
unmistakable. The room was a tolerably large one, furnished with two
heavy tables, some stools, a counter decorated with rows of bottles of syrup
and alcohol. Three windows looked out on to the road. A coloured

advertisement lauded the many merits of a new vermouth. On the
mantelpiece was arrayed the innkeeper’s collection of figured earthenware
pots and stone jugs.
“That’s a fine fire for roasting a chicken,” said Rouletabille.
“We have no chicken—not even a wretched rabbit,” said the landlord.
“I know,” said my friend slowly; “I know—We shall have to eat red
meat—now.”
I confess I did not in the least understand what Rouletabille meant by
what he had said; but the landlord, as soon as he heard the words, uttered an
oath, which he at once stifled, and placed himself at our orders as
obediently as Monsieur Robert Darzac had done, when he heard
Rouletabille’s prophetic sentence—“The presbytery has lost nothing of its
charm, nor the garden its brightness.” Certainly my friend knew how to
make people understand him by the use of wholly incomprehensible
phrases. I observed as much to him, but he merely smiled. I should have
proposed that he give me some explanation; but he put a finger to his lips,
which evidently signified that he had not only determined not to speak, but
also enjoined silence on my part.
Meantime the man had pushed open a little side door and called to
somebody to bring him half a dozen eggs and a piece of beefsteak. The
commission was quickly executed by a strongly-built young woman with
beautiful blonde hair and large, handsome eyes, who regarded us with
curiosity.
The innkeeper said to her roughly:—
“Get out!—and if the Green Man comes, don’t let me see him.”
She disappeared. Rouletabille took the eggs, which had been brought to
him in a bowl, and the meat which was on a dish, placed all carefully beside
him in the chimney, unhooked a frying-pan and a gridiron, and began to
beat up our omelette before proceeding to grill our beefsteak. He then
ordered two bottles of cider, and seemed to take as little notice of our host
as our host did of him. The landlord let us do our own cooking and set our
table near one of the windows.
Suddenly I heard him mutter:
“Ah!—there he is.”
His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued
himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need for

me to draw Rouletabille’s attention; he had already left our omelette and
had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him.
A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a
huntsman’s cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting a pipe
as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back. His movements
displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore eye-glasses and appeared to
be about five and forty years of age. His hair as well as his moustache were
salt grey. He was remarkably handsome. As he passed near the inn, he
hesitated, as if asking himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a
glance towards us, took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk
at the same nonchalant pace.
Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched
hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which he
was being agitated.
“He has done well not to come in here to-day!” he hissed.
“Who is that man?” asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette.
“The Green Man,” growled the innkeeper. “Don’t you know him? Then
all the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.—Well, he is
Monsieur Stangerson’s forest-keeper.”
“You don’t appear to like him very much?” asked the reporter, pouring
his omelette into the frying-pan.
“Nobody likes him, monsieur. He’s an upstart who must once have had
a fortune of his own; and he forgives nobody because, in order to live, he
has been compelled to become a servant. A keeper is as much a servant as
any other, isn’t he? Upon my word, one would say that he is the master of
the Glandier, and that all the land and woods belong to him. He’ll not let a
poor creature eat a morsel of bread on the grass—his grass!”
“Does he often come here?”
“Too often. But I’ve made him understand that his face doesn’t please
me, and, for a month past, he hasn’t been here. The Donjon Inn has never
existed for him!—he hasn’t had time!—been too much engaged in paying
court to the landlady of the Three Lilies at Saint-Michel. A bad fellow!—
There isn’t an honest man who can bear him. Why, the concierges of the
château would turn their eyes away from a picture of him!”
“The concierges of the château are honest people, then?”
“Yes, they are, as true as my name’s Mathieu, monsieur. I believe them
to be honest.”

“Yet they’ve been arrested?”
“What does that prove?—But I don’t want to mix myself up in other
people’s affairs.”
“And what do you think of the murder?”
“Of the murder of poor Mademoiselle Stangerson?—A good girl much
loved everywhere in the country. That’s what I think of it—and many things
besides; but that’s nobody’s business.”
“Not even mine?” insisted Rouletabille.
The innkeeper looked at him sideways and said gruffly:
“Not even yours.”
The omelette ready, we sat down at table and were silently eating, when
the door was pushed open and an old woman, dressed in rags, leaning on a
stick, her head doddering, her white hair hanging loosely over her wrinkled
forehead, appeared on the threshold.
“Ah!—there you are, Mother Angenoux!—It’s long since we saw you
last,” said our host.
“I have been very ill, very nearly dying,” said the old woman. “If ever
you should have any scraps for the Bête du Bon Dieu—?”
And she entered, followed by a cat, larger than any I had ever believed
could exist. The beast looked at us and gave so hopeless a miau that I
shuddered. I had never heard so lugubrious a cry.
As if drawn by the cat’s cry a man followed the old woman in. It was
the Green Man. He saluted by raising his hand to his cap and seated himself
at a table near to ours.
“A glass of cider, Daddy Mathieu,” he said.
As the Green Man entered, Daddy Mathieu had started violently; but
visibly mastering himself he said:—
“I’ve no more cider; I served the last bottles to these gentlemen.”
“Then give me a glass of white wine,” said the Green Man, without
showing the least surprise.
“I’ve no more white wine—no more anything,” said Daddy Mathieu,
surlily.
“How is Madame Mathieu?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
So the young woman with the large, tender eyes, whom we had just
seen, was the wife of this repugnant and brutal rustic, whose jealousy
seemed to emphasise his physical ugliness.

Slamming the door behind him, the innkeeper left the room. Mother
Angenoux was still standing, leaning on her stick, the cat at her feet.
“You’ve been ill, Mother Angenoux?—Is that why we have not seen
you for the last week?” asked the Green Man.
“Yes, Monsieur keeper. I have been able to get up but three times, to go
to pray to Sainte-Geneviève, our good patroness, and the rest of the time I
have been lying on my bed. There was no one to care for me but the Bête du
bon Dieu!”
“Did she not leave you?”
“Neither by day nor by night.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“As I am of Paradise.”
“Then how was it, Madame Angenoux, that all through the night of the
murder nothing but the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu was heard?”
Mother Angenoux planted herself in front of the forest-keeper and
struck the floor with her stick.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “But shall I tell you
something? There are no two cats in the world that cry like that. Well, on
the night of the murder I also heard the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu outside;
and yet she was on my knees, and did not mew once, I swear. I crossed
myself when I heard that, as if I had heard the devil.”
I looked at the keeper when he put the last question, and I am much
mistaken if I did not detect an evil smile on his lips. At that moment, the
noise of loud quarrelling reached us. We even thought we heard a dull
sound of blows, as if some one was being beaten. The Green Man quickly
rose and hurried to the door by the side of the fireplace; but it was opened
by the landlord who appeared, and said to the keeper:—
“Don’t alarm yourself, Monsieur—it is my wife; she has the toothache.”
And he laughed. “Here, Mother Angenoux, here are some scraps for your
cat.”
He held out a packet to the old woman, who took it eagerly and went
out by the door, closely followed by her cat.
“Then you won’t serve me?” asked the Green Man.
Daddy Mathieu’s face was placid and no longer retained its expression
of hatred.
“I’ve nothing for you—nothing for you. Take yourself off.”

The Green Man quietly refilled his pipe, lit it, bowed to us, and went
out. No sooner was he over the threshold than Daddy Mathieu slammed the
door after him and, turning towards us, with eyes bloodshot, and frothing at
the mouth, he hissed to us, shaking his clenched fist at the door he had just
shut on the man he evidently hated:
“I don’t know who you are who tell me ‘We shall have to eat red meat
—now’; but if it will interest you to know it—that man is the murderer!”
With which words Daddy Mathieu immediately left us. Rouletabille
returned towards the fireplace and said:
“Now we’ll grill our steak. How do you like the cider?—It’s a little tart,
but I like it.”
We saw no more of Daddy Mathieu that day, and absolute silence
reigned in the inn when we left it, after placing five francs on the table in
payment for our feast.
Rouletabille at once set off on a three mile walk round Professor
Stangerson’s estate. He halted for some ten minutes at the corner of a
narrow road black with soot, near to some charcoal-burners’ huts in the
forest of Sainte-Geneviève, which touches on the road from Epinay to
Corbeil, to tell me that the murderer had certainly passed that way, before
entering the grounds and concealing himself in the little clump of trees.
“You don’t think, then, that the keeper knows anything of it?” I asked.
“We shall see that, later,” he replied. “For the present I’m not interested
in what the landlord said about the man. The landlord hates him. I didn’t
take you to breakfast at the Donjon Inn for the sake of the Green Man.”
Then Rouletabille, with great precaution glided, followed by me,
towards the little building which, standing near the park gate, served for the
home of the concierges, who had been arrested that morning. With the skill
of an acrobat, he got into the lodge by an upper window which had been left
open, and returned ten minutes later. He said only, “Ah!”—a word which, in
his mouth, signified many things.
We were about to take the road leading to the château, when a
considerable stir at the park gate attracted our attention. A carriage had
arrived and some people had come from the château to meet it. Rouletabille
pointed out to me a gentleman who descended from it.
“That’s the Chief of the Sûreté,” he said. “Now we shall see what
Frédéric Larsan has up his sleeve, and whether he is so much cleverer than
anybody else.”

The carriage of the Chief of the Sûreté was followed by three other
vehicles containing reporters, who were also desirous of entering the park.
But two gendarmes stationed at the gate had evidently received orders to
refuse admission to anybody. The Chief of the Sûreté calmed their
impatience by undertaking to furnish to the press, that evening, all the
information he could give that would not interfere with the judicial inquiry.

Chapter XI.
In Which Frédéric Larsan Explains How the
Murderer Was Able to Get out of The Yellow
Room
Among the mass of papers, legal documents, memoirs, and extracts
from newspapers, which I have collected, relating to the mystery of “The
Yellow Room,” there is one very interesting piece; it is a detail of the
famous examination which took place that afternoon, in the laboratory of
Professor Stangerson, before the Chief of the Sûreté. This narrative is from
the pen of Monsieur Maleine, the Registrar, who, like the examining
magistrate, had spent some of his leisure time in the pursuit of literature.
The piece was to have made part of a book which, however, has never been
published, and which was to have been entitled: “My Examinations.” It was
given to me by the Registrar himself, some time after the astonishing
dénouement to this case, and is unique in judicial chronicles.
Here it is. It is not a mere dry transcription of questions and answers,
because the Registrar often intersperses his story with his own personal
comments.

The Registrar’s Narrative

The examining magistrate and I (the writer relates) found ourselves in
“The Yellow Room” in the company of the builder who had constructed the
pavilion after Professor Stangerson’s designs. He had a workman with him.
Monsieur de Marquet had had the walls laid entirely bare; that is to say, he
had had them stripped of the paper which had decorated them. Blows with a
pick, here and there, satisfied us of the non-existence of any sort of
opening. The floor and the ceiling were thoroughly sounded. We found
nothing. There was nothing to be found. Monsieur de Marquet appeared to
be delighted and never ceased repeating:

“What a case! What a case! We shall never know, you’ll see, how the
murderer was able to get out of this room!”
Then suddenly, with a radiant face, he called to the officer in charge of
the gendarmes.
“Go to the château,” he said, “and request Monsieur Stangerson and
Monsieur Robert Darzac to come to me in the laboratory, also Daddy
Jacques; and let your men bring here the two concierges.”
Five minutes later all were assembled in the laboratory. The Chief of the
Sûreté, who had arrived at the Glandier, joined us at that moment. I was
seated at Monsieur Stangerson’s desk ready for work, when Monsieur de
Marquet made us the following little speech—as original as it was
unexpected:—
“With your permission, gentlemen—as examinations lead to nothing—
we will, for once, abandon the old system of interrogation. I will not have
you brought before me one by one, but we will all remain here as we are,—
Monsieur Stangerson, Monsieur Robert Darzac, Daddy Jacques, and the
two concierges, the Chief of the Sûreté, the Registrar, and myself. We shall
all be on the same footing. The concierges may, for the moment, forget that
they have been arrested. We are going to confer together. We are on the spot
where the crime was committed. We have nothing else to discuss but the
crime. So let us discuss it freely—intelligently or otherwise, so long as we
speak just what is in our minds. There need be no formality or method since
this won’t help us in any way.”
Then, passing before me, he said in a low voice:
“What do you think of that, eh? What a scene! Could you have thought
of that? I’ll make a little piece out of it for the Vaudeville.” And he rubbed
his hands with glee.
I turned my eyes on Monsieur Stangerson. The hope he had received
from the doctor’s latest reports, who had stated that Mademoiselle
Stangerson might recover from her wounds, had not been able to efface
from his noble features the marks of the great sorrow that was upon him. He
had believed his daughter to be dead, and he was still broken by that belief.
His clear, soft, blue eyes expressed infinite sorrow. I had had occasion,
many times, to see Monsieur Stangerson at public ceremonies, and from the
first had been struck by his countenance, which seemed as pure as that of a
child—the dreamy gaze with the sublime and mystical expression of the
inventor and thinker.

On those occasions his daughter was always to be seen either following
him or by his side; for they never quitted each other, it was said, and had
shared the same labours for many years. The young lady, who was then five
and thirty, though she looked no more than thirty, had devoted herself
entirely to science. She still won admiration for her imperial beauty which
had remained intact, without a wrinkle, withstanding time and love. Who
would have dreamed that I should one day be seated by her pillow with my
papers, and that I should see her, on the point of death, painfully recounting
to us the most monstrous and most mysterious crime I have heard of in my
career? Who would have thought that I should be, that afternoon, listening
to the despairing father vainly trying to explain how his daughter’s assailant
had been able to escape from him? Why bury ourselves with our work in
obscure retreats in the depths of woods, if it may not protect us against
those dangerous chances to life and death which meet us in the busy cities?
“Now, Monsieur Stangerson,” said Monsieur de Marquet, with
somewhat of an important air, “place yourself exactly where you were when
Mademoiselle Stangerson left you to go to her chamber.”
Monsieur Stangerson rose and, standing at a certain distance from the
door of The Yellow Room, said, in an even voice and without the least trace
of emphasis—a voice which I can only describe as a dead voice:—
“I was here. About eleven o’clock, after I had made a brief chemical
experiment at the furnaces of the laboratory, needing all the space behind
me, I had my desk moved here by Daddy Jacques, who spent the evening in
cleaning some of my apparatus. My daughter had been working at the same
desk with me. When it was her time to leave she rose, kissed me, and bade
Daddy Jacques good-night. She had to pass behind my desk and the door to
enter her chamber, and she could do this only with some difficulty. That is
to say, I was very near the place where the crime occurred later.”
“And the desk?” I asked, obeying, in thus mixing myself in the
conversation, the express orders of my chief, “as soon as you heard the cry
of ‘murder’ followed by the revolver shots, what became of the desk?”
Daddy Jacques answered.
“We pushed it back against the wall, here—close to where it is at the
present moment—so as to be able to get at the door at once.”
I followed up my reasoning, to which, however, I attached but little
importance, regarding it as only a weak hypothesis, with another question.

“Might not a man in the room, the desk being so near to the door, by
stooping and slipping under the desk, have left it unobserved?”
“You are forgetting,” interrupted Monsieur Stangerson wearily, “that my
daughter had locked and bolted her door, that the door had remained
fastened, that we vainly tried to force it open when we heard the noise, and
that we were at the door while the struggle between the murderer and my
poor child was going on immediately after we heard her stifled cries while
she was being held by the fingers that have left their red mark upon her
throat. Rapid as the attack was, we were no less rapid in our endeavours to
get into the room where the tragedy was taking place.”
I rose from my seat and once more examined the door with the greatest
care. Then I returned to my place with a despairing gesture.
“If the lower panel of the door,” I said, “could be removed without the
whole door being necessarily opened, the problem would be solved. But,
unfortunately, that last hypothesis is untenable after an examination of the
door—it’s of oak, solid and massive. You can see that quite plainly, in spite
of the injury done in the attempt to burst it open.”
“Ah!” cried Daddy Jacques, “it is an old and solid door that was brought
from the château—they don’t make such doors now. We had to use this bar
of iron to get it open, all four of us—for the concierge, brave woman she is
—helped us. It pains me to find them both in prison now.”
Daddy Jacques had no sooner uttered these words of pity and
protestation than tears and lamentations broke out from the concierges. I
never saw two accused people crying more bitterly. I was extremely
disgusted. Even if they were innocent, I could not understand how they
could behave like that in the face of misfortune. A dignified bearing at such
times is better than tears and groans, which, most often, are feigned.
“Now then, enough of that snivelling,” cried Monsieur de Marquet;
“and, in your interest, tell us what you were doing under the windows of the
pavilion at the time your mistress was being attacked; for you were close to
the pavilion when Daddy Jacques met you.”
“We were coming to help!” they whined.
“If we could only lay hands on the murderer, he’d never taste bread
again!” the woman gurgled between her sobs.
As before we were unable to get two connecting thoughts out of them.
They persisted in their denials and swore, by heaven and all the saints, that
they were in bed when they heard the sound of the revolver shot.

“It was not one, but two shots that were fired!—You see, you are lying.
If you had heard one, you would have heard the other.”
“Mon Dieu! Monsieur—it was the second shot we heard. We were
asleep when the first shot was fired.”
“Two shots were fired,” said Daddy Jacques. “I am certain that all the
cartridges were in my revolver. We found afterward that two had been
exploded, and we heard two shots behind the door. Was not that so,
Monsieur Stangerson?”
“Yes,” replied the Professor, “there were two shots, one dull, and the
other sharp and ringing.”
“Why do you persist in lying?” cried Monsieur de Marquet, turning to
the concierges. “Do you think the police are the fools you are? Everything
points to the fact that you were out of doors and near the pavilion at the
time of the tragedy. What were you doing there? So far as I am concerned,”
he said, turning to Monsieur Stangerson, “I can only explain the escape of
the murderer on the assumption of help from these two accomplices. As
soon as the door was forced open, and while you, Monsieur Stangerson,
were occupied with your unfortunate child, the concierge and his wife
facilitated the flight of the murderer, who, screening himself behind them,
reached the window in the vestibule, and sprang out of it into the park. The
concierge closed the window after him and fastened the blinds, which
certainly could not have closed and fastened of themselves. That is the
conclusion I have arrived at. If anyone here has any other idea, let him state
it.”
Monsieur Stangerson intervened:—
“What you say was impossible. I do not believe either in the guilt or in
the connivance of my concierges, though I cannot understand what they
were doing in the park at that late hour of the night. I say it was impossible,
because Madame Bernier held the lamp and did not move from the
threshold of the room; because I, as soon as the door was forced open,
threw myself on my knees beside my daughter, and no one could have left
or entered the room by the door, without passing over her body and forcing
his way by me! Daddy Jacques and the concierge had but to cast a glance
round the chamber and under the bed, as I had done on entering, to see that
there was nobody in it but my daughter lying on the floor.”
“What do you think, Monsieur Darzac?” asked the magistrate.
Monsieur Darzac replied that he had no opinion to express.

Monsieur Dax, the Chief of the Sûreté, who, so far, had been listening
and examining the room, at length deigned to open his lips:—
“While search is being made for the criminal, we had better try to find
out the motive for the crime; that will advance us a little,” he said. Turning
towards Monsieur Stangerson, he continued, in the even, intelligent tone
indicative of a strong character, “I understand that Mademoiselle was
shortly to have been married?”
The professor looked sadly at Monsieur Robert Darzac.
“With my friend here, whom I should have been happy to call my son—
with Monsieur Robert Darzac.”
“Mademoiselle Stangerson is much better and is rapidly recovering
from her wounds. The marriage is simply delayed, is it not, Monsieur?”
insisted the Chief of the Sûreté.
“I hope so.”
“What! Is there any doubt about that?”
Monsieur Stangerson did not answer. Monsieur Robert Darzac seemed
agitated. I saw that his hand trembled as it fingered his watch-chain.
Monsieur Dax coughed, as did Monsieur de Marquet. Both were evidently
embarrassed.
“You understand, Monsieur Stangerson,” he said, “that in an affair so
perplexing as this, we cannot neglect anything; we must know all, even the
smallest and seemingly most futile thing concerning the victim—
information apparently the most insignificant. Why do you doubt that this
marriage will take place? You expressed a hope; but the hope implies a
doubt. Why do you doubt?”
Monsieur Stangerson made a visible effort to recover himself.
“Yes, Monsieur,” he said at length. “You are right. It will be best that
you should know something which, if I concealed it, might appear to be of
importance; Monsieur Darzac agrees with me in this.”
Monsieur Darzac, whose pallor at that moment seemed to me to be
altogether abnormal, made a sign of assent. I gathered he was unable to
speak.
“I want you to know then,” continued Monsieur Stangerson, “that my
daughter has sworn never to leave me, and adheres firmly to her oath, in
spite of all my prayers and all that I have argued to induce her to marry. We
have known Monsieur Robert Darzac many years. He loves my child; and I
believed that she loved him, because she only recently consented to this

marriage which I desire with all my heart. I am an old man, Monsieur, and
it was a happy hour to me when I knew that, after I had gone, she would
have at her side, one who loved her and who would help her in continuing
our common labours. I love and esteem Monsieur Darzac both for his
greatness of heart and for his devotion to science. But, two days before the
tragedy, for I know not what reason, my daughter declared to me that she
would never marry Monsieur Darzac.”
A dead silence followed Monsieur Stangerson’s words. It was a moment
fraught with suspense.
“Did Mademoiselle give you any explanation,—did she tell you what
her motive was?” asked Monsieur Dax.
“She told me she was too old to marry—that she had waited too long.
She said she had given much thought to the matter and while she had a
great esteem, even affection, for Monsieur Darzac, she felt it would be
better if things remained as they were. She would be happy, she said, to see
the relations between ourselves and Monsieur Darzac become nearer to us,
but only on the understanding that there would be no more talk of
marriage.”
“That is very strange!” muttered Monsieur Dax.
“Strange!” repeated Monsieur de Marquet.
“You’ll certainly not find the motive there, Monsieur Dax,” Monsieur
Stangerson said with a cold smile.
“In any case, the motive was not theft!” said the Chief impatiently.
“Oh! we are quite convinced of that!” cried the examining magistrate.
At that moment the door of the laboratory opened and the officer in
charge of the gendarmes entered and handed a card to the examining
magistrate. Monsieur de Marquet read it and uttered a half angry
exclamation:
“This is really too much!” he cried.
“What is it?” asked the Chief.
“It’s the card of a young reporter engaged on the ‘Epoque,’ a Monsieur
Joseph Rouletabille. It has these words written on it: ‘One of the motives of
the crime was robbery.’ ”
The Chief smiled.
“Ah!—young Rouletabille—I’ve heard of him—he is considered rather
clever. Let him come in.”

Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille was allowed to enter. I had made his
acquaintance in the train that morning on the way to Epinay-sur-Orge. He
had introduced himself almost against my wish into our compartment. I had
better say at once that his manners, and the arrogance with which he
assumed to know what was incomprehensible even to us, impressed him
unfavourably on my mind. I do not like journalists. They are a class of
writers to be avoided as the pest. They think that everything is permissible
and they respect nothing. Grant them the least favour, allow them even to
approach you, and you never can tell what annoyance they may give you.
This one appears to be scarcely twenty years old, and the effrontery with
which he dared to question us and discuss the matter with us made him
particularly obnoxious to me. Besides, he had a way of expressing himself
that left us guessing as to whether he was mocking us or not. I know quite
well that the “Epoque” is an influential paper with which it is well to be on
good terms, but the paper ought not to allow itself to be represented by
sneaking reporters.
Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille entered the laboratory, bowed to us, and
waited for Monsieur de Marquet to ask him to explain his presence.
“You pretend, Monsieur, that you know the motive for the crime, and
that that motive—in the face of all the evidence that has been forthcoming
—was robbery?”
“No, Monsieur, I do not pretend that. I do not say that robbery was the
motive for the crime, and I don’t believe it was.”
“Then, what is the meaning of this card?”
“It means that robbery was one of the motives for the crime.”
“What leads you to think that?”
“If you will be good enough to accompany me, I will show you.”
The young man asked us to follow him into the vestibule, and we did.
He led us towards the lavatory and begged Monsieur de Marquet to kneel
beside him. This lavatory is lit by the glass door, and, when the door was
open, the light which penetrated was sufficient to light it perfectly.
Monsieur de Marquet and Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille knelt down on the
threshold, and the young man pointed to a spot on the pavement.
“The stones of the lavatory have not been washed by Daddy Jacques for
some time,” he said; “that can be seen by the layer of dust that covers them.
Now, notice here, the marks of two large footprints and the black ash they
left where they have been. That ash is nothing else than the charcoal dust

that covers the path along which you must pass through the forest, in order
to get directly from Epinay to the Glandier. You know there is a little village
of charcoal-burners at that place, who make large quantities of charcoal.
What the murderer did was to come here at midday, when there was nobody
at the pavilion, and attempt his robbery.”
“But what robbery?—Where do you see any signs of robbery? What
proves to you that a robbery has been committed?” we all cried at once.
“What put me on the trace of it,” continued the journalist,—
“Was this?” interrupted Monsieur de Marquet, still on his knees.
“Evidently,” said Rouletabille.
And Monsieur de Marquet explained that there were on the dust of the
pavement marks of two footsteps, as well as the impression, freshly-made,
of a heavy rectangular parcel, the marks of the cord with which it had been
fastened being easily distinguished.
“You have been here, then, Monsieur Rouletabille? I thought I had
given orders to Daddy Jacques, who was left in charge of the pavilion, not
to allow anybody to enter.”
“Don’t scold Daddy Jacques, I came here with Monsieur Robert
Darzac.”
“Ah!—Indeed!” exclaimed Monsieur de Marquet, disagreeably, casting
a side-glance at Monsieur Darzac, who remained perfectly silent.
“When I saw the mark of the parcel by the side of the footprints, I had
no doubt as to the robbery,” replied Monsieur Rouletabille. “The thief had
not brought a parcel with him; he had made one here—a parcel with the
stolen objects, no doubt; and he put it in this corner intending to take it
away when the moment came for him to make his escape. He had also
placed his heavy boots beside the parcel,—for, see—there are no marks of
steps leading to the marks left by the boots, which were placed side by side.
That accounts for the fact that the murderer left no trace of his steps when
he fled from The Yellow Room, nor any in the laboratory, nor in the
vestibule. After entering The Yellow Room in his boots, he took them off,
finding them troublesome, or because he wished to make as little noise as
possible. The marks made by him in going through the vestibule and the
laboratory were subsequently washed out by Daddy Jacques. Having, for
some reason or other, taken off his boots, the murderer carried them in his
hand and placed them by the side of the parcel he had made,—by that time
the robbery had been accomplished. The man then returned to The Yellow

Room and slipped under the bed, where the mark of his body is perfectly
visible on the floor and even on the mat, which has been slightly moved
from its place and creased. Fragments of straw also, recently torn, bear
witness to the murderer’s movements under the bed.”
“Yes, yes,—we know all about that,” said Monsieur de Marquet.
“The robber had another motive for returning to hide under the bed,”
continued the astonishing boy-journalist. “You might think that he was
trying to hide himself quickly on seeing, through the vestibule window,
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson about to enter the pavilion. It
would have been much easier for him to have climbed up to the attic and
hidden there, waiting for an opportunity to get away, if his purpose had
been only flight.—No! No!—he had to be in The Yellow Room.”
Here the Chief intervened.
“That’s not at all bad, young man. I compliment you. If we do not know
yet how the murderer succeeded in getting away, we can at any rate see how
he came in and committed the robbery. But what did he steal?”
“Something very valuable,” replied the young reporter.
At that moment we heard a cry from the laboratory. We rushed in and
found Monsieur Stangerson, his eyes haggard, his limbs trembling, pointing
to a sort of bookcase which he had opened, and which, we saw, was empty.
At the same instant he sank into the large armchair that was placed before
the desk and groaned, the tears rolling down his cheeks, “I have been
robbed again! For God’s sake, do not say a word of this to my daughter. She
would be more pained than I am.” He heaved a deep sigh and added, in a
tone I shall never forget: “After all, what does it matter,—so long as she
lives!”
“She will live!” said Monsieur Darzac, in a voice strangely touching.
“And we will find the stolen articles,” said Monsieur Dax. “But what
was in the cabinet?”
“Twenty years of my life,” replied the illustrious professor sadly, “or
rather of our lives—the lives of myself and my daughter! Yes, our most
precious documents, the records of our secret experiments and our labours
of twenty years were in that cabinet. It is an irreparable loss to us and, I
venture to say, to science. All the processes by which I had been able to
arrive at the precious proof of the destructibility of matter were there—all.
The man who came wished to take all from me,—my daughter and my
work—my heart and my soul.”

And the great scientist wept like a child.
We stood around him in silence, deeply affected by his great distress.
Monsieur Darzac pressed closely to his side, and tried in vain to restrain his
tears—a sight which, for the moment, almost made me like him, in spite of
an instinctive repulsion which his strange demeanour and his inexplicable
anxiety had inspired me.
Monsieur Rouletabille alone,—as if his precious time and mission on
earth did not permit him to dwell in the contemplation on human suffering
—had, very calmly, stepped up to the empty cabinet and, pointing at it,
broke the almost solemn silence. He entered into explanations, for which
there was no need, as to why he had been led to believe that a robbery had
been committed, which included the simultaneous discovery he had made in
the lavatory, and the empty precious cabinet in the laboratory. The first
thing that had struck him, he said, was the unusual form of that piece of
furniture. It was very strongly built of fire-proof iron, clearly showing that
it was intended for the keeping of most valuable objects. Then he noticed
that the key had been left in the lock. “One does not ordinarily have a safe
and leave it open!” he had said to himself. This little key, with its brass head
and complicated wards, had strongly attracted him,—its presence had
suggested robbery.
Monsieur de Marquet appeared to be greatly perplexed, as if he did not
know whether he ought to be glad of the new direction given to the inquiry
by the young reporter, or sorry that it had not been done by himself. In our
profession and for the general welfare, we have to put up with such
mortifications and bury selfish feelings. That was why Monsieur de
Marquet controlled himself and joined his compliments with those of
Monsieur Dax. As for Monsieur Rouletabille, he simply shrugged his
shoulders and said: “There’s nothing at all in that!” I should have liked to
box his ears, especially when he added: “You will do well, Monsieur, to ask
Monsieur Stangerson who usually kept that key?”
“My daughter,” replied Monsieur Stangerson, “she was never without
it.”
“Ah! then that changes the aspect of things which no longer corresponds
with Monsieur Rouletabille’s ideas!” cried Monsieur de Marquet. “If that
key never left Mademoiselle Stangerson, the murderer must have waited for
her in her room for the purpose of stealing it; and the robbery could not

have been committed until after the attack had been made on her. But after
the attack four persons were in the laboratory! I can’t make it out!”
“The robbery,” said the reporter, “could only have been committed
before the attack upon Mademoiselle Stangerson in her room. When the
murderer entered the pavilion he already possessed the brass-headed key.”
“That is impossible,” said Monsieur Stangerson in a low voice.
“It is quite possible, Monsieur, as this proves.”
And the young rascal drew a copy of the “Epoque” from his pocket,
dated the 21st of October (I recall the fact that the crime was committed on
the night between the 24th and 25th), and showing us an advertisement, he
read:—
“ ‘Yesterday a black satin reticule was lost in the Grands Magasins de la
Louvre. It contained, amongst other things, a small key with a brass head. A
handsome reward will be given to the person who has found it. This person
must write, poste restante, bureau 40, to this address: M. A. T. H. S. N.’ Do
not these letters suggest Mademoiselle Stangerson?” continued the reporter.
“The ‘key with a brass head’—is not this the key? I always read
advertisements. In my business, as in yours, Monsieur, one should always
read the ‘personals.’ They are often the keys to intrigues, that are not always
brass-headed, but which are none the less interesting. This advertisement
interested me specially; the woman of the key surrounded it with a kind of
mystery. Evidently she valued the key, since she promised a big reward for
its restoration! And I thought on these six letters: M. A. T. H. S. N. The first
four at once pointed to a Christian name; evidently I said Math is Mathilde.
But I could make nothing of the two last letters. So I threw the journal aside
and occupied myself with other matters. Four days later, when the evening
paper appeared with enormous head-lines announcing the murder of
Mademoiselle Stangerson, the letters in the advertisement mechanically
recurred to me. I had forgotten the two last letters, S. N. When I saw them
again I could not help exclaiming, ‘Stangerson!’ I jumped into a cab and
rushed into the bureau No. 40, asking: ‘Have you a letter addressed to M. A.
T. H. S. N.?’ The clerk replied that he had not. I insisted, begged and
entreated him to search. He wanted to know if I were playing a joke on him,
and then told me that he had had a letter with the initials M. A. T. H. S. N.,
but he had given it up three days ago, to a lady who came for it. ‘You come
to-day to claim the letter, and the day before yesterday another gentleman
claimed it! I’ve had enough of this,’ he concluded angrily. I tried to question

him as to the two persons who had already claimed the letter; but whether
he wished to entrench himself behind professional secrecy,—he may have
thought that he had already said too much,—or whether he was disgusted at
the joke that had been played on him—he would not answer any of my
questions.”
Rouletabille paused. We all remained silent. Each drew his own
conclusions from the strange story of the poste restante letter. It seemed,
indeed, that we now had a thread by means of which we should be able to
follow up this extraordinary mystery.
“Then it is almost certain,” said Monsieur Stangerson, “that my
daughter did lose the key, and that she did not tell me of it, wishing to spare
any anxiety, and that she begged whoever had found it to write to the poste
restante. She evidently feared that, by giving our address, inquiries would
have resulted that would have apprised me of the loss of the key. It was
quite logical, quite natural for her to have taken that course—for I have
been robbed once before.”
“Where was that, and when?” asked the Chief of the Sûreté.
“Oh! many years ago, in America, in Philadelphia. There were stolen
from my laboratory the drawings of two inventions that might have made
the fortune of a man. Not only have I never learnt who the thief was, but I
have never heard even a word of the object of the robbery, doubtless
because, in order to defeat the plans of the person who had robbed me, I
myself brought these two inventions before the public, and so rendered the
robbery of no avail. From that time on I have been very careful to shut
myself in when I am at work. The bars to these windows, the lonely
situation of this pavilion, this cabinet, which I had specially constructed,
this special lock, this unique key, all are precautions against fears inspired
by a sad experience.”
“Most interesting!” remarked Monsieur Dax.
Monsieur Rouletabille asked about the reticule. Neither Monsieur
Stangerson nor Daddy Jacques had seen it for several days, but a few hours
later we learned from Mademoiselle Stangerson herself that the reticule had
either been stolen from her, or she had lost it. She further corroborated all
that had passed just as her father had stated. She had gone to the poste
restante and, on the 23rd of October, had received a letter which, she
affirmed, contained nothing but a vulgar pleasantry, which she had
immediately burned.

To return to our examination, or rather to our conversation. I must state
that the Chief of the Sûreté, having inquired of Monsieur Stangerson under
what conditions his daughter had gone to Paris on the 20th of October, we
learned that Monsieur Robert Darzac had accompanied her, and Darzac had
not been again seen at the château from that time to the day after the crime
had been committed. The fact that Monsieur Darzac was with her in the
Grands Magasins de la Louvre when the reticule disappeared, could not
pass unnoticed, and, it must be said, strongly awakened our interest.
This conversation between magistrates, accused, victim, witnesses and
journalist, was coming to a close when quite a theatrical sensation—an
incident of a kind displeasing to Monsieur de Marquet—was produced. The
officer of the gendarmes came to announce that Frédéric Larsan requested
to be admitted,—a request that was at once complied with. He held in his
hand a heavy pair of muddy boots, which he threw on the pavement of the
laboratory.
“Here,” he said, “are the boots worn by the murderer. Do you recognise
them, Daddy Jacques?”
Daddy Jacques bent over them and, stupefied, recognised a pair of old
boots which he had, some time back, thrown into a corner of his attic. He
was so taken aback that he could not hide his agitation.
Then pointing to the handkerchief in the old man’s hand, Frédéric
Larsan said:—
“That’s a handkerchief astonishingly like the one found in The Yellow
Room.”
“I know,” said Daddy Jacques, trembling, “they are almost alike.”
“And then,” continued Frédéric Larsan, “the old Basque cap also found
in The Yellow Room might at one time have been worn by Daddy Jacques
himself. All this, gentlemen, proves, I think, that the murderer wished to
disguise his real personality. He did it in a very clumsy way—or, at least, so
it appears to us. Don’t be alarmed, Daddy Jacques; we are quite sure that
you were not the murderer; you never left the side of Monsieur Stangerson.
But if Monsieur Stangerson had not been working that night and had gone
back to the château after parting with his daughter, and Daddy Jacques had
gone to sleep in his attic, no one would have doubted that he was the
murderer. He owes his safety, therefore, to the tragedy having been enacted
too soon,—the murderer, no doubt, from the silence in the laboratory,
imagined that it was empty, and that the moment for action had come. The

man who had been able to introduce himself here so mysteriously and to
leave so many evidences against Daddy Jacques, was, there can be no
doubt, familiar with the house. At what hour exactly he entered, whether in
the afternoon or in the evening, I cannot say. One familiar with the
proceedings and persons of this pavilion could choose his own time for
entering The Yellow Room.”
“He could not have entered it if anybody had been in the laboratory,”
said Monsieur de Marquet.
“How do we know that?” replied Larsan. “There was the dinner in the
laboratory, the coming and going of the servants in attendance. There was a
chemical experiment being carried on between ten and eleven o’clock, with
Monsieur Stangerson, his daughter, and Daddy Jacques engaged at the
furnace in a corner of the high chimney. Who can say that the murderer—an
intimate!—a friend!—did not take advantage of that moment to slip into
The Yellow Room, after having taken off his boots in the lavatory?”
“It is very improbable,” said Monsieur Stangerson.
“Doubtless—but it is not impossible. I assert nothing. As to the escape
from the pavilion—that’s another thing, the most natural thing in the
world.”
For a moment Frédéric Larsan paused,—a moment that appeared to us a
very long time. The eagerness with which we awaited what he was going to
tell us may be imagined.
“I have not been in The Yellow Room,” he continued, “but I take it for
granted that you have satisfied yourselves that he could have left the room
only by way of the door; it is by the door, then, that the murderer made his
way out. At what time? At the moment when it was most easy for him to do
so; at the moment when it became most explainable—so completely
explainable that there can be no other explanation. Let us go over the
moments which followed after the crime had been committed. There was
the first moment, when Monsieur Stangerson and Daddy Jacques were close
to the door, ready to bar the way. There was the second moment, during
which Daddy Jacques was absent and Monsieur Stangerson was left alone
before the door. There was a third moment, when Monsieur Stangerson was
joined by the concierge. There was a fourth moment, during which
Monsieur Stangerson, the concierge and his wife and Daddy Jacques were
before the door. There was a fifth moment, during which the door was burst
open and The Yellow Room entered. The moment at which the flight is

explainable is the very moment when there was the least number of persons
before the door. There was one moment when there was but one person,—
Monsieur Stangerson. Unless a complicity of silence on the part of Daddy
Jacques is admitted—in which I do not believe—the door was opened in the
presence of Monsieur Stangerson alone and the man escaped.
“Here we must admit that Monsieur Stangerson had powerful reasons
for not arresting, or not causing the arrest of the murderer, since he allowed
him to reach the window in the vestibule and closed it after him!—That
done, Mademoiselle Stangerson, though horribly wounded, had still
strength enough, and no doubt in obedience to the entreaties of her father, to
refasten the door of her chamber, with both the bolt and the lock, before
sinking on the floor. We do not know who committed the crime; we do not
know of what wretch Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson are the
victims, but there is no doubt that they both know! The secret must be a
terrible one, for the father had not hesitated to leave his daughter to die
behind the door which she had shut upon herself,—terrible for him to have
allowed the assassin to escape. For there is no other way in the world to
explain the murderer’s flight from The Yellow Room!”
The silence which followed this dramatic and lucid explanation was
appalling. We all of us felt grieved for the illustrious professor, so driven
into a corner by the pitiless logic of Frédéric Larsan, so forced to confess
the whole truth of his martyrdom or to keep silent, and thus make a yet
more terrible admission. The man himself, a veritable statue of sorrow,
raised his hand with a gesture so solemn that we bowed our heads to it as
before something sacred. He then pronounced these words, in a voice so
loud that it seemed to exhaust him:—
“I swear by the head of my suffering child that I never for an instant left
the door of her chamber after hearing her cries for help; that that door was
not opened while I was alone in the laboratory; and that, finally, when we
entered The Yellow Room, my three domestics and I, the murderer was no
longer there! I swear I do not know the murderer!”
Must I say it,—in spite of the solemnity of Monsieur Stangerson’s
words, we did not believe in his denial? Frédéric Larsan had shown us the
truth and it was not so easily given up.
Monsieur de Marquet announced that the conversation was at an end,
and as we were about to leave the laboratory, Joseph Rouletabille

approached Monsieur Stangerson, took him by the hand with the greatest
respect, and I heard him say:—
“I believe you, Monsieur.”

I here close the citation which I have thought it my duty to make from
Monsieur Maleine’s narrative. I need not tell the reader that all that passed
in the laboratory was immediately and faithfully reported to me by
Rouletabille.

Chapter XII.
Frédéric Larsan’s Cane
It was not till six o’clock that I left the château, taking with me the
article hastily written by my friend in the little sitting-room which Monsieur
Robert Darzac had placed at our disposal. The reporter was to sleep at the
château, taking advantage of the to me inexplicable hospitality offered him
by Monsieur Robert Darzac, to whom Monsieur Stangerson, in that sad
time, left the care of all his domestic affairs. Nevertheless he insisted on
accompanying me to the station at Epinay. In crossing the park, he said to
me:—
“Frédéric is really very clever and has not belied his reputation. Do you
know how he came to find Daddy Jacques’s boots?—Near the spot where
we noticed the traces of the neat boots and the disappearance of the rough
ones, there was a square hole, freshly made in the moist ground, where a
stone had evidently been removed. Larsan searched for that stone without
finding it, and at once imagined that it had been used by the murderer with
which to sink the boots in the lake. Fred’s calculation was an excellent one,
as the success of his search proves. That escaped me; but my mind was
turned in another direction by the large number of false indications of his
track which the murderer left, and by the measure of the black foot-marks
corresponding with that of Daddy Jacques’s boots, which I had established
without his suspecting it, on the floor of The Yellow Room. All which was a
proof, in my eyes, that the murderer had sought to turn suspicion on to the
old servant. Up to that point, Larsan and I are in accord; but no further. It is
going to be a terrible matter; for I tell you he is working on wrong lines, and
I—I, must fight him with nothing!”
I was surprised at the profoundly grave accent with which my young
friend pronounced the last words.
He repeated:
“Yes—terrible!—terrible! For it is fighting with nothing, when you have
only an idea to fight with.”

At that moment we passed by the back of the château. Night had come.
A window on the first floor was partly open. A feeble light came from it as
well as some sounds which drew our attention. We approached until we had
reached the side of a door that was situated just under the window.
Rouletabille, in a low tone, made me understand, that this was the window
of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber. The sounds which had attracted our
attention ceased, then were renewed for a moment, and then we heard
stifled sobs. We were only able to catch these words, which reached us
distinctly: “My poor Robert!”—Rouletabille whispered in my ear:—
“If we only knew what was being said in that chamber, my inquiry
would soon be finished.”
He looked about him. The darkness of the evening enveloped us; we
could not see much beyond the narrow path bordered by trees, which ran
behind the château. The sobs had ceased.
“If we can’t hear we may at least try to see,” said Rouletabille.
And, making a sign to me to deaden the sound of my steps, he led me
across the path to the trunk of a tall beech tree, the white bole of which was
visible in the darkness. This tree grew exactly in front of the window in
which we were so much interested, its lower branches being on a level with
the first floor of the château. From the height of those branches one might
certainly see what was passing in Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber.
Evidently that was what Rouletabille thought, for, enjoining me to remain
hidden, he clasped the trunk with his vigorous arms and climbed up. I soon
lost sight of him amid the branches, and then followed a deep silence.
In front of me, the open window remained lighted, and I saw no shadow
move across it. I listened, and presently from above me these words reached
my ears:—
“After you!”
“After you, pray!”
Somebody was overhead, speaking,—exchanging courtesies. What was
my astonishment to see on the slippery column of the tree two human forms
appear and quietly slip down to the ground. Rouletabille had mounted
alone, and had returned with another.
“Good evening, Monsieur Sainclair!”
It was Frédéric Larsan. The detective had already occupied the post of
observation when my young friend had thought to reach it alone. Neither
noticed my astonishment. I explained that to myself by the fact that they

must have been witnesses of some tender and despairing scene between
Mademoiselle Stangerson, lying in her bed, and Monsieur Darzac on his
knees by her pillow. I guessed that each had drawn different conclusions
from what they had seen. It was easy to see that the scene had strongly
impressed Rouletabille in favour of Monsieur Robert Darzac; while, to
Larsan, it showed nothing but consummate hypocrisy, acted with finished
art by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé.
As we reached the park gate, Larsan stopped us.
“My cane!” he cried. “I left it near the tree.”
He left us, saying he would rejoin us presently.
“Have you noticed Frédéric Larsan’s cane?” asked the young reporter,
as soon as we were alone. “It is quite a new one, which I have never seen
him use before. He seems to take great care of it—it never leaves him. One
would think he was afraid it might fall into the hands of strangers. I never
saw it before to-day. Where did he find it? It isn’t natural that a man who
had never before used a walking-stick should, the day after the Glandier
crime, never move a step without one. On the day of our arrival at the
château, as soon as he saw us, he put his watch in his pocket and picked up
his cane from the ground—a proceeding to which I was perhaps wrong not
to attach some importance.”
We were now out of the park. Rouletabille had dropped into silence. His
thoughts were certainly still occupied with Frédéric Larsan’s new cane. I
had proof of that when, as we came near to Epinay, he said:—
“Frédéric Larsan arrived at the Glandier before me; he began his inquiry
before me; he has had time to find out things about which I know nothing.
Where did he find that cane?” Then he added: “It is probable that his
suspicion—more than that, his reasoning—has led him to lay his hand on
something tangible. Has this cane anything to do with it? Where the deuce
could he have found it?”
As I had to wait twenty minutes for the train at Epinay, we entered a
cabaret. Almost immediately the door opened and Frédéric Larsan made his
appearance, brandishing his famous cane.
“I found it!” he said laughingly.
The three of us seated ourselves at a table. Rouletabille never took his
eyes off the cane; he was so absorbed that he did not notice a sign Larsan
made to a railway employé, a young man with a chin decorated by a tiny
blond and ill-kept beard. On the sign he rose, paid for his drink, bowed, and

went out. I should not myself have attached any importance to the
circumstance, if it had not been recalled to my mind, some months later, by
the reappearance of the man with the beard at one of the most tragic
moments of this case. I then learned that the youth was one of Larsan’s
assistants and had been charged by him to watch the going and coming of
travellers at the station of Epinay-sur-Orge. Larsan neglected nothing in any
case on which he was engaged.
I turned my eyes again on Rouletabille.
“Ah!—Monsieur Fred!” he said, “when did you begin to use a walking-
stick? I have always seen you walking with your hands in your pockets!”
“It is a present,” replied the detective.
“Recent?” insisted Rouletabille.
“No, it was given to me in London.”
“Ah, yes, I remember—you have just come from London. May I look at
it?”
“Oh!—certainly!”
Fred passed the cane to Rouletabille. It was a large yellow bamboo with
a crutch handle and ornamented with a gold ring.
Rouletabille, after examining it minutely, returned it to Larsan, with a
bantering expression on his face, saying:—
“You were given a French cane in London!”
“Possibly,” said Fred, imperturbably.
“Read the mark there, in tiny letters: Cassette, 6a, Opera.”
“Cannot English people buy canes in Paris?”
When Rouletabille had seen me into the train, he said:—
“You’ll remember the address?”
“Yes,—Cassette, 6a, Opera. Rely on me; you shall have word to-
morrow morning.”
That evening, on reaching Paris, I saw Monsieur Cassette, dealer in
walking-sticks and umbrellas, and wrote to my friend:—
“A man unmistakably answering to the description of Monsieur Robert
Darzac—same height, slightly stooping, putty-coloured overcoat, bowler
hat—purchased a cane similar to the one in which we are interested, on the
evening of the crime, about eight o’clock. Monsieur Cassette had not sold
another such cane during the last two years. Fred’s cane is new. It is quite
clear that it’s the same cane. Fred did not buy it, since he was in London.
Like you, I think that he found it somewhere near Monsieur Robert Darzac.

But if, as you suppose, the murderer was in The Yellow Room for five, or
even six hours, and the crime was not committed until towards midnight,
the purchase of this cane proves an incontestable alibi for Darzac.”

Chapter XIII.
“The Presbytery Has Lost Nothing of its Charm,
nor the Garden its Brightness”
A week after the occurrence of the events I have just recounted—on the
2nd of November, to be exact—I received at my home in Paris the
following telegraphic message: “Come to the Glandier by the earliest train.
Bring revolvers. Friendly greetings. Rouletabille.”
I have already said, I think, that at that period, being a young barrister
with but few briefs, I frequented the Palais de Justice rather for the purpose
of familiarising myself with my professional duties than for the defence of
the widow and orphan. I could, therefore, feel no surprise at Rouletabille
disposing of my time. Moreover, he knew how keenly interested I was in
his journalistic adventures in general and, above all, in the murder at the
Glandier. I had not heard from him for a week, nor of the progress made
with that mysterious case, except by the innumerable paragraphs in the
newspapers and by the very brief notes of Rouletabille in the “Epoque.”
Those notes had divulged the fact that traces of human blood had been
found on the mutton-bone, as well as fresh traces of the blood of
Mademoiselle Stangerson—the old stains belonged to other crimes,
probably dating years back.
It may be easily imagined that the crime engaged the attention of the
press throughout the world. No crime known had more absorbed the minds
of people. It appeared to me, however, that the judicial inquiry was making
but very little progress; and I should have been very glad, if, on the receipt
of my friend’s invitation to rejoin him at the Glandier, the despatch had not
contained the words, “Bring revolvers.”
That puzzled me greatly. Rouletabille telegraphing for revolvers meant
that there might be occasion to use them. Now, I confess it without shame, I
am not a hero. But here was a friend, evidently in danger, calling on me to
go to his aid. I did not hesitate long; and after assuring myself that the only
revolver I possessed was properly loaded, I hurried towards the Orleans

station. On the way I remembered that Rouletabille had asked for two
revolvers; I therefore entered a gunsmith’s shop and bought an excellent
weapon for my friend.
I had hoped to find him at the station at Epinay; but he was not there.
However, a cab was waiting for me and I was soon at the Glandier. Nobody
was at the gate, and it was only on the threshold of the château that I met
the young man. He saluted me with a friendly gesture and threw his arms
about me, inquiring warmly as to the state of my health.
When we were in the little sitting-room of which I have spoken,
Rouletabille made me sit down.
“It’s going badly,” he said.
“What’s going badly?” I asked.
“Everything.”
He came nearer to me and whispered:
“Frédéric Larsan is working with might and main against Darzac.”
This did not astonish me. I had seen the poor show Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s fiancé had made at the time of the examination of the
footprints. However, I immediately asked:—
“What about that cane?”
“It is still in the hands of Frédéric Larsan. He never lets go of it.”
“But doesn’t it prove the alibi for Monsieur Darzac?”
“Not at all. Gently questioned by me, Darzac denied having, on that
evening, or on any other, purchased a cane at Cassette’s. However,” said
Rouletabille, “I’ll not swear to anything; Monsieur Darzac has such strange
fits of silence that one does not know exactly what to think of what he
says.”
“To Frédéric Larsan this cane must mean a piece of very damaging
evidence. But in what way? The time when it was bought shows it could not
have been in the murderer’s possession.”
“The time doesn’t worry Larsan. He is not obliged to adopt my theory
which assumes that the murderer got into The Yellow Room between five
and six o’clock. But there’s nothing to prevent him assuming that the
murderer got in between ten and eleven o’clock at night? At that hour
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson, assisted by Daddy Jacques, were
engaged in making an interesting chemical experiment in the part of the
laboratory taken up by the furnaces. Larsan says, unlikely as that may seem,
that the murderer may have slipped behind them. He has already got the

examining magistrate to listen to him. When one looks closely into it, the
reasoning is absurd, seeing that the ‘intimate’—if there is one—must have
known that the professor would shortly leave the pavilion, and that the
‘friend’ had only to put off operating till after the professor’s departure.
Why should he have risked crossing the laboratory while the professor was
in it? And then, when he had got into The Yellow Room?—
“There are many points to be cleared up before Larsan’s theory can be
admitted. I sha’n’t waste my time over it, for my theory won’t allow me to
occupy myself with mere imagination. Only, as I am obliged for the
moment to keep silent, and Larsan sometimes talks, he may finish by
coming out openly against Monsieur Darzac,—if I’m not there,” added the
young reporter proudly. “For there are surface evidences against Darzac,
much more convincing than the cane, which remains incomprehensible to
me, all the more so as Larsan does not in the least hesitate to let Darzac see
him with it!—I understand many things in Larsan’s theory, but I can’t make
anything of that cane.”
“Is he still at the château?”
“Yes; he hardly ever quits it!—He sleeps there, as I do, at the request of
Monsieur Stangerson, who has done for him what Monsieur Robert Darzac
has done for me. In spite of the accusation made by Larsan that Monsieur
Stangerson knows who the murderer is he yet affords him every facility for
arriving at the truth,—just as Darzac is doing for me.”
“But you are convinced of Darzac’s innocence?”
“At one time I did believe in the possibility of his guilt. That was when
we arrived here for the first time. The time has come for me to tell you what
has passed between Monsieur Darzac and myself.”
Here Rouletabille interrupted himself and asked me if I had brought the
revolvers. I showed him them. Having examined both, he pronounced them
excellent, and handed them back to me.
“Shall we have any use for them?” I asked.
“No doubt; this evening. We shall pass the night here—if that won’t tire
you?”
“On the contrary,” I said with an expression that made Rouletabille
laugh.
“No, no,” he said, “this is no time for laughing. You remember the
phrase which was the ‘Open sesame’ of this château full of mystery?”

“Yes,” I said, “perfectly,—‘The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm,
nor the garden its brightness.’ It was the phrase which you found on the
half-burned piece of paper amongst the ashes in the laboratory.”
“Yes; at the bottom of the paper, where the flame had not reached, was
this date: 23rd of October. Remember this date, it is highly important. I am
now going to tell you about that curious phrase. On the evening before the
crime, that is to say, on the 23rd, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson
were at a reception at the Élysée. I know that, because I was there on duty,
having to interview one of the savants of the Academy of Philadelphia, who
was being fêted there. I had never before seen either Monsieur or
Mademoiselle Stangerson. I was seated in the room which precedes the
Salon des Ambassadeurs, and, tired of being jostled by so many noble
personages, I had fallen into a vague reverie, when I scented near me the
perfume of the lady in black.
“Do you ask me what is the ‘perfume of the lady in black’? It must
suffice you to know that it is a perfume of which I am very fond, because it
was that of a lady who had been very kind to me in my childhood,—a lady
whom I had always seen dressed in black. The lady who, that evening, was
scented with the perfume of the lady in black, was dressed in white. She
was wonderfully beautiful. I could not help rising and following her. An old
man gave her his arm, and, as they passed, I heard voices say: ‘Professor
Stangerson and his daughter.’ It was in that way I learned who it was I was
following.
“They met Monsieur Robert Darzac, whom I knew by sight. Professor
Stangerson, accosted by Mr. Arthur William Rance, one of the American
savants, seated himself in the great gallery, and Monsieur Robert Darzac led
Mademoiselle Stangerson into the conservatory. I followed. The weather
was very mild that evening; the garden doors were open. Mademoiselle
Stangerson threw a fichu shawl over her shoulders and I plainly saw that it
was she who was begging Monsieur Darzac to go with her into the garden. I
continued to follow, interested by the agitation plainly exhibited by the
bearing of Monsieur Darzac. They slowly passed along the wall abutting on
the Avenue Marigny. I took the central alley, walking parallel with them,
and then crossed over for the purpose of getting nearer to them. The night
was dark, and the grass deadened the sound of my steps. They had stopped
under the vacillating light of a gas jet and appeared to be both bending over

a paper held by Mademoiselle Stangerson, reading something which deeply
interested them. I stopped in the darkness and silence.
“Neither of them saw me, and I distinctly heard Mademoiselle
Stangerson repeat, as she was refolding the paper: ‘The presbytery has lost
nothing of its charm, nor the garden its brightness!’—It was said in a tone at
once mocking and despairing, and was followed by a burst of such nervous
laughter that I think her words will never cease to sound in my ears. But
another phrase was uttered by Monsieur Robert Darzac: ‘Must I commit a
crime, then, to win you?’ He was in an extraordinarily agitated state. He
took the hand of Mademoiselle Stangerson and held it for a long time to his
lips, and I thought, from the movement of his shoulders, that he was crying.
Then they went away.
“When I returned to the great gallery,” continued Rouletabille, “I saw
no more of Monsieur Robert Darzac, and I was not to see him again until
after the tragedy at the Glandier. Mademoiselle was near Mr. Rance, who
was talking with much animation, his eyes, during the conversation,
glowing with a singular brightness. Mademoiselle Stangerson, I thought,
was not even listening to what he was saying, her face expressing perfect
indifference. His face was the red face of a drunkard. When Monsieur and
Mademoiselle Stangerson left, he went to the bar and remained there. I
joined him, and rendered him some little service in the midst of the pressing
crowd. He thanked me and told me he was returning to America three days
later, that is to say, on the 26th (the day after the crime). I talked with him
about Philadelphia; he told me he had lived there for five-and-twenty years,
and that it was there he had met the illustrious Professor Stangerson and his
daughter. He drank a great deal of champagne, and when I left him he was
very nearly drunk.
“Such were my experiences on that evening, and I leave you to imagine
what effect the news of the attempted murder of Mademoiselle Stangerson
produced on me,—with what force those words pronounced by Monsieur
Robert Darzac, ‘Must I commit a crime, then, to win you?’ recurred to me.
It was not this phrase, however, that I repeated to him, when we met here at
Glandier. The sentence of the presbytery and the bright garden sufficed to
open the gate of the château. If you ask me if I believe now that Monsieur
Darzac is the murderer, I must say I do not. I do not think I ever quite
thought that. At the time I could not really think seriously of anything. I had

so little evidence to go on. But I needed to have at once the proof that he
had not been wounded in the hand.
“When we were alone together, I told him how I had chanced to
overhear a part of his conversation with Mademoiselle Stangerson in the
garden of the Élysée; and when I repeated to him the words, ‘Must I
commit a crime, then, to win you?’ he was greatly troubled, though much
less so than he had been by hearing me repeat the phrase about the
presbytery. What threw him into a state of real consternation was to learn
from me that the day on which he had gone to meet Mademoiselle
Stangerson at the Élysée, was the very day on which she had gone to the
Post Office for the letter. It was that letter, perhaps, which ended with the
words: ‘The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its
brightness.’ My surmise was confirmed by my finding, if you remember, in
the ashes of the laboratory, the fragment of paper dated October the 23rd.
The letter had been written and withdrawn from the Post Office on the same
day.
“There can be no doubt that, on returning from the Élysée that night,
Mademoiselle Stangerson had tried to destroy that compromising paper. It
was in vain that Monsieur Darzac denied that that letter had anything
whatever to do with the crime. I told him that in an affair so filled with
mystery as this, he had no right to hide this letter; that I was persuaded it
was of considerable importance; that the desperate tone in which
Mademoiselle Stangerson had pronounced the prophetic phrase,—that his
own tears, and the threat of a crime which he had professed after the letter
was read—all these facts tended to leave no room for me to doubt.
Monsieur Darzac became more and more agitated, and I determined to take
advantage of the effect I had produced on him. ‘You were on the point of
being married, Monsieur,’ I said negligently and without looking at him,
‘and suddenly your marriage becomes impossible because of the writer of
that letter; because as soon as his letter was read, you spoke of the necessity
for a crime to win Mademoiselle Stangerson. Therefore there is someone
between you and her—someone who is preventing your marriage with her
—someone who has attempted to kill her, so that she should not be able to
marry!’ And I concluded with these words: ‘Now, monsieur, you have only
to tell me in confidence the name of the murderer!’—The words I had
uttered must have struck him ominously, for when I turned my eyes on him,

I saw that his face was haggard, the perspiration standing on his forehead,
and terror showing in his eyes.
“ ‘Monsieur,’ he said to me, ‘I am going to ask of you something which
may appear insane, but in exchange for which I place my life in your hands.
You must not tell the magistrates of what you saw and heard in the garden
of the Élysée,—neither to them nor to anybody. I swear to you, that I am
innocent, and I know, I feel, that you believe me; but I would rather be
taken for the guilty man than see justice go astray on that phrase, “The
presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its brightness.” The
judges must know nothing about that phrase. All this matter is in your
hands. Monsieur, I leave it there; but forget the evening at the Élysée. A
hundred other roads are open to you in your search for the criminal. I will
open them for you myself. I will help you. Will you take up your quarters
here?—You may remain here to do as you please.—Eat—sleep here—
watch my actions—the actions of all here. You shall be master of the
Glandier, Monsieur; but forget the evening at the Élysée.’ ”
Rouletabille here paused to take breath. I now understood what had
appeared so unexplainable in the demeanour of Monsieur Robert Darzac
towards my friend, and the facility with which the young reporter had been
able to instal himself on the scene of the crime. My curiosity could not fail
to be excited by all I had heard. I asked Rouletabille to satisfy it still further.
What had happened at the Glandier during the past week?—Had he not told
me that there were surface indications against Monsieur Darzac much more
terrible than that of the cane found by Larsan?
“Everything seems to be pointing against him,” replied my friend, “and
the situation is becoming exceedingly grave. Monsieur Darzac appears not
to mind it much; but in that he is wrong. I was interested only in the health
of Mademoiselle Stangerson, which was daily improving, when something
occurred that is even more mysterious than—than the mystery of The
Yellow Room!”
“Impossible!” I cried, “What could be more mysterious than that?”
“Let us first go back to Monsieur Robert Darzac,” said Rouletabille,
calming me. “I have said that everything seems to be pointing against him.
The marks of the neat boots found by Frédéric Larsan appear to be really
the footprints of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé. The marks made by the
bicycle may have been made by his bicycle. He had usually left it at the
château; why did he take it to Paris on that particular occasion? Was it

because he was not going to return again to the château? Was it because,
owing to the breaking off of his marriage, his relations with the Stangersons
were to cease? All who are interested in the matter affirm that those
relations were to continue unchanged.
“Frédéric Larsan, however, believes that all intercourse was at an end.
From the day when Monsieur Darzac accompanied Mademoiselle
Stangerson to the Grands Magasins de la Louvre until the day after the
crime, he had not been at the Glandier. Remember that Mademoiselle
Stangerson lost her reticule containing the key with the brass head while
she was in his company. From that day to the evening at the Élysée, the
Sorbonne professor and Mademoiselle Stangerson did not see one another;
but they may have written to each other. Mademoiselle Stangerson went to
the Post Office to get a letter, which Larsan says was written by Robert
Darzac; for knowing nothing of what had passed at the Élysée, Larsan
believes that it was Monsieur Darzac himself who stole the reticule with the
key, with the design of forcing her consent, by getting possession of the
precious papers of her father—papers which he would have restored to him
on condition that the marriage engagement was to be fulfilled.
“All that would have been a very doubtful and almost absurd
hypothesis, as Larsan admitted to me, but for another and much graver
circumstance. In the first place here is something which I have not been
able to explain—Monsieur Darzac had himself, on the 24th, gone to the
Post Office to ask for the letter which Mademoiselle had called for and
received on the previous evening. The description of the man who made
application tallies in every respect with the appearance of Monsieur Darzac,
who, in answer to the questions put to him by the examining magistrate,
denies that he went to the Post Office. Now even admitting that the letter
was written by him—which I do not believe—he knew that Mademoiselle
Stangerson had received it, since he had seen it in her hands in the garden at
the Élysée. It could not have been he, then, who had gone to the Post
Office, the day after the 24th, to ask for a letter which he knew was no
longer there.
“To me it appears clear that somebody, strongly resembling him, stole
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s reticule and in that letter, had demanded of her
something which she had not sent him. He must have been surprised at the
failure of his demand, hence his application at the Post Office, to learn
whether his letter had been delivered to the person to whom it had been

addressed. Finding that it had been claimed, he had become furious. What
had he demanded? Nobody but Mademoiselle Stangerson knows. Then, on
the day following, it is reported that she had been murdered during the
night, and, the next day, I discovered that the Professor had, at the same
time, been robbed by means of the key referred to in the poste restante
letter. It would seem, then, that the man who went to the Post Office to
inquire for the letter must have been the murderer. All these arguments
Larsan applies as against Monsieur Darzac. You may be sure that the
examining magistrate, Larsan, and myself, have done our best to get from
the Post Office precise details relative to the singular personage who
applied there on the 24th of October. But nothing has been learned. We
don’t know where he came from—or where he went. Beyond the
description which makes him resemble Monsieur Darzac, we know nothing.
“I have announced in the leading journals that a handsome reward will
be given to a driver of any public conveyance who drove a fare to No. 40,
Post Office, about ten o’clock on the morning of the 24th of October.
Information to be addressed to ‘M. R.,’ at the office of the ‘Epoque’; but no
answer has resulted. The man may have walked; but, as he was most likely
in a hurry, there was a chance that he might have gone in a cab. Who, I keep
asking myself night and day, is the man who so strongly resembles
Monsieur Robert Darzac, and who is also known to have bought the cane
which has fallen into Larsan’s hands.
“The most serious fact is that Monsieur Darzac was, at the very same
time that his double presented himself at the Post Office, down for a lecture
at the Sorbonne. He had not delivered that lecture, and one of his friends
took his place. When I questioned him as to how he had employed the time,
he told me that he had gone for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne. What do
you think of a professor who, instead of giving his lecture, obtains a
substitute to go for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne? When Frédéric Larsan
asked him for information on this point, he quietly replied that it was no
business of his how he spent his time in Paris. On which Fred swore aloud
that he would find out, without anybody’s help.
“All this seems to fit in with Fred’s hypothesis, namely, that Monsieur
Stangerson allowed the murderer to escape in order to avoid a scandal. The
hypothesis is further substantiated by the fact that Darzac was in The
Yellow Room and was permitted to get away. That hypothesis I believe to
be a false one.—Larsan is being misled by it, though that would not

displease me, did it not affect an innocent person. Now does that hypothesis
really mislead Frédéric Larsan? That is the question—that is the question.”
“Perhaps he is right,” I cried, interrupting Rouletabille. “Are you sure
that Monsieur Darzac is innocent?—It seems to me that these are
extraordinary coincidences—”
“Coincidences,” replied my friend, “are the worst enemies to truth.”
“What does the examining magistrate think now of the matter?”
“Monsieur de Marquet hesitates to accuse Monsieur Darzac, in the
absence of absolute proofs. Not only would he have public opinion wholly
against him, to say nothing of the Sorbonne, but Monsieur and
Mademoiselle Stangerson. She adores Monsieur Robert Darzac. Indistinctly
as she saw the murderer, it would be hard to make the public believe that
she could not have recognised him, if Darzac had been the criminal. No
doubt The Yellow Room was very dimly lit; but a night-light, however
small, gives some light. Here, my boy, is how things stood when, three
days, or rather three nights ago, an extraordinarily strange incident
occurred.”

Chapter XIV.
“I Expect the Assassin this Evening”
“I must take you,” said Rouletabille, “so as to enable you to understand,
to the various scenes. I myself believe that I have discovered what
everybody else is searching for, namely, how the murderer escaped from
The Yellow Room, without any accomplice, and without Mademoiselle
Stangerson having had anything to do with it. But so long as I am not sure
of the real murderer, I cannot state the theory on which I am working. I can
only say that I believe it to be correct and, in any case, a quite natural and
simple one. As to what happened in this place three nights ago, I must say it
kept me wondering for a whole day and a night. It passes all belief. The
theory I have formed from the incident is so absurd that I would rather
matters remained as yet unexplained.”
Saying which the young reporter invited me to go and make the tour of
the château with him. The only sound to be heard was the crunching of the
dead leaves beneath our feet. The silence was so intense that one might
have thought the château had been abandoned. The old stones, the stagnant
water of the ditch surrounding the donjon, the bleak ground strewn with the
dead leaves, the dark, skeleton-like outlines of the trees, all contributed to
give to the desolate place, now filled with its awful mystery, an aspect the
most funereal. As we passed round the donjon, we met the Green Man, the
forest-keeper, who did not greet us, but walked by as if we had not existed.
He was looking just as I had formerly seen him through the window of the
Donjon Inn. He had still his fowling-piece slung at his back, his pipe was in
his mouth, and his eye-glasses on his nose.
“An odd kind of fish!” Rouletabille said to me, in a low tone.
“Have you spoken to him?” I asked.
“Yes, but I could get nothing out of him. His only answers are grunts
and shrugs of the shoulders. He generally lives on the first floor of the
donjon,—a big room that once served for an oratory. He lives like a bear,
never goes out without his gun, and is only pleasant with the girls. The

women, for twelve miles round, are all setting their caps at him. For the
present, he is paying attention to Madame Mathieu, whose husband is
keeping a lynx eye upon her in consequence.”
After passing the donjon, which is situated at the extreme end of the left
wing, we went to the back of the château. Rouletabille, pointing to a
window which I recognised as the only one belonging to Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s apartment, said to me:—
“If you had been here, two nights ago, you would have seen your
humble servant at the top of a ladder, about to enter the château by that
window.”
As I expressed some surprise at this piece of nocturnal gymnastics, he
begged me to notice carefully the exterior disposition of the château. We
then went back into the building.
“I must now show you the first floor of the château, where I am living,”
said my friend.
To enable the reader the better to understand the disposition of these
parts of the dwelling, I annex a plan of the first floor of the right wing,
drawn by Rouletabille the day after the extraordinary phenomenon
occurred, the details of which I am about to relate.

1. Position where Rouletabille placed Frédéric Larsan.

2. Position where Rouletabille placed Daddy Jacques.
3. Position where Rouletabille placed Monsieur Stangerson.
4. Window by which Rouletabille entered.
5. Window found open by Rouletabille when he left the room. He re-
closed it. All the other doors and windows were shut.
6. Terrace surmounting a projecting room on the ground-floor.
Rouletabille motioned me to follow him up a magnificent flight of stairs
ending in a landing on the first floor. From this landing one could pass to
the right or left wing of the château by a gallery opening from it. This
gallery, high and wide, extended along the whole length of the building and
was lit from the front of the château facing the north. The rooms, the
windows of which looked to the south, opened out of the gallery. Professor
Stangerson inhabited the left wing of the building. Mademoiselle
Stangerson had her apartment in the right wing.
We entered the gallery to the right. A narrow carpet, laid on the waxed
oaken floor, which shone like glass, deadened the sound of our footsteps.
Rouletabille asked me, in a low tone, to walk carefully, as we were passing
the door of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s apartment. This consisted of a bed-
room, an ante-room, a small bath-room, a boudoir, and a drawing-room.
One could pass from one to another of these rooms without having to go by
way of the gallery. The gallery continued straight to the western end of the
building, where it was lit by a high window (window 2 on the plan). At
about two-thirds of its length this gallery, at a right angle, joined another
gallery following the course of the right wing.
The better to follow this narrative, we shall call the gallery leading from
the stairs to the eastern window, the “right” gallery and the gallery quitting
it at a right angle, the “off-turning” gallery (winding gallery in the plan). It
was at the meeting point of the two galleries that Rouletabille had his
chamber, adjoining that of Frédéric Larsan, the door of each opening on to
the “off-turning” gallery, while the doors of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s
apartment opened into the “right” gallery. (See the Plan.)
Rouletabille opened the door of his room and after we had passed in,
carefully drew the bolt. I had not had time to glance round the place in
which he had been installed, when he uttered a cry of surprise and pointed
to a pair of eye-glasses on a side-table.
“What are these doing here?” he asked.
I should have been puzzled to answer him.

“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder if this is what I have been searching for.
I wonder if these are the eye-glasses from the presbytery!”
He seized them eagerly, his fingers caressing the glass. Then looking at
me, with an expression of terror on his face, he murmured, “Oh!—Oh!”
He repeated the exclamation again and again, as if his thoughts had
suddenly turned his brain.
He rose and, putting his hand on my shoulder, laughed like one
demented as he said:
“Those glasses will drive me silly! Mathematically speaking the thing is
possible; but humanly speaking it is impossible—or afterwards—or
afterwards—”
Two light knocks struck the door. Rouletabille opened it. A figure
entered. I recognised the concierge, whom I had seen when she was being
taken to the pavilion for examination. I was surprised, thinking she was still
under lock and key. This woman said in a very low tone:—
“In the grove of the parquet.”
Rouletabille replied: “Thanks.”—The woman then left. He again turned
to me, his look haggard, after having carefully refastened the door,
muttering some incomprehensible phrases.
“If the thing is mathematically possible, why should it not be humanly!
—And if it is humanly possible, the matter is simply awful.”
I interrupted him in his soliloquy:—
“Have they set the concierges at liberty, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “I had them liberated. I needed people I could trust.
The woman is thoroughly devoted to me, and her husband would lay down
his life for me.”
“Oho!” I said, “when will he have occasion to do it?”
“This evening,—for this evening I expect the murderer.”
“You expect the murderer this evening? Then you know him?”
“I shall know him; but I should be mad to affirm, categorically, at this
moment that I do know him. The mathematical idea I have of the murderer
gives results so frightful, so monstrous, that I hope it is still possible that I
am mistaken. I hope so, with all my heart!”
“Five minutes ago, you did not know the murderer; how can you say
that you expect him this evening?”
“Because I know that he must come.”

Rouletabille very slowly filled his pipe and lit it. That meant an
interesting story. At that moment we heard some one walking in the gallery
and passing before our door. Rouletabille listened. The sound of the
footstep died away in the distance.
“Is Frédéric Larsan in his room?” I asked, pointing to the partition.
“No,” my friend answered. “He went to Paris this morning,—still on the
scent of Darzac, who also left for Paris. That matter will turn out badly. I
expect that Monsieur Darzac will be arrested in the course of the next week.
The worst of it is that everything seems to be in league against him,—
circumstances, things, people. Not an hour passes without bringing some
new evidence against him. The examining magistrate is overwhelmed by it
—and blind.”
“Frédéric Larsan, however, is not a novice,” I said.
“I thought so,” said Rouletabille, with a slightly contemptuous turn of
his lips, “I fancied he was a much abler man. I had, indeed, a great
admiration for him, before I got to know his method of working. It’s
deplorable. He owes his reputation solely to his ability; but he lacks
reasoning power,—the mathematics of his ideas are very poor.”
I looked closely at Rouletabille and could not help smiling, on hearing
this boy of eighteen talking of a man who had proved to the world that he
was the finest police sleuth-hound in Europe.
“You smile,” he said; “you are wrong! I swear I will outwit him—and in
a striking way! But I must make haste about it, for he has an enormous start
of me—given him by Monsieur Robert Darzac, who is this evening going to
increase it still more. Think of it!—every time the murderer comes to the
château, Monsieur Darzac, by a strange fatality, absents himself and refuses
to give any account of how he employs his time.”
“Every time the assassin comes to the château!” I cried. “Has he
returned then—?”
“Yes, during that famous night when the strange phenomenon
occurred.”
I was now going to learn about the astonishing phenomenon to which
Rouletabille had made allusion half an hour earlier without giving me any
explanation of it. But I had learned never to press Rouletabille in his
narratives. He spoke when the fancy took him and when he judged it to be
right. He was less concerned about my curiosity than he was for making a

complete summing up for himself of any important matter in which he was
interested.
At last, in short rapid phrases, he acquainted me with things which
plunged me into a state bordering on complete bewilderment. Indeed, the
results of that still unknown science known as hypnotism, for example,
were not more inexplicable than the disappearance of the matter of the
murderer at the moment when four persons were within touch of him. I
speak of hypnotism as I would of electricity, for of the nature of both we are
ignorant and we know little of their laws. I cite these examples because, at
the time, the case appeared to me to be only explicable by the inexplicable,
—that is to say, by an event outside of known natural laws. And yet, if I had
had Rouletabille’s brain, I should, like him, have had a presentiment of the
natural explanation; for the most curious thing about all the mysteries of the
Glandier case was the natural manner in which he explained them.
I have among the papers that were sent me by the young man, after the
affair was over, a note-book of his, in which a complete account is given of
the phenomenon of the disappearance of the “matter” of the assassin, and
the thoughts to which it gave rise in the mind of my young friend. It is
preferable, I think, to give the reader this account, rather than continue to
reproduce my conversation with Rouletabille; for I should be afraid, in a
history of this nature, to add a word that was not in accordance with the
strictest truth.

Chapter XV.
The Trap
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille)

“Last night—the night between the 29th and 30th of October—” wrote
Joseph Rouletabille, “I woke up towards one o’clock in the morning. Was it
sleeplessness, or noise without?—The cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu rang out
with sinister loudness from the end of the park. I rose and opened the
window. Cold wind and rain; opaque darkness; silence. I reclosed my
window. Again the sound of the cat’s weird cry in the distance. I partly
dressed in haste. The weather was too bad for even a cat to be turned out in
it. What did it mean, then—that imitating of the mewing of Mother
Angenoux’ cat so near the château? I seized a good-sized stick, the only
weapon I had, and, without making any noise, opened my door.
“The gallery into which I went was well lit by a lamp with a reflector. I
felt a keen current of air and, on turning, found the window open, at the
extreme end of the gallery, which I call the ‘off-turning’ gallery, to
distinguish it from the ‘right’ gallery, on to which the apartment of
Mademoiselle Stangerson opened. These two galleries cross each other at
right angles. Who had left that window open? Or, who had come to open it?
I went to the window and leaned out. Five feet below me there was a sort of
terrace over the semi-circular projection of a room on the ground-floor. One
could, if one wanted, jump from the window on to the terrace, and allow
oneself to drop from it into the court of the château. Whoever had entered
by this road had, evidently, not had a key to the vestibule-door. But why
should I be thinking of my previous night’s attempt with the ladder?—
Because of the open window—left open, perhaps, by the negligence of a
servant? I reclosed it, smiling at the ease with which I built a drama on the
mere suggestion of an open window.
“Again the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu!—and then silence. The rain
ceased to beat on the window. All in the château slept. I walked with
infinite precaution on the carpet of the gallery. On reaching the corner of the

‘right’ gallery, I peered round it cautiously. There was another lamp there
with a reflector which quite lit up the several objects in it,—three chairs and
some pictures hanging on the wall. What was I doing there? Perfect silence
reigned throughout. Everything was sunk in repose. What was the instinct
that urged me towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber? Why did a
voice within me cry: ‘Go on, to the chamber of Mademoiselle Stangerson!’
I cast my eyes down upon the carpet on which I was treading and saw that
my steps were being directed towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber
by the marks of steps that had already been made there. Yes, on the carpet
were traces of footsteps stained with mud leading to the chamber of
Mademoiselle Stangerson. Horror! Horror!—I recognised in those
footprints the impression of the neat boots of the murderer! He had come,
then, from without in this wretched night. If you could descend from the
gallery by way of the window, by means of the terrace, then you could get
into the château by the same means.
“The murderer was still in the château, for here were marks as of
returning footsteps. He had entered by the open window at the extremity of
the ‘off-turning’ gallery; he had passed Frédéric Larsan’s door and mine,
had turned to the right, and had entered Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room. I
am before the door of her ante-room—it is open. I push it, without making
the least noise. Under the door of the room itself I see a streak of light. I
listen—no sound—not even of breathing! Ah!—if I only knew what was
passing in the silence that is behind that door! I find the door locked and the
key turned on the inner side. And the murderer is there, perhaps. He must be
there! Will he escape this time?—All depends on me!—I must be calm, and
above all, I must make no false steps. I must see into that room. I can enter
it by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s drawing-room; but, to do that I should
have to cross her boudoir; and while I am there, the murderer may escape
by the gallery door—the door in front of which I am now standing.
“I am sure that no other crime is being committed, on this night; for
there is complete silence in the boudoir, where two nurses are taking care of
Mademoiselle Stangerson until she is restored to health.
“As I am almost sure that the murderer is there, why do I not at once
give the alarm? The murderer may, perhaps, escape; but, perhaps, I may be
able to save Mademoiselle Stangerson’s life. Suppose the murderer on this
occasion is not here to murder? The door has been opened to allow him to
enter; by whom?—And it has been refastened—by whom?—Mademoiselle

Stangerson shuts herself up in her apartment with her nurses every night.
Who turned the key of that chamber to allow the murderer to enter?—The
nurses,—two faithful domestics? The old chambermaid, Sylvia? It is very
improbable. Besides, they slept in the boudoir, and Mademoiselle
Stangerson, very nervous and careful, Monsieur Robert Darzac told me,
sees to her own safety since she has been well enough to move about in her
room, which I have not yet seen her leave. This nervousness and sudden
care on her part, which had struck Monsieur Darzac, had given me, also,
food for thought. At the time of the crime in The Yellow Room, there can be
no doubt that she expected the murderer. Was he expected this night?—Was
it she herself who had opened her door to him? Had she some reason for
doing so? was she obliged to do it?—Was it a meeting for purposes of
crime?—Certainly it was not a lover’s meeting, for I believe Mademoiselle
Stangerson adores Monsieur Darzac.
“All these reflections ran through my brain like a flash of lightning.
What would I not give to know!
“It is possible that there was some reason for the awful silence. My
intervention might do more harm than good. How could I tell? How could I
know I might not any moment cause another crime? If I could only see and
know, without breaking that silence!
“I left the ante-room and descended the central stairs to the vestibule
and, as silently as possible, made my way to the little room on the ground-
floor where Daddy Jacques had been sleeping since the attack made at the
pavilion.
“I found him dressed, his eyes wide open, almost haggard. He did not
seem surprised to see me. He told me that he had got up because he had
heard the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu, and because he had heard footsteps
in the park, close to his window, out of which he had looked and, just then,
had seen a black shadow pass by. I asked him whether he had a firearm of
any kind. No, he no longer kept one, since the examining magistrate had
taken his revolver from him. We went out together, by a little back door,
into the park, and stole along the château to the point which is just below
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s window.
“I placed Daddy Jacques against the wall, ordering him not to stir from
the spot, while I, taking advantage of a moment when the moon was hidden
by a cloud, moved to the front of the window, out of the patch of light
which came from it,—for the window was half-open! If I could only know

what was passing in that silent chamber! I returned to Daddy Jacques and
whispered the word ‘ladder’ in his ear. At first I had thought of the tree
which, a week ago, served me for an observatory; but I immediately saw
that, from the way the window was half-opened, I should not be able to see
from that point of view anything that was passing in the room; and I
wanted, not only to see, but to hear, and—to act.
“Greatly agitated, almost trembling, Daddy Jacques disappeared for a
moment and returned without the ladder, but making signs to me with his
arms, as signals to me to come quickly to him. When I got near him he
gasped: ‘Come!’
“He led me round the château, past the donjon. Arrived there, he said:
“ ‘I went to the donjon in search of my ladder, and in the lower part of
the donjon which serves me and the gardener for a lumber room, I found the
door open and the ladder gone. On coming out, that’s what I caught sight of
by the light of the moon.’
“And he pointed to the further end of the château, where a ladder stood
resting against the stone brackets supporting the terrace, under the window
which I had found open. The projection of the terrace had prevented my
seeing it. Thanks to that ladder, it was quite easy to get into the ‘off-turning’
gallery of the first floor, and I had no doubt of it having been the road taken
by the unknown.
“We ran to the ladder, but at the moment of reaching it, Daddy Jacques
drew my attention to the half-open door of the little semi-circular room,
situated under the terrace, at the extremity of the right wing of the château,
having the terrace for its roof. Daddy Jacques pushed the door open a little
further and looked in.
“ ‘He’s not there!’ he whispered.
“ ‘Who is not there?’
“ ‘The forest-keeper.’
“With his lips once more to my ear, he added:
“ ‘Do you know that he has slept in the upper room of the donjon ever
since it was restored?’ And with the same gesture he pointed to the half-
open door, the ladder, the terrace, and the windows in the ‘off-turning’
gallery which, a little while before, I had re-closed.
“What were my thoughts then? I had no time to think. I felt more than I
thought.

“Evidently, I felt, if the forest-keeper is up there in the chamber (I say,
if, because at this moment, apart from the presence of the ladder and his
vacant room, there are no evidences which permit me even to suspect him)
—if he is there, he has been obliged to pass by the ladder, and the rooms
which lie behind his, in his new lodging, are occupied by the family of the
steward and by the cook, and by the kitchens, which bar the way by the
vestibule to the interior of the château. And if he had been there during the
evening on any pretext, it would have been easy for him to go into the
gallery and see that the window could be simply pushed open from the
outside. This question of the unfastened window easily narrowed the field
of search for the murderer. He must belong to the house, unless he had an
accomplice, which I do not believe he had; unless—unless Mademoiselle
Stangerson herself had seen that that window was not fastened from the
inside. But, then,—what could be the frightful secret which made her under
the necessity of doing away with obstacles that separated her from the
murderer?
“I seized hold of the ladder, and we returned to the back of the château
to see if the window of the chamber was still half-open. The blind was
drawn but did not join and allowed a bright stream of light to escape and
fall upon the path at our feet. I planted the ladder under the window. I am
almost sure that I made no noise; and while Daddy Jacques remained at the
foot of the ladder, I mounted it, very quietly, my stout stick in my hand. I
held my breath and lifted my feet with the greatest care. Suddenly a heavy
cloud discharged itself at that moment in a fresh downpour of rain.
“At the same instant the sinister cry of the Bête du bon Dieu arrested me
in my ascent. It seemed to me to have come from close by me—only a few
yards away. Was the cry a signal?—Had some accomplice of the man seen
me on the ladder!—Would the cry bring the man to the window?—Perhaps!
Ah, there he was at the window! I felt his head above me. I heard the sound
of his breath! I could not look up towards him; the least movement of my
head, and—I might be lost. Would he see me?—Would he peer into the
darkness? No; he went away. He had seen nothing. I felt, rather than heard,
him moving on tip-toe in the room; and I mounted a few steps higher. My
head reached to the level of the window-sill; my forehead rose above it; my
eyes looked between the opening in the blinds—and I saw—
“A man seated at Mademoiselle Stangerson’s little desk, writing. His
back was turned toward me. A candle was lit before him, and he bent over

the flame, the light from it projecting shapeless shadows. I saw nothing but
a monstrous, stooping back.
“Mademoiselle Stangerson herself was not there!—Her bed had not
been lain on! Where, then, was she sleeping that night? Doubtless in the
side-room with her women. Perhaps this was but a guess. I must content
myself with the joy of finding the man alone. I must be calm to prepare my
trap.
“But who, then, is this man writing there before my eyes, seated at the
desk, as if he were in his own home? If there had not been that ladder under
the window; if there had not been those footprints on the carpet in the
gallery; if there had not been that open window, I might have been led to
think that this man had a right to be there, and that he was there as a matter
of course and for reasons about which as yet I knew nothing. But there was
no doubt that this mysterious unknown was the man of The Yellow Room,
—the man to whose murderous assault Mademoiselle Stangerson—without
denouncing him—had had to submit. If I could but see his face! Surprise
and capture him!
“If I spring into the room at this moment, he will escape by the right-
hand door opening into the boudoir,—or crossing the drawing-room, he will
reach the gallery and I shall lose him. I have him now and in five minutes
more he’ll be safer than if I had him in a cage.—What is he doing there,
alone in Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room?—What is he writing? I descend
and place the ladder on the ground. Daddy Jacques follows me. We re-enter
the château. I send Daddy Jacques to wake Monsieur Stangerson, and
instruct him to await my coming in Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room and to
say nothing definite to him before my arrival. I will go and awaken Frédéric
Larsan. It’s a bore to have to do it, for I should have liked to work alone and
to have carried off all the honors of this affair myself, right under the very
nose of the sleeping detective. But Daddy Jacques and Monsieur Stangerson
are old men, and I am not yet fully developed. I might not be strong
enough. Larsan is used to wrestling and putting on the handcuffs. He
opened his eyes swollen with sleep, ready to send me flying, without in the
least believing in my reporter’s fancies. I had to assure him that the man
was there!
“ ‘That’s strange!’ he said; ‘I thought I left him this afternoon in Paris.’
“He dressed himself in haste and armed himself with a revolver. We
stole quietly into the gallery.

“ ‘Where is he?’ Larsan asked.
“ ‘In Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room.’
“ ‘And—Mademoiselle Stangerson?’
“ ‘She is not in there.’
“ ‘Let’s go in.’
“ ‘Don’t go there! On the least alarm the man will escape. He has four
ways by which to do it—the door, the window, the boudoir, or the room in
which the women are sleeping.’
“ ‘I’ll draw him from below.’
“ ‘And if you fail?—If you only succeed in wounding him—he’ll escape
again, without reckoning that he is certainly armed. No, let me direct the
expedition, and I’ll answer for everything.’
“ ‘As you like,’ he replied, with fairly good grace.
“Then, after satisfying myself that all the windows of the two galleries
were thoroughly secure, I placed Frédéric Larsan at the end of the ‘off-
turning’ gallery, before the window which I had found open and had
reclosed.
“ ‘Under no consideration,’ I said to him, ‘must you stir from this post
till I call you. The chances are even that the man, when he is pursued, will
return to this window and try to save himself that way; for it is by that way
he came in and made a way ready for his flight. You have a dangerous
post.’
“ ‘What will be yours?’ asked Fred.
“ ‘I shall spring into the room and knock him over for you.’
“ ‘Take my revolver,’ said Fred, ‘and I’ll take your stick.’
“ ‘Thanks,’ I said; ‘You are a brave man.’
“I accepted his offer. I was going to be alone with the man in the room
writing and was really thankful to have the weapon.
“I left Fred, having posted him at the window (No. 5 on the plan), and,
with the greatest precaution, went towards Monsieur Stangerson’s
apartment in the left wing of the château. I found him with Daddy Jacques,
who had faithfully obeyed my directions, confining himself to asking his
master to dress as quickly as possible. In a few words I explained to
Monsieur Stangerson what was passing. He armed himself with a revolver,
followed me, and we were all three speedily in the gallery. Since I had seen
the murderer seated at the desk ten minutes had elapsed. Monsieur
Stangerson wished to spring upon the assassin at once and kill him. I made

him understand that, above all, he must not, in his desire to kill him, miss
him.
“When I had sworn to him that his daughter was not in the room, and in
no danger, he conquered his impatience and left me to direct the operations.
I told them that they must come to me the moment I called to them, or when
I fired my revolver. I then sent Daddy Jacques to place himself before the
window at the end of the ‘right’ gallery. (No. 2 on my plan.) I chose that
position for Daddy Jacques because I believed that the murderer, tracked,
on leaving the room, would run through the gallery towards the window
which he had left open, and, instantly seeing that it was guarded by Larsan,
would pursue his course along the ‘right’ gallery. There he would encounter
Daddy Jacques, who would prevent his springing out of the window into the
park. Under that window there was a sort of buttress, while all the other
windows in the galleries were at such a height from the ground that it was
almost impossible to jump from them without breaking one’s neck. All the
doors and windows, including those of the lumber-room at the end of the
‘right’ gallery—as I had rapidly assured myself—were strongly secured.
“Having indicated to Daddy Jacques the post he was to occupy, and
having seen him take up his position, I placed Monsieur Stangerson on the
landing at the head of the stairs not far from the door of his daughter’s ante-
room. Everything led me to suppose that when I surprised the murderer in
the room, he would run by way of the ante-room, rather than the boudoir,
where the women were, and of which the door must have been locked by
Mademoiselle Stangerson herself if, as I thought, she had taken refuge in
the boudoir for the purpose of avoiding the murderer who was coming to
see her. In any case, he must return to the gallery where my people were
awaiting him at every possible issue.
“On coming there, he would see on his left, Monsieur Stangerson; he
would turn to the right, towards the ‘off-turning’ gallery—the way he had
pre-arranged for flight, where, at the intersection of the two galleries, he
would see at once, as I have explained, on his left, Frédéric Larsan at the
end of the ‘off-turning’ gallery, and in front, Daddy Jacques, at the end of
the ‘right’ gallery. Monsieur Stangerson and myself would arrive by way of
the back of the château.—He is ours!—He can no longer escape us! I was
sure of that.
“The plan I had formed seemed to me the best, the surest, and the most
simple. It would, no doubt, have been simpler still, if we had been able to

place some one directly behind the door of Mademoiselle’s boudoir, which
opened out of her bedchamber, and, in that way, had been in a position to
besiege the two doors of the room in which the man was. But we could not
penetrate the boudoir except by way of the drawing-room, the door of
which had been locked on the inside by Mademoiselle Stangerson. But even
if I had had the free disposition of the boudoir, I should have held to the
plan I had formed; because any other plan of attack would have separated
us at the moment of the struggle with the man, while my plan united us all
for the attack, at a spot which I had selected with almost mathematical
precision,—the intersection of the two galleries.
“Having so placed my people, I again left the château, hurried to my
ladder, and, replacing it, climbed up, revolver in hand.
“If there be any inclined to smile at my taking so many precautionary
measures, I refer them to the mystery of The Yellow Room, and to all the
proofs we have of the weird cunning of the murderer. Further, if there be
some who think my observations needlessly minute at a moment when they
ought to be completely held by rapidity of movement and decision of
action, I reply that I have wished to report here, at length and completely,
all the details of a plan of attack conceived so rapidly that it is only the
slowness of my pen that gives an appearance of slowness to the execution. I
have wished, by this slowness and precision, to be certain that nothing
should be omitted from the conditions under which the strange phenomenon
was produced, which, until some natural explanation of it is forthcoming,
seems to me to prove, even better than the theories of Professor Stangerson,
the Dissociation of Matter—I will even say, the instantaneous Dissociation
of Matter.”

Chapter XVI.
Strange Phenomenon of the Dissociation of Matter
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille, continued)

“I am again at the window-sill,” continues Rouletabille, “and once more
I raise my head above it. Through an opening in the curtains, the
arrangement of which has not been changed, I am ready to look, anxious to
note the position in which I am going to find the murderer,—whether his
back will still be turned towards me!—whether he is still seated at the desk
writing! But perhaps—perhaps—he is no longer there!—Yet how could he
have fled?—Was I not in possession of his ladder? I force myself to be cool.
I raise my head yet higher. I look—he is still there. I see his monstrous
back, deformed by the shadow thrown by the candle. He is no longer
writing now, and the candle is on the parquet, over which he is bending—a
position which serves my purpose.
“I hold my breath. I mount the ladder. I am on the uppermost rung of it,
and with my left hand seize hold of the window-sill. In this moment of
approaching success, I feel my heart beating wildly. I put my revolver
between my teeth. A quick spring, and I shall be on the window-ledge. But
—the ladder! I had been obliged to press on it heavily, and my foot had
scarcely left it, when I felt it swaying beneath me. It grated on the wall and
fell. But, already, my knees were touching the window-sill, and, by a
movement quick as lightning, I got on to it.
“But the murderer had been even quicker than I had been. He had heard
the grating of the ladder on the wall, and I saw the monstrous back of the
man raise itself. I saw his head. Did I really see it?—The candle on the
parquet lit up his legs only. Above the height of the table the chamber was
in darkness. I saw a man with long hair, a full beard, wild-looking eyes, a
pale face, framed in large whiskers,—as well as I could distinguish, and, as
I think—red in colour. I did not know the face. That was, in brief, the chief
sensation I received from that face in the dim half-light in which I saw it. I
did not know it—or, at least, I did not recognise it.

“Now for quick action! It was indeed time for that, for as I was about to
place my legs through the window, the man had seen me, had bounded to
his feet, had sprung—as I foresaw he would—to the door of the ante-
chamber, had time to open it, and fled. But I was already behind him,
revolver in hand, shouting ‘Help!’
“Like an arrow I crossed the room, but noticed a letter on the table as I
rushed. I almost came up with the man in the ante-room, for he had lost
time in opening the door to the gallery. I flew on wings, and in the gallery
was but a few feet behind him. He had taken, as I supposed he would, the
gallery on his right,—that is to say, the road he had prepared for his flight.
‘Help, Jacques!—help, Larsan!’ I cried. He could not escape us! I raised a
shout of joy, of savage victory. The man reached the intersection of the two
galleries hardly two seconds before me for the meeting which I had
prepared—the fatal shock which must inevitably take place at that spot! We
all rushed to the crossing-place—Monsieur Stangerson and I coming from
one end of the right gallery, Daddy Jacques coming from the other end of
the same gallery, and Frédéric Larsan coming from the ‘off-turning’ gallery.
“The man was not there!
“We looked at each other stupidly and with eyes terrified. The man had
vanished like a ghost. ‘Where is he—where is he?’ we all asked.
“ ‘It is impossible he can have escaped!’ I cried, my terror mastered by
my anger.
“ ‘I touched him!’ exclaimed Frédéric Larsan.
“ ‘I felt his breath on my face!’ cried Daddy Jacques.
“ ‘Where is he?—where is he?’ we all cried.
“We raced like madmen along the two galleries; we visited doors and
windows—they were closed, hermetically closed. They had not been
opened. Besides, the opening of a door or window by this man whom we
were hunting, without our having perceived it, would have been more
inexplicable than his disappearance?
“Where is he?—where is he?—He could not have got away by a door or
a window, nor by any other way. He could not have passed through our
bodies!
“I confess that, for the moment, I felt ‘done for.’ For the gallery was
perfectly lighted, and there was neither trap, nor secret door in the walls,
nor any sort of hiding-place. We moved the chairs and lifted the pictures.

Nothing!—nothing! We would have looked into a flower-pot, if there had
been one to look into!”
When this mystery, thanks to Rouletabille, was naturally explained, by
the help alone of his masterful mind, we were able to realise that the
murderer had got away neither by a door, a window, nor the stairs—a fact
which the judges would not admit.

Chapter XVII.
The Inexplicable Gallery
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille, continued)

“Mademoiselle Stangerson appeared at the door of her ante-room,”
continues Rouletabille’s note-book. “We were near her door in the gallery
where this incredible phenomenon had taken place. There are moments
when one feels as if one’s brain were about to burst. A bullet in the head, a
fracture of the skull, the seat of reason shattered—with only these can I
compare the sensation which exhausted and left me void of sense.
“Happily, Mademoiselle Stangerson appeared on the threshold of her
ante-room. I saw her, and that helped to relieve my chaotic state of mind. I
breathed her—I inhaled the perfume of the lady in black, whom I should
never see again. I would have given ten years of my life—half my life—to
see once more the lady in black! Alas! I no more meet her but from time to
time,—and yet!—and yet! how the memory of that perfume—felt by me
alone—carries me back to the days of my childhood.¹ It was this sharp
reminder from my beloved perfume, of the lady in black, which made me
go to her—dressed wholly in white and so pale—so pale and so beautiful!
—on the threshold of the inexplicable gallery. Her beautiful golden hair,
gathered into a knot on the back of her neck, left visible the red star on her
temple which had so nearly been the cause of her death. When I first got on
the right track of the mystery of this case I had imagined that, on the night
of the tragedy in The Yellow Room, Mademoiselle Stangerson had worn her
hair in bands. But then, how could I have imagined otherwise when I had
not been in The Yellow Room!
“But now, since the occurrence of the inexplicable gallery, I did not
reason at all. I stood there, stupid, before the apparition—so pale and so
beautiful—of Mademoiselle Stangerson. She was clad in a dressing-gown
of dreamy white. One might have taken her to be a ghost—a lovely
phantom. Her father took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, as if
he had recovered her after being long lost to him. I dared not question her.

He drew her into the room and we followed them,—for we had to know!—
The door of the boudoir was open. The terrified faces of the two nurses
craned towards us. Mademoiselle Stangerson inquired the meaning of all
the disturbance. That she was not in her own room was quite easily
explained—quite easily. She had a fancy not to sleep that night in her
chamber, but in the boudoir with her nurses, locking the door on them.
Since the night of the crime she had experienced feelings of terror, and fears
came over her that are easily to be comprehended.
“But who could imagine that on that particular night when he was to
come, she would, by a mere chance, determine to shut herself in with her
women? Who would think that she would act contrary to her father’s wish
to sleep in the drawing-room? Who could believe that the letter which had
so recently been on the table in her room would no longer be there? He who
could understand all this, would have to assume that Mademoiselle
Stangerson knew that the murderer was coming—she could not prevent his
coming again—unknown to her father, unknown to all but to Monsieur
Robert Darzac. For he must know it now—perhaps he had known it before!
Did he remember that phrase in the Élysée garden: ‘Must I commit a crime,
then, to win you?’ Against whom the crime, if not against the obstacle,
against the murderer? ‘Ah, I would kill him with my own hand!’—And I
replied, ‘You have not answered my question.’ That was the very truth. In
truth, in truth, Monsieur Darzac knew the murderer so well that—while
wishing to kill him himself—he was afraid I should find him. There could
be but two reasons why he had assisted me in my investigation. First,
because I have forced him to do it; and, second, because she would be the
better protected.
“I am in the chamber—her room. I look at her, also at the place where
the letter had just now been. She has possessed herself of it; it was evidently
intended for her—evidently. How she trembles!—Trembles at the strange
story her father is telling her, of the presence of the murderer in her
chamber, and of the pursuit. But it is plainly to be seen that she is not
wholly satisfied by the assurance given her until she had been told that the
murderer, by some incomprehensible means, had been able to elude us.
“Then follows a silence. What a silence! We are all there—looking at
her,—her father, Larsan, Daddy Jacques and I. What were we all thinking
of in the silence? After the events of that night, of the mystery of the
inexplicable gallery, of the prodigious fact of the presence of the murderer

in her room, it seemed to me that all our thoughts might have been
translated into the words which were addressed to her. ‘You who know of
this mystery, explain it to us, and we shall perhaps be able to save you.’
How I longed to save her—from herself, and, from the other!—It brought
the tears to my eyes.
“She is there, shedding about her the perfume of the lady in black. At
last, I see her, in the silence of her chamber. Since the fatal hour of the
mystery of The Yellow Room, we have hung about this invisible and silent
woman to learn what she knows. Our desires, our wish to know must be a
torment to her. Who can tell that, should we learn the secret of her mystery,
it would not precipitate a tragedy more terrible than that which had already
been enacted here? Who can tell if it might not mean her death? Yet it had
brought her close to death,—and we still knew nothing. Or, rather, there are
some of us who know nothing. But I—if I knew who, I should know all.
Who?—Who?—Not knowing who, I must remain silent, out of pity for her.
For there is no doubt that she knows how he escaped from The Yellow
Room, and yet she keeps the secret. When I know who, I will speak to him
—to him!
“She looked at us now—with a far-away look in her eyes—as if we
were not in the chamber. Monsieur Stangerson broke the silence. He
declared that, henceforth, he would no more absent himself from his
daughter’s apartments. She tried to oppose him in vain. He adhered firmly
to his purpose. He would install himself there this very night, he said.
Solely concerned for the health of his daughter, he reproached her for
having left her bed. Then he suddenly began talking to her as if she were a
little child. He smiled at her and seemed not to know either what he said or
what he did. The illustrious professor had lost his head. Mademoiselle
Stangerson in a tone of tender distress said: ‘Father!—father!’ Daddy
Jacques blows his nose, and Frédéric Larsan himself is obliged to turn away
to hide his emotion. For myself, I am able neither to think or feel. I felt an
infinite contempt for myself.
“It was the first time that Frédéric Larsan, like myself, found himself
face to face with Mademoiselle Stangerson since the attack in The Yellow
Room. Like me, he had insisted on being allowed to question the unhappy
lady; but he had not, any more than had I, been permitted. To him, as to me,
the same answer had always been given: Mademoiselle Stangerson was too
weak to receive us. The questionings of the examining magistrate had over-

fatigued her. It was evidently intended not to give us any assistance in our
researches. I was not surprised; but Frédéric Larsan had always resented
this conduct. It is true that he and I had a totally different theory of the
crime.
“I still catch myself repeating from the depths of my heart: ‘Save her!—
save her without his speaking!’ Who is he—the murderer? Take him and
shut his mouth. But Monsieur Darzac made it clear that in order to shut his
mouth he must be killed. Have I the right to kill Mademoiselle Stangerson’s
murderer? No, I had not. But let him only give me the chance! Let me find
out whether he is really a creature of flesh and blood!—Let me see his dead
body, since it cannot be taken alive.
“If I could but make this woman, who does not even look at us,
understand! She is absorbed by her fears and by her father’s distress of
mind. And I can do nothing to save her. Yes, I will go to work once more
and accomplish wonders.
“I move towards her. I would speak to her. I would entreat her to have
confidence in me. I would, in a word, make her understand—she alone—
that I know how the murderer escaped from The Yellow Room—that I have
guessed the motives for her secrecy—and that I pity her with all my heart.
But by her gestures she begged us to leave her alone, expressing weariness
and the need for immediate rest. Monsieur Stangerson asked us to go back
to our rooms and thanked us. Frédéric Larsan and I bowed to him and,
followed by Daddy Jacques, we regained the gallery. I heard Larsan
murmur: ‘Strange! strange!’ He made a sign to me to go with him into his
room. On the threshold he turned towards Daddy Jacques.
“ ‘Did you see him distinctly?’ he asked.
“ ‘Who?’
“ ‘The man?’
“ ‘Saw him!—why, he had a big red beard and red hair.’
“ ‘That’s how he appeared to me,’ I said.
“ ‘And to me,’ said Larsan.
“The great Fred and I were alone in his chamber, now, to talk over this
thing. We talked for an hour, turning the matter over and viewing it from
every side. From the questions put by him, from the explanation which he
gives me, it is clear to me that—in spite of all our senses he is persuaded the
man disappeared by some secret passage in the château known to him
alone.

“ ‘He knows the château,’ he said to me; ‘he knows it well.’
“ ‘He is a rather tall man—well-built,’ I suggested.
“ ‘He is as tall as he wants to be,’ murmured Fred.
“ ‘I understand,’ I said; ‘but how do you account for his red hair and
beard?’
“ ‘Too much beard—too much hair—false,’ says Fred.
“ ‘That’s easily said. You are always thinking of Robert Darzac. You
can’t get rid of that idea? I am certain that he is innocent.’
“ ‘So much the better. I hope so; but everything condemns him. Did you
notice the marks on the carpet?—Come and look at them.’
“ ‘I have seen them; they are the marks of the neat boots, the same as
those we saw on the border of the lake.’
“ ‘Can you deny that they belong to Robert Darzac?’
“ ‘Of course, one may be mistaken.’
“ ‘Have you noticed that those footprints only go in one direction?—that
there are no return marks? When the man came from the chamber, pursued
by all of us, his footsteps left no traces behind them.’
“ ‘He had, perhaps, been in the chamber for hours. The mud from his
boots had dried, and he moved with such rapidity on the points of his toes—
We saw him running, but we did not hear his steps.’
“I suddenly put an end to this idle chatter—void of any logic, and made
a sign to Larsan to listen.
“ ‘There—below; some one is shutting a door.’
“I rise; Larsan follows me; we descend to the ground-floor of the
château. I lead him to the little semi-circular room under the terrace beneath
the window of the ‘off-turning’ gallery. I point to the door, now closed,
open a short time before, under which a shaft of light is visible.
“ ‘The forest-keeper!’ says Fred.
“ ‘Come on!’ I whisper.
“Prepared—I know not why—to believe that the keeper is the guilty
man—I go to the door and rap smartly on it.
“Some might think that we were rather late in thinking of the keeper,
since our first business, after having found that the murderer had escaped us
in the gallery, ought to have been to search everywhere else,—around the
château,—in the park—
“Had this criticism been made at the time, we could only have answered
that the assassin had disappeared from the gallery in such a way that we

thought he was no longer anywhere! He had eluded us when we all had our
hands stretched out ready to seize him—when we were almost touching
him. We had no longer any ground for hoping that we could clear up the
mystery of that night.
“As soon as I rapped at the door it was opened, and the keeper asked us
quietly what we wanted. He was undressed and preparing to go to bed. The
bed had not yet been disturbed.
“We entered and I affected surprise.
“ ‘Not gone to bed yet?’
“ ‘No,’ he replied roughly. ‘I have been making a round of the park and
in the woods. I am only just back—and sleepy. Good-night!’
“ ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘An hour or so ago, there was a ladder close by your
window.’
“ ‘What ladder?—I did not see any ladder. Good-night!’
“And he simply put us out of the room. When we were outside I looked
at Larsan. His face was impenetrable.
“ ‘Well?’ I said.
“ ‘Well?’ he repeated.
“ ‘Does that open out any new view to you?’
“There was no mistaking Larsan’s bad temper. On re-entering the
château, I heard him mutter:
“ ‘It would be strange—very strange—if I had deceived myself on that
point!’
“He seemed to be talking to me rather than to himself. He added:
“ ‘In any case, we shall soon know what to think. The morning will
bring light with it.’ ”

¹ When I wrote these lines, Joseph Rouletabille was eighteen years of age,—and he
spoke of his “youth.” I have kept the text of my friend, but I inform the reader here that the
episode of the mystery of The Yellow Room has no connection with that of the perfume of
the lady in black. It is not my fault if, in the document which I have cited, Rouletabille
thought fit to refer to his childhood. ↩︎

Chapter XVIII.
Rouletabille Has Drawn a Circle between the Two
Bumps on His Forehead
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille, continued)

“We separated on the thresholds of our rooms, with a melancholy shake
of the hands. I was glad to have aroused in him a suspicion of error. His was
an original brain, very intelligent but—without method. I did not go to bed.
I awaited the coming of daylight and then went down to the front of the
château, and made a detour, examining every trace of footsteps coming
towards it or going from it. These, however, were so mixed and confusing
that I could make nothing of them. Here I may make a remark,—I am not
accustomed to attach an exaggerated importance to exterior signs left in the
track of a crime.
“The method which traces the criminal by means of the tracks of his
footsteps is altogether primitive. So many footprints are identical. However,
in the disturbed state of my mind, I did go into the deserted court and did
look at all the footprints I could find there, seeking for some indication, as a
basis for reasoning.
“If I could but find a right starting-point! In despair I seated myself on a
stone. For over an hour I busied myself with the common, ordinary work of
a policeman. Like the least intelligent of detectives I went on blindly over
the traces of footprints which told me just no more than they could.
“I came to the conclusion that I was a fool, lower in the scale of
intelligence than even the police of the modern romancer. Novelists build
mountains of stupidity out of a footprint on the sand, or from an impression
of a hand on the wall. That’s the way innocent men are brought to prison. It
might convince an examining magistrate or the head of a detective
department, but it’s not proof. You writers forget that what the senses
furnish is not proof. If I am taking cognisance of what is offered me by my
senses I do so but to bring the results within the circle of my reason. That

circle may be the most circumscribed, but if it is, it has this advantage—it
holds nothing but the truth! Yes, I swear that I have never used the evidence
of the senses but as servants to my reason. I have never permitted them to
become my master. They have not made of me that monstrous thing,—
worse than a blind man,—a man who sees falsely. And that is why I can
triumph over your error and your merely animal intelligence, Frédéric
Larsan.
“Be of good courage, then, friend Rouletabille; it is impossible that the
incident of the inexplicable gallery should be outside the circle of your
reason. You know that! Then have faith and take thought with yourself and
forget not that you took hold of the right end when you drew that circle in
your brain within which to unravel this mysterious play of circumstance.
“To it, once again! Go back to the gallery. Take your stand on your
reason and rest there as Frédéric Larsan rests on his cane. You will then
soon prove that the great Fred is nothing but a fool.—30th October. Noon.
“Joseph Rouletabille.”

“I acted as I planned. With head on fire, I retraced my way to the
gallery, and without having found anything more than I had seen on the
previous night, the right hold I had taken of my reason drew me to
something so important that I was obliged to cling to it to save myself from
falling.
“Now for the strength and patience to find sensible traces to fit in with
my thinking—and these must come within the circle I have drawn between
the two bumps on my forehead!—30th of October. Midnight.
“Joseph Rouletabille.”

Chapter XIX.
Rouletabille Invites Me to Breakfast at the Donjon
Inn
It was not until later that Rouletabille sent me the Note-Book in which
he had written at length the story of the phenomenon of the inexplicable
gallery. On the day I arrived at the Glandier and joined him in his room, he
recounted to me, with the greatest detail, all that I have now related, telling
me also how he had spent several hours in Paris where he had learned
nothing that could be of any help to him.
The event of the inexplicable gallery had occurred on the night between
the 29th and 30th of October, that is to say, three days before my return to
the château. It was on the 2nd of November, then, that I went back to the
Glandier, summoned there by my friend’s telegram, and taking the
revolvers with me.
I am now in Rouletabille’s room and he has finished his recital.
While he had been telling me the story I noticed him continually
rubbing the glass of the eye-glasses he had found on the side table. From
the evident pleasure he was taking in handling them I felt they must be one
of those sensible evidences destined to enter, what he had called, the circle
of the right end of his reason. That strange and unique way of his, to
express himself in terms wonderfully adequate for his thought, no longer
surprised me. It was often necessary to know his thought to understand the
terms he used; and it was not easy to penetrate into Rouletabille’s thinking.
This lad’s brain was one of the most curious things I have ever
observed. Rouletabille went on the even tenor of his way without
suspecting the astonishment and even bewilderment he roused in others. I
am sure he was not himself in the least conscious of the originality of his
genius. He was himself and at ease wherever he happened to be.
When he had finished his recital he asked me what I thought of it. I
replied that I was much puzzled by his question. Then he begged me to try,
in my turn, to take my reason in hand “by the right end.”

“Very well,” I said. “It seems to me that the point of departure of my
reason would be this—there can be no doubt that the murderer you pursued
was in the gallery.” I paused.
“After making so good a start, you ought not to stop so soon,” he
exclaimed. “Come, make another effort.”
“I’ll try. Since he disappeared from the gallery without passing through
any door or window, he must have escaped by some other opening.”
Rouletabille looked at me pityingly, smiled carelessly, and remarked
that I was reasoning like a postman, or—like Frédéric Larsan.
Rouletabille had alternate fits of admiration and disdain for the great
Fred. It all depended as to whether Larsan’s discoveries tallied with
Rouletabille’s reasoning or not. When they did he would exclaim: “He is
really great!” When they did not he would grunt and mutter, “What an ass!”
It was a petty side of the noble character of this strange youth.
We had risen, and he led me into the park. When we reached the court
and were making towards the gate, the sound of blinds thrown back against
the wall made us turn our heads, and we saw, at a window on the first floor
of the château, the ruddy and clean shaven face of a person I did not
recognise.
“Hullo!” muttered Rouletabille. “Arthur Rance!”—He lowered his head,
quickened his pace, and I heard him ask himself between his teeth: “Was he
in the château that night? What is he doing here?”
We had gone some distance from the château when I asked him who
this Arthur Rance was, and how he had come to know him. He referred to
his story of that morning and I remembered that Mr. Arthur W. Rance was
the American from Philadelphia with whom he had had so many drinks at
the Élysée reception.
“But was he not to have left France almost immediately?” I asked.
“No doubt; that’s why I am surprised to find him here still, and not only
in France, but above all, at the Glandier. He did not arrive this morning; and
he did not get here last night. He must have got here before dinner, then.
Why didn’t the concierges tell me?”
I reminded my friend, apropos of the concierges, that he had not yet told
me what had led him to get them set at liberty.
We were close to their lodge. Monsieur and Madame Bernier saw us
coming. A frank smile lit up their happy faces. They seemed to harbour no
ill-feeling because of their detention. My young friend asked them at what

hour Mr. Arthur Rance had arrived. They answered that they did not know
he was at the château. He must have come during the evening of the
previous night, but they had not had to open the gate for him, because,
being a great walker, and not wishing that a carriage should be sent to meet
him, he was accustomed to get off at the little hamlet of Saint-Michel, from
which he came to the château by way of the forest. He reached the park by
the grotto of Sainte-Geneviève, over the little gate of which, giving on to
the park, he climbed.
As the concierges spoke, I saw Rouletabille’s face cloud over and
exhibit disappointment—a disappointment, no doubt, with himself.
Evidently he was a little vexed, after having worked so much on the spot,
with so minute a study of the people and events at the Glandier, that he had
to learn now that Arthur Rance was accustomed to visit the château.
“You say that Monsieur Arthur Rance is accustomed to come to the
château. When did he come here last?”
“We can’t tell you exactly,” replied Madame Bernier—that was the
name of the concierge—“we couldn’t know while they were keeping us in
prison. Besides, as the gentleman comes to the château without passing
through our gate he goes away by the way he comes.”
“Do you know when he came the first time?”
“Oh yes, Monsieur!—nine years ago.”
“He was in France nine years ago, then,” said Rouletabille, “and, since
that time, as far as you know, how many times has he been at the
Glandier?”
“Three times.”
“When did he come the last time, as far as you know?”
“A week before the attempt in The Yellow Room.”
Rouletabille put another question—this time addressing himself
particularly to the woman:—
“In the grove of the parquet?”
“In the grove of the parquet,” she replied.
“Thanks!” said Rouletabille. “Be ready for me this evening.”
He spoke the last words with a finger on his lips as if to command
silence and discretion.
We left the park and took the way to the Donjon Inn.
“Do you often eat here?”
“Sometimes.”

“But you also take your meals at the château?”
“Yes, Larsan and I are sometimes served in one of our rooms.”
“Hasn’t Monsieur Stangerson ever invited you to his own table?”
“Never.”
“Does your presence at the château displease him?”
“I don’t know; but, in any case, he does not make us feel that we are in
his way.”
“Doesn’t he question you?”
“Never. He is in the same state of mind as he was in at the door of The
Yellow Room when his daughter was being murdered, and when he broke
open the door and did not find the murderer. He is persuaded, since he
could discover nothing, that there’s no reason why we should be able to
discover more than he did. But he has made it his duty, since Larsan
expressed his theory, not to oppose us.”
Rouletabille buried himself in thought again for some time. He aroused
himself later to tell me of how he came to set the two concierges free.
“I went lately to see Monsieur Stangerson, and took with me a piece of
paper on which was written: ‘I promise, whatever others may say, to keep in
my service my two faithful servants, Bernier and his wife.’ I explained to
him that, by signing that document, he would enable me to compel those
two people to speak out; and I declared my own assurance of their
innocence of any part in the crime. That was also his opinion. The
examining magistrate, after it was signed, presented the document to the
Berniers, who then did speak. They said, what I was certain they would say,
as soon as they were sure they would not lose their place.
“They confessed to poaching on Monsieur Stangerson’s estates, and it
was while they were poaching, on the night of the crime, that they were
found not far from the pavilion at the moment when the outrage was being
committed. Some rabbits they caught in that way 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 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 Room mystery. He explained that
Monsieur Stangerson had related to him all that had taken place in the
inexplicable gallery. He several times expressed his regret at Monsieur
Darzac’s absence from the château on all these occasions, and thought that
Monsieur Darzac had done cleverly in allying himself with Monsieur
Joseph Rouletabille, who could not fail, sooner or later, to discover the
murderer. He spoke the last sentence with unconcealed irony. Then he rose,
bowed to us, and left the inn.
Rouletabille watched him through the window.
“An odd fish, that!” he said.
“Do you think he’ll pass the night at the Glandier?” I asked.
To my amazement the young reporter answered that it was a matter of
entire indifference to him whether he did or not.
As to how we spent our time during the afternoon, all I need say is that
Rouletabille led me to the grotto of Sainte-Geneviève, and, all the time,
talked of every subject but the one with which we were most interested.
Towards evening I was surprised to find Rouletabille making none of the
preparations I had expected him to make. I spoke to him about it when night

had come on, and we were once more in his room. He replied that all his
arrangements had already been made, and this time the murderer would not
get away from him.
I expressed some doubt on this, reminding him of his disappearance in
the gallery, and suggested that the same phenomenon might occur again. He
answered that he hoped it would. He desired nothing more. I did not insist,
knowing by experience how useless that would have been. He told me that,
with the help of the concierges, the château had since early dawn, been
watched in such a way that nobody could approach it without his knowing
it, and that he had no concern for those who might have left it and remained
without.
It was then six o’clock by his watch. Rising, he made a sign to me to
follow him, and, without in the least trying to conceal his movements or the
sound of his footsteps, he led me through the gallery. We reached the
“right” gallery and came to the landing-place which we crossed. We then
continued our way in the gallery of the left wing, passing Professor
Stangerson’s apartment.
At the far end of the gallery, before coming to the donjon, is the room
occupied by Arthur Rance. We knew that, because we had seen him at the
window looking on to the court. The door of the room opens on to the end
of the gallery, exactly facing the east window, at the extremity of the “right”
gallery, where Rouletabille had placed Daddy Jacques, and commands an
uninterrupted view of the gallery from end to end of the château.
“That ‘off-turning’ gallery,” said Rouletabille, “I reserve for myself;
when I tell you you’ll come and take your place here.”
And he made me enter a little dark, triangular closet built in a bend of
the wall, to the left of the door of Arthur Rance’s room. From this recess I
could see all that occurred in the gallery as well as if I had been standing in
front of Arthur Rance’s door, and I could watch that door, too. The door of
the closet, which was to be my place of observation, was fitted with panels
of transparent glass. In the gallery, where all the lamps had been lit, it was
quite light. In the closet, however, it was quite dark. It was a splendid place
from which to observe and remain unobserved.
I was soon to play the part of a spy—a common policeman. I wonder
what my leader at the bar would have said had he known! I was not
altogether pleased with my duties, but I could not refuse Rouletabille the
assistance he had begged me to give him. I took care not to make him see

that I in the least objected, and for several reasons. I wanted to oblige him; I
did not wish him to think me a coward; I was filled with curiosity; and it
was too late for me to draw back, even had I determined to do so. That I had
not had these scruples sooner was because my curiosity had quite got the
better of me. I might also urge that I was helping to save the life of a
woman, and even a lawyer may do that conscientiously.
We returned along the gallery. On reaching the door of Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s apartment, it opened from a push given by the steward who
was waiting at the dinner-table. (Monsieur Stangerson had, for the last three
days, dined with his daughter in the drawing-room on the first floor.) As the
door remained open, we distinctly saw Mademoiselle Stangerson, taking
advantage of the steward’s absence, and while her father was stooping to
pick up something he had let fall, pour the contents of a phial into Monsieur
Stangerson’s glass.

Chapter XXI.
On the Watch
The act, which staggered me, did not appear to affect Rouletabille
much. We returned to his room and, without even referring to what we had
seen, he gave me his final instructions for the night. First we were to go to
dinner; after dinner, I was to take my stand in the dark closet and wait there
as long as it was necessary—to look out for what might happen.
“If you see anything before I do,” he explained, “you must let me know.
If the man gets into the ‘right’ gallery by any other way than the ‘off-
turning’ gallery, you will see him before I shall, because you have a view
along the whole length of the ‘right’ gallery, while I can only command a
view of the ‘off-turning’ gallery. All you need do to let me know is to undo
the cord holding the curtain of the ‘right’ gallery window, nearest to the
dark closet. The curtain will fall of itself and immediately leave a square of
shadow where previously there had been a square of light. To do this, you
need but stretch your hand out of the closet, I shall understand your signal
perfectly.”
“And then?”
“Then you will see me coming round the corner of the ‘off-turning’
gallery.”
“What am I to do then?”
“You will immediately come towards me, behind the man; but I shall
already be upon him, and shall have seen his face.”
I attempted a feeble smile.
“Why do you smile? Well, you may smile while you have the chance,
but I swear you’ll have no time for that a few hours from now.”
“And if the man escapes?”
“So much the better,” said Rouletabille, coolly, “I don’t want to capture
him. He may take himself off any way he can. I will let him go—after I have
seen his face. That’s all I want. I shall know afterwards what to do so that as
far as Mademoiselle Stangerson is concerned he shall be dead to her even

though he continues to live. If I took him alive, Mademoiselle Stangerson
and Robert Darzac would, perhaps, never forgive me! And I wish to retain
their good-will and respect.
“Seeing, as I have just now seen, Mademoiselle Stangerson pour a
narcotic into her father’s glass, so that he might not be awake to interrupt
the conversation she is going to have with her murderer, you can imagine
she would not be grateful to me if I brought the man of The Yellow Room
and the inexplicable gallery, bound and gagged, to her father. I realise now
that if I am to save the unhappy lady, I must silence the man and not capture
him. To kill a human being is no small thing. Besides, that’s not my
business, unless the man himself makes it my business. On the other hand,
to render him forever silent without the lady’s assent and confidence is to
act on one’s own initiative and assumes a knowledge of everything with
nothing for a basis. Fortunately, my friend, I have guessed, no, I have
reasoned it all out. All that I ask of the man who is coming to-night is to
bring me his face, so that it may enter—”
“Into the circle?”
“Exactly! And his face won’t surprise me!”
“But I thought you saw his face on the night when you sprang into the
chamber?”
“Only imperfectly. The candle was on the floor; and, his beard—”
“Will he wear his beard this evening?”
“I think I can say for certain that he will. But the gallery is light and,
now, I know—or—at least, my brain knows—and my eyes will see.”
“If we are here only to see him and let him escape, why are we armed?”
“Because, if the man of The Yellow Room and the inexplicable gallery
knows that I know, he is capable of doing anything! We should then have to
defend ourselves.”
“And you are sure he will come to-night?”
“As sure as that you are standing there! This morning, at half-past ten
o’clock, Mademoiselle Stangerson, in the cleverest way in the world,
arranged to have no nurses to-night. She gave them leave of absence for
twenty-four hours, under some plausible pretexts, and did not desire
anybody to be with her but her father, while they are away. Her father, who
is to sleep in the boudoir, has gladly consented to the arrangement. Darzac’s
departure and what he told me, as well as the extraordinary precautions
Mademoiselle Stangerson is taking to be alone to-night leaves me no room

for doubt. She has prepared the way for the coming of the man whom
Darzac dreads.”
“That’s awful!”
“It is!”
“And what we saw her do was done to send her father to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then there are but two of us for to-night’s work?”
“Four; the concierge and his wife will watch at all hazards. I don’t set
much value on them before—but the concierge may be useful after—if
there’s to be any killing!”
“Then you think there may be?”
“If he wishes it.”
“Why haven’t you brought in Daddy Jacques?—Have you made no use
of him to-day?”
“No,” replied Rouletabille sharply.
I kept silence for awhile, then, anxious to know his thoughts, I asked
him point blank:
“Why not tell Arthur Rance?—He may be of great assistance to us?”
“Oh!” said Rouletabille crossly, “then you want to let everybody into
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s secrets?—Come, let us go to dinner; it is time.
This evening we dine in Frédéric Larsan’s room,—at least, if he is not on
the heels of Darzac. He sticks to him like a leech. But, anyhow, if he is not
there now, I am quite sure he will be, to-night! He’s the one I am going to
knock over!”
At this moment we heard a noise in the room near us.
“It must be he,” said Rouletabille.
“I forgot to ask you,” I said, “if we are to make any allusion to to-
night’s business when we are with this policeman. I take it we are not. Is
that so?”
“Evidently. We are going to operate alone, on our own personal
account.”
“So that all the glory will be ours?”
Rouletabille laughed.
We dined with Frédéric Larsan in his room. He told us he had just come
in and invited us to be seated at table. We ate our dinner in the best of
humours, and I had no difficulty in appreciating the feelings of certainty
which both Rouletabille and Larsan felt. Rouletabille told the great Fred

that I had come on a chance visit, and that he had asked me to stay and help
him in the heavy batch of writing he had to get through for the “Epoque.” I
was going back to Paris, he said, by the eleven o’clock train, taking his
“copy,” which took a story form, recounting the principal episodes in the
mysteries of the Glandier. Larsan smiled at the explanation like a man who
was not fooled and politely refrains from making the slightest remark on
matters which did not concern him.
With infinite precautions as to the words they used, and even as to the
tones of their voices, Larsan and Rouletabille discussed, for a long time,
Mr. Arthur Rance’s appearance at the château, and his past in America,
about which they expressed a desire to know more, at any rate, so far as his
relations with the Stangersons. At one time, Larsan, who appeared to me to
be unwell, said, with an effort:
“I think, Monsieur Rouletabille, that we’ve not much more to do at the
Glandier, and that we sha’n’t sleep here many more nights.”
“I think so, too, Monsieur Fred.”
“Then you think the conclusion of the matter has been reached?”
“I think, indeed, that we have nothing more to find out,” replied
Rouletabille.
“Have you found your criminal?” asked Larsan.
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“So have I,” said Rouletabille.
“Can it be the same man?”
“I don’t know if you have swerved from your original idea,” said the
young reporter. Then he added, with emphasis: “Monsieur Darzac is an
honest man!”
“Are you sure of that?” asked Larsan. “Well, I am sure he is not. So it’s
a fight then?”
“Yes, it is a fight. But I shall beat you, Monsieur Frédéric Larsan.”
“Youth never doubts anything,” said the great Fred laughingly, and held
out his hand to me by way of conclusion.
Rouletabille’s answer came like an echo:—
“Not anything!”
Suddenly Larsan, who had risen to wish us good-night, pressed both his
hands to his chest and staggered. He was obliged to lean on Rouletabille for
support, and to save himself from falling.

“Oh! Oh!” he cried. “What is the matter with me?—Have I been
poisoned?”
He looked at us with haggard eyes. We questioned him vainly; he did
not answer us. He had sunk into an armchair and we could get not a word
from him. We were extremely distressed, both on his account and on our
own, for we had partaken of all the dishes he had eaten. He seemed to be
out of pain; but his heavy head had fallen on his shoulder and his eyelids
were tightly closed. Rouletabille bent over him, listening for the beatings of
the heart.
My friend’s face, however, when he stood up, was as calm as it had
been a moment before agitated.
“He is asleep,” he said.
He led me to his chamber, after closing Larsan’s room.
“The drug?” I asked. “Does Mademoiselle Stangerson wish to put
everybody to sleep, to-night?”
“Perhaps,” replied Rouletabille; but I could see he was thinking of
something else.
“But what about us?” I exclaimed. “How do we know that we have not
been drugged?”
“Do you feel indisposed?” Rouletabille asked me coolly.
“Not in the least.”
“Do you feel any inclination to go to sleep?”
“None whatever.”
“Well, then, my friend, smoke this excellent cigar.”
And he handed me a choice Havana, one Monsieur Darzac had given
him, while he lit his briarwood—his eternal briarwood.
We remained in his room until about ten o’clock without a word passing
between us. Buried in an armchair Rouletabille sat and smoked steadily, his
brow in thought and a far-away look in his eyes. On the stroke of ten he
took off his boots and signed to me to do the same. Standing in our socks he
said, in so low a tone that I guessed, rather than heard, the word:
“Revolver.”
I drew my revolver from my jacket pocket.
“Cock it!” he said.
I did as he directed.
Then moving towards the door of his room, he opened it with infinite
precaution; it made no sound. We were in the “off-turning” gallery.

Rouletabille made another sign to me which I understood to mean that I was
to take up my post in the dark closet.
When I was some distance from him, he rejoined me and embraced me;
and then I saw him, with the same precaution, return to his room.
Astonished by his embrace, and somewhat disquieted by it, I arrived at the
right gallery without difficulty, crossing the landing-place, and reaching the
dark closet.
Before entering it I examined the curtain-cord of the window and found
that I had only to release it from its fastening with my fingers for the curtain
to fall by its own weight and hide the square of light from Rouletabille—the
signal agreed upon. The sound of a footstep made me halt before Arthur
Rance’s door. He was not yet in bed, then! How was it that, being in the
château, he had not dined with Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter? I
had not seen him at table with them, at the moment when we looked in.
I retired into the dark closet. I found myself perfectly situated. I could
see along the whole length of the gallery. Nothing, absolutely nothing could
pass there without my seeing it. But what was going to pass there?
Rouletabille’s embrace came back to my mind. I argued that people don’t
part from each other in that way unless on an important or dangerous
occasion. Was I then in danger?
My hand closed on the butt of my revolver and I waited. I am not a
hero; but neither am I a coward.
I waited about an hour, and during all that time I saw nothing unusual.
The rain, which had begun to come down strongly towards nine o’clock,
had now ceased.
My friend had told me that, probably, nothing would occur before
midnight or one o’clock in the morning. It was not more than half-past
eleven, however, when I heard the door of Arthur Rance’s room open very
slowly. The door remained open for a minute which seemed to me a long
time. As it opened into the gallery, that is to say, outwards, I could not see
what was passing in the room behind the door.
At that moment I noticed a strange sound, three times repeated, coming
from the park. Ordinarily I should not have attached any more importance
to it than I would to the noise of cats on the roof. But the third time, the
mew was so sharp and penetrating that I remembered what I had heard
about the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu. As the cry had accompanied all the
events at the Glandier, I could not refrain from shuddering at the thought.

Directly afterwards I saw a man appear on the outside of the door, and
close it after him. At first I could not recognise him, for his back was
towards me and he was bending over a rather bulky package. When he had
closed the door and picked up the package, he turned towards the dark
closet, and then I saw who he was. He was the forest-keeper, the Green
Man. He was wearing the same costume that he had worn when I first saw
him on the road in front of the Donjon Inn. There was no doubt about his
being the keeper. As the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu came for the third
time, he put down the package and went to the second window, counting
from the dark closet. I dared not risk making any movement, fearing I might
betray my presence.
Arrived at the window, he peered out on to the park. The night was now
light, the moon showing at intervals. The Green Man raised his arms twice,
making signs which I did not understand; then, leaving the window, he
again took up his package and moved along the gallery towards the landing-
place.
Rouletabille had instructed me to undo the curtain-cord when I saw
anything. Was Rouletabille expecting this? It was not my business to
question. All I had to do was obey instructions. I unfastened the window-
cord; my heart beating the while as if it would burst. The man reached the
landing-place, but, to my utter surprise—I had expected to see him continue
to pass along the gallery—I saw him descend the stairs leading to the
vestibule.
What was I to do? I looked stupidly at the heavy curtain which had shut
the light from the window. The signal had been given, and I did not see
Rouletabille appear at the corner of the off-turning gallery. Nobody
appeared. I was exceedingly perplexed. Half an hour passed, an age to me.
What was I to do now, even if I saw something? The signal once given I
could not give it a second time. To venture into the gallery might upset all
Rouletabille’s plans. After all, I had nothing to reproach myself with, and if
something had happened that my friend had not expected he could only
blame himself. Unable to be of any further assistance to him by means of a
signal, I left the dark closet and, still in my socks, picked my steps and
made my way to the “off-turning” gallery.
There was no one there. I went to the door of Rouletabille’s room and
listened. I could hear nothing. I knocked gently. There was no answer. I

turned the door-handle and the door opened. I entered. Rouletabille lay
extended at full length on the floor.

Chapter XXII.
The Incredible Body
I bent in great anxiety over the body of the reporter and had the joy to
find that he was deeply sleeping, the same unhealthy sleep that I had seen
fall upon Frédéric Larsan. He had succumbed to the influence of the same
drug that had been mixed with our food. How was it then, that I, also, had
not been overcome by it? I reflected that the drug must have been put into
our wine; because that would explain my condition. I never drink when
eating. Naturally inclined to obesity, I am restricted to a dry diet. I shook
Rouletabille, but could not succeed in waking him. This, no doubt, was the
work of Mademoiselle Stangerson.
She had certainly thought it necessary to guard herself against this
young man as well as her father. I recalled that the steward, in serving us,
had recommended an excellent Chablis which, no doubt, had come from the
professor’s table.
More than a quarter of an hour passed. I resolved, under the pressing
circumstances, to resort to extreme measures. I threw a pitcher of cold
water over Rouletabille’s head. He opened his eyes. I beat his face, and
raised him up. I felt him stiffen in my arms and heard him murmur: “Go on,
go on; but don’t make any noise.” I pinched him and shook him until he
was able to stand up. We were saved!
“They sent me to sleep,” he said. “Ah! I passed an awful quarter of an
hour before giving way. But it is over now. Don’t leave me.”
He had no sooner uttered those words than we were thrilled by a
frightful cry that rang through the château,—a veritable death cry.
“Malheur!” roared Rouletabille; “we shall be too late!”
He tried to rush to the door, but he was too dazed, and fell against the
wall. I was already in the gallery, revolver in hand, rushing like a madman
towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room. The moment I arrived at the
intersection of the “off-turning” gallery and the “right” gallery, I saw a

figure leaving her apartment, which, in a few strides had reached the
landing-place.
I was not master of myself. I fired. The report from the revolver made a
deafening noise; but the man continued his flight down the stairs. I ran
behind him, shouting: “Stop!—stop! or I will kill you!” As I rushed after
him down the stairs, I came face to face with Arthur Rance coming from the
left wing of the château, yelling: “What is it? What is it?” We arrived
almost at the same time at the foot of the staircase. The window of the
vestibule was open. We distinctly saw the form of a man running away.
Instinctively we fired our revolvers in his direction. He was not more than
ten paces in front of us; he staggered and we thought he was going to fall.
We had sprung out of the window, but the man dashed off with renewed
vigour. I was in my socks, and the American was barefooted. There being
no hope of overtaking him, we fired our last cartridges at him. But he still
kept on running, going along the right side of the court towards the end of
the right wing of the château, which had no other outlet than the door of the
little chamber occupied by the forest-keeper.
The man, though he was evidently wounded by our bullets, was now
twenty yards ahead of us. Suddenly, behind us, and above our heads, a
window in the gallery opened and we heard the voice of Rouletabille crying
out desperately:—
“Fire, Bernier!—Fire!”
At that moment the clear moonlight night was further lit by a broad
flash. By its light we saw Daddy Bernier with his gun on the threshold of
the donjon door.
He had taken good aim. The shadow fell. But as it had reached the end
of the right wing of the château, it fell on the other side of the angle of the
building; that is to say, we saw it about to fall, but not the actual sinking to
the ground. Bernier, Arthur Rance and myself reached the other side twenty
seconds later. The shadow was lying dead at our feet.
Aroused from his lethargy by the cries and reports, Larsan opened the
window of his chamber and called out to us. Rouletabille, quite awake now,
joined us at the same moment, and I cried out to him:
“He is dead!—is dead!”
“So much the better,” he said. “Take him into the vestibule of the
château.” Then as if on second thought, he said: “No!—no! Let us put him
in his own room.”

Rouletabille knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Naturally, this did
not surprise me.
“He is evidently not there, otherwise he would have come out,” said the
reporter. “Let us carry him to the vestibule then.”
Since reaching the dead shadow, a thick cloud had covered the moon
and darkened the night, so that we were unable to make out the features.
Daddy Jacques, who had now joined us, helped us to carry the body into the
vestibule, where we laid it down on the lower step of the stairs. On the way,
I had felt my hands wet from the warm blood flowing from the wounds.
Daddy Jacques flew to the kitchen and returned with a lantern. He held
it close to the face of the dead shadow, and we recognised the keeper, the
man called by the landlord of the Donjon Inn the Green Man, whom, an
hour earlier, I had seen come out of Arthur Rance’s chamber carrying a
parcel. But what I had seen I could only tell Rouletabille later, when we
were alone.

Rouletabille and Frédéric Larsan experienced a cruel disappointment at
the result of the night’s adventure. They could only look in consternation
and stupefaction at the body of the Green Man.
Daddy Jacques showed a stupidly sorrowful face and with silly
lamentations kept repeating that we were mistaken—the keeper could not
be the assailant. We were obliged to compel him to be quiet. He could not
have shown greater grief had the body been that of his own son. I noticed,
while all the rest of us were more or less undressed and barefooted, that he
was fully clothed.
Rouletabille had not left the body. Kneeling on the flagstones by the
light of Daddy Jacques’s lantern he removed the clothes from the body and
laid bare its breast. Then snatching the lantern from Daddy Jacques, he held
it over the corpse and saw a gaping wound. Rising suddenly he exclaimed
in a voice filled with savage irony:—
“The man you believe to have been shot was killed by the stab of a
knife in his heart!”
I thought Rouletabille had gone mad; but, bending over the body, I
quickly satisfied myself that Rouletabille was right. Not a sign of a bullet
anywhere—the wound, evidently made by a sharp blade, had penetrated the
heart.

Chapter XXIII.
The Double Scent
I had hardly recovered from the surprise into which this new discovery
had plunged me, when Rouletabille touched me on the shoulder and asked
me to follow him into his room.
“What are we going to do there?”
“To think the matter over.”
I confess I was in no condition for doing much thinking, nor could I
understand how Rouletabille could so control himself as to be able calmly
to sit down for reflection when he must have known that Mademoiselle
Stangerson was at that moment almost on the point of death. But his self-
control was more than I could explain. Closing the door of his room, he
motioned me to a chair and, seating himself before me, took out his pipe.
We sat there for some time in silence and then I fell asleep.
When I awoke it was daylight. It was eight o’clock by my watch.
Rouletabille was no longer in the room. I rose to go out when the door
opened and my friend re-entered. He had evidently lost no time.
“How about Mademoiselle Stangerson?” I asked him.
“Her condition, though very alarming, is not desperate.”
“When did you leave this room?”
“Towards dawn.”
“I guess you have been hard at work?”
“Rather!”
“Have you found out anything?”
“Two sets of footprints!”
“Do they explain anything?”
“Yes.”
“Have they anything to do with the mystery of the keeper’s body?”
“Yes; the mystery is no longer a mystery. This morning, walking round
the château, I found two distinct sets of footprints, made at the same time,
last night. They were made by two persons walking side by side. I followed

them from the court towards the oak grove. Larsan joined me. They were
the same kind of footprints as were made at the time of the assault in The
Yellow Room—one set was from clumsy boots and the other was made by
neat ones, except that the big toe of one of the sets was of a different size
from the one measured in The Yellow Room incident. I compared the marks
with the paper patterns I had previously made.
“Still following the tracks of the prints, Larsan and I passed out of the
oak grove and reached the border of the lake. There they turned off to a
little path leading to the high road to Epinay where we lost the traces in the
newly macadamised highway.
“We went back to the château and parted at the courtyard. We met
again, however, in Daddy Jacques’s room to which our separate trains of
thinking had led us both. We found the old servant in bed. His clothes on
the chair were wet through and his boots very muddy. He certainly did not
get into that state in helping us to carry the body of the keeper. It was not
raining then. Then his face showed extreme fatigue and he looked at us out
of terror-stricken eyes.
“On our first questioning him he told us that he had gone to bed
immediately after the doctor had arrived. On pressing him, however, for it
was evident to us he was not speaking the truth, he confessed that he had
been away from the château. He explained his absence by saying that he
had a headache and went out into the fresh air, but had gone no further than
the oak grove. When we then described to him the whole route he had
followed, he sat up in bed trembling.
“ ‘And you were not alone!’ cried Larsan.
“ ‘Did you see it then?’ gasped Daddy Jacques.
“ ‘What?’ I asked.
“ ‘The phantom—the black phantom!’
“Then he told us that for several nights he had seen what he kept calling
the black phantom. It came into the park at the stroke of midnight and
glided stealthily through the trees; it appeared to him to pass through the
trunks of the trees. Twice he had seen it from his window, by the light of the
moon, and had risen and followed the strange apparition. The night before
last he had almost overtaken it; but it had vanished at the corner of the
donjon. Last night, however, he had not left the château, his mind being
disturbed by a presentiment that some new crime would be attempted.
Suddenly he saw the black phantom rush out from somewhere in the middle

of the court. He followed it to the lake and to the high road to Epinay,
where the phantom suddenly disappeared.
“ ‘Did you see his face?’ demanded Larsan.
“ ‘No!—I saw nothing but black veils.’
“ ‘Did you go out after what passed on the gallery?’
“ ‘I could not!—I was terrified.’
“ ‘Daddy Jacques,’ I said, in a threatening voice, ‘you did not follow it;
you and the phantom walked to Epinay together—arm in arm!’
“ ‘No!’ he cried, turning his eyes away, ‘I did not. It came on to pour,
and—I turned back. I don’t know what became of the black phantom.’
“We left him, and when we were outside I turned to Larsan, looking him
full in the face, and put my question suddenly to take him off his guard:
“ ‘An accomplice?’
“ ‘How can I tell?’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You can’t be
sure of anything in a case like this. Twenty-four hours ago I would have
sworn that there was no accomplice!’ He left me saying he was off to
Epinay.”
“Well, what do you make of it?” I asked Rouletabille, after he had
ended his recital. “Personally I am utterly in the dark. I can’t make anything
out of it. What do you gather?”
“Everything! Everything!” he exclaimed. “But,” he said abruptly, “let’s
find out further about Mademoiselle Stangerson.”

Chapter XXIV.
Rouletabille Knows the Two Halves of the
Murderer
Mademoiselle Stangerson had been for the second time almost
murdered. Unfortunately, she was in too weak a state to bear the severer
injuries of this second attack as well as she had those of the first. She had
received three wounds in the breast from the murderer’s knife, and she lay
long between life and death. Her strong physique, however, saved her; but
though she recovered physically it was found that her mind had been
affected. The slightest allusion to the terrible incident sent her into delirium,
and the arrest of Robert Darzac which followed on the day following the
tragic death of the keeper seemed to sink her fine intelligence into complete
melancholia.
Robert Darzac arrived at the château towards half-past nine. I saw him
hurrying through the park, his hair and clothes in disorder and his face a
deadly white. Rouletabille and I were looking out of a window in the
gallery. He saw us, and gave a despairing cry: “I’m too late!”
Rouletabille answered: “She lives!”
A minute later Darzac had gone into Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room
and, through the door, we could hear his heart-rending sobs.

“There’s a fate about this place!” groaned Rouletabille. “Some infernal
gods must be watching over the misfortunes of this family!—If I had not
been drugged, I should have saved Mademoiselle Stangerson. I should have
silenced him forever. And the keeper would not have been killed!”

Monsieur Darzac came in to speak with us. His distress was terrible.
Rouletabille told him everything: his preparations for Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s safety; his plans for either capturing or for disposing of the

assailant for ever; and how he would have succeeded had it not been for the
drugging.
“If only you had trusted me!” said the young man, in a low tone, “if you
had but begged Mademoiselle Stangerson to confide in me!—But, then,
everybody here distrusts everybody else, the daughter distrusts her father,
and even her lover. While you ask me to protect her she is doing all she can
to frustrate me. That was why I came on the scene too late!”
At Monsieur Robert Darzac’s request Rouletabille described the whole
scene. Leaning on the wall, to prevent himself from falling, he had made his
way to Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room, while we were running after the
supposed murderer. The ante-room door was open and when he entered he
found Mademoiselle Stangerson lying partly thrown over the desk. Her
dressing-gown was dyed with the blood flowing from her bosom. Still
under the influence of the drug, he felt he was walking in a horrible
nightmare.
He went back to the gallery automatically, opened a window, shouted
his order to fire, and then returned to the room. He crossed the deserted
boudoir, entered the drawing-room, and tried to rouse Monsieur Stangerson
who was lying on a sofa. Monsieur Stangerson rose stupidly and let himself
be drawn by Rouletabille into the room where, on seeing his daughter’s
body, he uttered a heart-rending cry. Both united their feeble strength and
carried her to her bed.
On his way to rejoin us Rouletabille passed by the desk. On the floor,
near it, he saw a large packet. He knelt down and, finding the wrapper
loose, he examined it, and made out an enormous quantity of papers and
photographs. On one of the papers he read: “New differential electroscopic
condenser. Fundamental properties of substance intermediary between
ponderable matter and imponderable ether.” Strange irony of fate that the
professor’s precious papers should be restored to him at the very time when
an attempt was being made to deprive him of his daughter’s life! What are
papers worth to him now?

The morning following that awful night saw Monsieur de Marquet once
more at the château, with his Registrar and gendarmes. Of course we were
all questioned. Rouletabille and I had already agreed on what to say. I kept
back any information as to my being in the dark closet and said nothing

about the drugging. We did not wish to suggest in any way that
Mademoiselle Stangerson had been expecting her nocturnal visitor. The
poor woman might, perhaps, never recover, and it was none of our business
to lift the veil of a secret the preservation of which she had paid for so
dearly.
Arthur Rance told everybody, in a manner so natural that it astonished
me, that he had last seen the keeper towards eleven o’clock of that fatal
night. He had come for his valise he said, which he was to take for him
early next morning to the Saint-Michel station; and had been kept out late
running after poachers. Arthur Rance had, indeed, intended to leave the
château and, according to his habit, to walk to the station.
Monsieur Stangerson confirmed what Rance had said, adding that he
had not asked Rance to dine with him because his friend had taken his final
leave of them both earlier in the evening. Monsieur Rance had had tea
served him in his room, because he had complained of a slight
indisposition.
Bernier testified, instructed by Rouletabille, that the keeper had ordered
him to meet at a spot near the oak grove, for the purpose of looking out for
poachers. Finding that the keeper did not keep his appointment, he, Bernier,
had gone in search of him. He had almost arrived at the donjon, when he
saw a figure running swiftly in a direction opposite to him, towards the
right wing of the château. He heard revolver shots from behind the figure
and saw Rouletabille at one of the gallery windows. He heard Rouletabille
call out to him to fire, and he had fired. He believed he had killed the man
until he learned, after Rouletabille had uncovered the body, that the man
had died from a knife thrust. Who had given it he could not imagine.
“Nobody could have been near the spot without my seeing him.” When the
examining magistrate reminded him that the spot where the body was found
was very dark and that he himself had not been able to recognise the keeper
before firing, Daddy Bernier replied that neither had they seen the other
body; nor had they found it. In the narrow court where five people were
standing it would have been strange if the other body, had it been there,
could have escaped. The only door that opened into the court was that of the
keeper’s room, and that door was closed, and the key of it was found in the
keeper’s pocket.
However that might be, the examining magistrate did not pursue his
inquiry further in this direction. He was evidently convinced that we had

missed the man we were chasing and we had come upon the keeper’s body
in our chase. This matter of the keeper was another matter entirely. He
wanted to satisfy himself about that without any further delay. Probably it
chimed in with the conclusions he had already arrived at as to the keeper
and his intrigues with the wife of Mathieu the landlord of the Donjon Inn.
This Mathieu, later in the afternoon, was arrested and taken to Corbeil in
spite of his rheumatism. He had been heard to threaten the keeper, and
though no evidence against him had been found at his inn, the evidence of
carters who had heard the threats was enough to justify his retention.
The examination had proceeded thus far when, to our surprise, Frédéric
Larsan returned to the château. He was accompanied by one of the
employés of the railway. At that moment Rance and I were in the vestibule
discussing Mathieu’s guilt or innocence, while Rouletabille stood apart
buried, apparently, in thought. The examining magistrate and his Registrar
were in the little green drawing-room, while Darzac was with the doctor
and Stangerson in the lady’s chamber. As Frédéric Larsan entered the
vestibule with the railway employé, Rouletabille and I at once recognised
him by the small blond beard. We exchanged meaning glances. Larsan had
himself announced to the examining magistrate by the gendarme and
entered with the railway servant as Daddy Jacques came out. Some ten
minutes went by during which Rouletabille appeared extremely impatient.
The door of the drawing-room was then opened and we heard the
magistrate calling to the gendarme who entered. Presently he came out,
mounted the stairs and, coming back shortly, went in to the magistrate and
said:—
“Monsieur,—Monsieur Robert Darzac will not come!”
“What! Not come!” cried Monsieur de Marquet.
“He says he cannot leave Mademoiselle Stangerson in her present
state.”
“Very well,” said Monsieur de Marquet; “then we’ll go to him.”
Monsieur de Marquet and the gendarme mounted the stairs. He made a
sign to Larsan and the railway employé to follow. Rouletabille and I went
along too.
On reaching the door of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber, Monsieur
de Marquet knocked. A chambermaid appeared. It was Sylvia, with her hair
all in disorder and consternation showing on her face.
“Is Monsieur Stangerson within?” asked the magistrate.

“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Tell him that I wish to speak with him.”
Stangerson came out. His appearance was wretched in the extreme.
“What do you want?” he demanded of the magistrate. “May I not be left
in peace, Monsieur?”
“Monsieur,” said the magistrate, “it is absolutely necessary that I should
see Monsieur Darzac at once. If you cannot induce him to come, I shall be
compelled to use the help of the law.”
The professor made no reply. He looked at us all like a man being led to
execution, and then went back into the room.
Almost immediately after Monsieur Robert Darzac came out. He was
very pale. He looked at us and, his eyes falling on the railway servant, his
features stiffened and he could hardly repress a groan.
We were all much moved by the appearance of the man. We felt that
what was about to happen would decide the fate of Monsieur Robert
Darzac. Frédéric Larsan’s face alone was radiant, showing a joy as of a dog
that had at last got its prey.
Pointing to the railway servant, Monsieur de Marquet said to Monsieur
Darzac:
“Do you recognise this man, Monsieur?”
“I do,” said Monsieur Darzac, in a tone which he vainly tried to make
firm. “He is an employé at the station at Epinay-sur-Orge.”
“This young man,” went on Monsieur de Marquet, “affirms that he saw
you get off the train at Epinay-sur-Orge—”
“That night,” said Monsieur Darzac, interrupting, “at half-past ten—it is
quite true.”
An interval of silence followed.
“Monsieur Darzac,” the magistrate went on in a tone of deep emotion,
“Monsieur Darzac, what were you doing that night, at Epinay-sur-Orge—at
that time?”
Monsieur Darzac remained silent, simply closing his eyes.
“Monsieur Darzac,” insisted Monsieur de Marquet, “can you tell me
how you employed your time, that night?”
Monsieur Darzac opened his eyes. He seemed to have recovered his
self-control.
“No, Monsieur.”

“Think, Monsieur! for, if you persist in your strange refusal, I shall be
under the painful necessity of keeping you at my disposition.”
“I refuse.”
“Monsieur Darzac!—in the name of the law, I arrest you!”
The magistrate had no sooner pronounced the words than I saw
Rouletabille move quickly towards Monsieur Darzac. He would certainly
have spoken to him, but Darzac, by a gesture, held him off. As the
gendarme approached his prisoner, a despairing cry rang through the room:
—
“Robert!—Robert!”
We recognised the voice of Mademoiselle Stangerson. We all
shuddered. Larsan himself turned pale. Monsieur Darzac, in response to the
cry, had flown back into the room.
The magistrate, the gendarme, and Larsan followed closely after.
Rouletabille and I remained on the threshold. It was a heart-breaking sight
that met our eyes. Mademoiselle Stangerson, with a face of deathly pallor,
had risen on her bed, in spite of the restraining efforts of two doctors and
her father. She was holding out her trembling arms towards Robert Darzac
on whom Larsan and the gendarme had laid hands. Her distended eyes saw
—she understood—her lips seemed to form a word, but nobody made it out;
and she fell back insensible.
Monsieur Darzac was hurried out of the room and placed in the
vestibule to wait for the vehicle Larsan had gone to fetch. We were all
overcome by emotion and even Monsieur de Marquet had tears in his eyes.
Rouletabille took advantage of the opportunity to say to Monsieur Darzac:
—
“Are you going to put in any defense?”
“No!” replied the prisoner.
“Very well, then I will, Monsieur.”
“You cannot do it,” said the unhappy man with a faint smile.
“I can—and I will.”
Rouletabille’s voice had in it a strange strength and confidence.
“I can do it, Monsieur Robert Darzac, because I know more than you
do!”
“Come! Come!” murmured Darzac, almost angrily.
“Have no fear! I shall know only what will benefit you.”
“You must know nothing, young man, if you want me to be grateful.”

Rouletabille shook his head, going close up to Darzac.
“Listen to what I am about to say,” he said in a low tone, “and let it give
you confidence. You do not know the name of the murderer. Mademoiselle
Stangerson knows it; but only half of it; but I know his two halves; I know
the whole man!”
Robert Darzac opened his eyes, with a look that showed he had not
understood a word of what Rouletabille had said to him. At that moment the
conveyance arrived, driven by Frédéric Larsan. Darzac and the gendarme
entered it, Larsan remaining on the driver’s seat. The prisoner was taken to
Corbeil.

Chapter XXV.
Rouletabille Goes on a Journey
That same evening Rouletabille and I left the Glandier. We were very
glad to get away and there was nothing more to keep us there. I declared my
intention to give up the whole matter. It had been too much for me.
Rouletabille, with a friendly tap on my shoulder, confessed that he had
nothing more to learn at the Glandier; he had learned there all it had to tell
him. We reached Paris about eight o’clock, dined, and then, tired out, we
separated, agreeing to meet the next morning at my rooms.
Rouletabille arrived next day at the hour agreed on. He was dressed in a
suit of English tweed, with an ulster on his arm, and a valise in his hand.
Evidently he had prepared himself for a journey.
“How long shall you be away?” I asked.
“A month or two,” he said. “It all depends.”
I asked him no more questions.
“Do you know,” he asked, “what the word was that Mademoiselle
Stangerson tried to say before she fainted?”
“No—nobody heard it.”
“I heard it!” replied Rouletabille. “She said ‘Speak!’ ”
“Do you think Darzac will speak?”
“Never.”
I was about to make some further observations, but he wrung my hand
warmly and wished me good-bye. I had only time to ask him one question
before he left.
“Are you not afraid that other attempts may be made while you’re
away?”
“No! Not now that Darzac is in prison,” he answered.
With this strange remark he left. I was not to see him again until the day
of Darzac’s trial at the court when he appeared to explain the inexplicable.

Chapter XXVI.
In Which Joseph Rouletabille is Awaited with
Impatience
On the 15th of January, that is to say, two months and a half after the
tragic events I have narrated, the “Epoque” printed, as the first column of
the front page, the following sensational article:—
“The Seine-et-Oise jury is summoned to-day to give its verdict on one
of the most mysterious affairs in the annals of crime. There never has been
a case with so many obscure, incomprehensible, and inexplicable points.
And yet the prosecution has not hesitated to put into the prisoner’s dock a
man who is respected, esteemed, and loved by all who knew him—a young
savant, the hope of French science, whose whole life has been devoted to
knowledge and truth. When Paris heard of Monsieur Robert Darzac’s arrest
a unanimous cry of protest arose from all sides. The whole Sorbonne,
disgraced by this act of the examining magistrate, asserted its belief in the
innocence of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé. Monsieur Stangerson was
loud in his denunciation of this miscarriage of justice. There is no doubt in
the mind of anybody that could the victim speak she would claim from the
jurors of Seine-et-Oise the man she wishes to make her husband and whom
the prosecution would send to the scaffold. It is to be hoped that
Mademoiselle Stangerson will shortly recover her reason, which has been
temporarily unhinged by the horrible mystery at the Glandier. The question
before the jury is the one we propose to deal with this very day.
“We have decided not to permit twelve worthy men to commit a
disgraceful miscarriage of justice. We confess that the remarkable
coincidences, the many convicting evidences, and the inexplicable silence
on the part of the accused, as well as a total absence of any evidence for an
alibi, were enough to warrant the bench of judges in assuming that in this
man alone was centered the truth of the affair. The evidences are, in
appearance, so overwhelming against Monsieur Robert Darzac that a
detective so well informed, so intelligent, and generally so successful, as

Monsieur Frédéric Larsan, may be excused for having been misled by them.
Up to now everything has gone against Monsieur Robert Darzac in the
magisterial inquiry. To-day, however, we are going to defend him before the
jury, and we are going to bring to the witness stand a light that will illumine
the whole mystery of the Glandier. For we possess the truth.
“If we have not spoken sooner, it is because the interests of certain
parties in the case demand that we should take that course. Our readers may
remember the unsigned reports we published relating to the ‘Left foot of the
Rue Oberkampf,’ at the time of the famous robbery of the Crédit Universel,
and the famous case of the ‘Gold Ingots of the Mint.’ In both those cases we
were able to discover the truth long before even the excellent ingenuity of
Frédéric Larsan had been able to unravel it. These reports were written by
our youngest reporter, Joseph Rouletabille, a youth of eighteen, whose fame
to-morrow will be world-wide. When attention was first drawn to the
Glandier case, our youthful reporter was on the spot and installed in the
château, when every other representative of the press had been denied
admission. He worked side by side with Frédéric Larsan. He was amazed
and terrified at the grave mistake the celebrated detective was about to
make, and tried to divert him from the false scent he was following; but the
great Fred refused to receive instructions from this young journalist. We
know now to where it brought Monsieur Robert Darzac.
“But now, France must know—the whole world must know, that, on the
very evening on which Monsieur Darzac was arrested, young Rouletabille
entered our editorial office and informed us that he was about to go away on
a journey. ‘How long I shall be away,’ he said, ‘I cannot say; perhaps a
month—perhaps two—perhaps three—perhaps I may never return. Here is
a letter. If I am not back on the day on which Monsieur Darzac is to appear
before the Assize Court, have this letter opened and read to the court, after
all the witnesses have been heard. Arrange it with Monsieur Darzac’s
counsel. Monsieur Darzac is innocent. In this letter is written the name of
the murderer; and—that is all I have to say. I am leaving to get my proofs—
for the irrefutable evidence of the murderer’s guilt.’ Our reporter departed.
For a long time we were without news from him; but, a week ago, a
stranger called upon our manager and said: ‘Act in accordance with the
instructions of Joseph Rouletabille, if it becomes necessary to do so. The
letter left by him holds the truth.’ The gentleman who brought us this
message would not give us his name.

“To-day, the 15th of January, is the day of the trial. Joseph Rouletabille
has not returned. It may be we shall never see him again. The press also
counts its heroes, its martyrs to duty. It may be he is no longer living. We
shall know how to avenge him. Our manager will, this afternoon, be at the
Court of Assize at Versailles, with the letter—the letter containing the name
of the murderer!”

At the head of the article appeared a portrait of Rouletabille—the same
given as the frontispiece to this book.

Those Parisians who flocked the Assize Court at Versailles, to be
present at the trial of what was known as the “Mystery of The Yellow
Room,” will certainly remember the terrible crush at the Saint-Lazare
station. The ordinary trains were so full that special trains had to be made
up. The article in the “Epoque” had so excited the populace that discussion
was rife everywhere even to the verge of blows. Partisans of Rouletabille
fought with the supporters of Frédéric Larsan. Curiously enough the
excitement was due less to the fact that an innocent man was in danger of a
wrongful conviction than to the interest taken in their own ideas as to the
Mystery of The Yellow Room. Each had his explanation to which each held
fast. Those who explained the crime on Frédéric Larsan’s theory would not
admit that there could be any doubt as to the perspicacity of the popular
detective. Others who had arrived at a different solution, naturally insisted
that this was Rouletabille’s explanation, though they did not as yet know
what that was.
With the day’s “Epoque” in their hands, the “Larsans” and the
“Rouletabilles” fought and shoved each other on the steps of the Palais de
Justice, right into the court itself. Those who could not get in remained in
the neighbourhood until evening and were, with great difficulty, kept back
by the soldiery and the police. They became hungry for news, welcoming
the most absurd rumours. At one time the rumour spread that Monsieur
Stangerson himself had been arrested in the court and had confessed to
being the murderer. This goes to show to what a pitch of madness nervous
excitement may carry people. Rouletabille was still expected. Some
pretended to know him; and when a young man with a “pass” crossed the
open space which separated the crowd from the Court House, a scuffle took

place. Cries were raised of “Rouletabille!—there’s Rouletabille!” The
arrival of the manager of the paper was the signal for a great demonstration.
Some applauded, others hissed.

The trial itself was presided over by Monsieur de Rocouz, a judge filled
with the prejudice of his class, but a man honest at heart. The witnesses had
been called. I was there, of course, as were all who had, in any way, been in
touch with the mysteries of the Glandier. Monsieur Stangerson—looking
many years older and almost unrecognisable—Larsan, Arthur Rance, with
his face ruddy as ever, Daddy Jacques, Daddy Mathieu, who was brought
into court handcuffed between two gendarmes, Madame Mathieu, in tears,
the two Berniers, the two nurses, the steward, all the domestics of the
château, the employé of the Paris Post Office, the railway employé from
Epinay, some friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson, and all
Monsieur Darzac’s witnesses. I was lucky enough to be called early in the
trial, so that I was then able to watch and be present at almost the whole of
the proceedings.
The court was so crowded that many lawyers were compelled to find
seats on the steps. Behind the bench of justices were representatives from
other benches. Monsieur Robert Darzac stood in the prisoner’s dock
between policemen, tall, handsome, and calm. A murmur of admiration
rather than of compassion greeted his appearance. He leaned forward
towards his counsel, Maître Henri Robert, who, assisted by his chief
secretary, Maître André Hesse, was busily turning over the folios of his
brief.
Many expected that Monsieur Stangerson, after giving his evidence,
would have gone over to the prisoner and shaken hands with him; but he
left the court without another word. It was remarked that the jurors
appeared to be deeply interested in a rapid conversation which the manager
of the “Epoque” was having with Maître Henri Robert. The manager, later,
sat down in the front row of the public seats. Some were surprised that he
was not asked to remain with the other witnesses in the room reserved for
them.
The reading of the indictment was got through, as it always is, without
any incident. I shall not here report the long examination to which Monsieur
Darzac was subjected. He answered all the questions quickly and easily. His

silence as to the important matters of which we know was dead against him.
It would seem as if this reticence would be fatal for him. He resented the
President’s reprimands. He was told that his silence might mean death.
“Very well,” he said; “I will submit to it; but I am innocent.”
With that splendid ability which has made his fame, Maître Robert took
advantage of the incident, and tried to show that it brought out in noble
relief his client’s character; for only heroic natures could remain silent for
moral reasons in face of such a danger. The eminent advocate however,
only succeeded in assuring those who were already assured of Darzac’s
innocence. At the adjournment Rouletabille had not yet arrived. Every time
a door opened, all eyes there turned towards it and back to the manager of
the “Epoque,” who sat impassive in his place. When he once was feeling in
his pocket a loud murmur of expectation followed. The letter!
It is not, however, my intention to report in detail the course of the trial.
My readers are sufficiently acquainted with the mysteries surrounding the
Glandier case to enable me to go on to the really dramatic dénouement of
this ever-memorable day.
When the trial was resumed, Maître Henri Robert questioned Daddy
Mathieu as to his complicity in the death of the keeper. His wife was also
brought in and was confronted by her husband. She burst into tears and
confessed that she had been the keeper’s mistress, and that her husband had
suspected it. She again, however, affirmed that he had had nothing to do
with the murder of her lover. Maître Henri Robert thereupon asked the court
to hear Frédéric Larsan on this point.
“In a short conversation which I have had with Frédéric Larsan, during
the adjournment,” declared the advocate, “he has made me understand that
the death of the keeper may have been brought about otherwise than by the
hand of Mathieu. It will be interesting to hear Frédéric Larsan’s theory.”
Frédéric Larsan was brought in. His explanation was quite clear.
“I see no necessity,” he said, “for bringing Mathieu in this. I have told
Monsieur de Marquet that the man’s threats had biassed the examining
magistrate against him. To me the attempt to murder Mademoiselle and the
death of the keeper are the work of one and the same person. Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s murderer, flying through the court, was fired on; it was
thought he was struck, perhaps killed. As a matter of fact, he only stumbled
at the moment of his disappearance behind the corner of the right wing of
the château. There he encountered the keeper who, no doubt, tried to seize

him. The murderer had in his hand the knife with which he had stabbed
Mademoiselle Stangerson and with this he killed the keeper.”
This very simple explanation appeared at once plausible and satisfying.
A murmur of approbation was heard.
“And the murderer? What became of him?” asked the President.
“He was evidently hidden in an obscure corner at the end of the court.
After the people had left the court carrying with them the body of the
keeper, the murderer quietly made his escape.”
The words had scarcely left Larsan’s mouth when from the back of the
court came a youthful voice:—
“I agree with Frédéric Larsan as to the death of the keeper; but I do not
agree with him as to the way the murderer escaped!”
Everybody turned round, astonished. The clerks of the court sprang
towards the speaker, calling out silence, and the President angrily ordered
the intruder to be immediately expelled. The same clear voice, however,
was again heard:—
“It is I, Monsieur President—Joseph Rouletabille!”

Chapter XXVII.
In Which Joseph Rouletabille Appears in All His
Glory
The excitement was extreme. Cries from fainting women were to be
heard amid the extraordinary bustle and stir. The “majesty of the law” was
utterly forgotten. The President tried in vain to make himself heard.
Rouletabille made his way forward with difficulty, but by dint of much
elbowing reached his manager and greeted him cordially. The letter was
passed to him and pocketing it he turned to the witness-box. He was dressed
exactly as on the day he left me even to the ulster over his arm. Turning to
the President, he said:—
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur President, but I have only just arrived
from America. The steamer was late. My name is Joseph Rouletabille!”
The silence which followed his stepping into the witness-box was
broken by laughter when his words were heard. Everybody seemed relieved
and glad to find him there, as if in the expectation of hearing the truth at
last.
But the President was extremely incensed:
“So, you are Joseph Rouletabille,” he replied; “well, young man, I’ll
teach you what comes of making a farce of justice. By virtue of my
discretionary power, I hold you at the court’s disposition.”
“I ask nothing better, Monsieur President. I have come here for that
purpose. I humbly beg the court’s pardon for the disturbance of which I
have been the innocent cause. I beg you to believe that nobody has a greater
respect for the court than I have. I came in as I could.” He smiled.
“Take him away!” ordered the President.
Maître Henri Robert intervened. He began by apologising for the young
man, who, he said, was moved only by the best intentions. He made the
President understand that the evidence of a witness who had slept at the
Glandier during the whole of that eventful week could not be omitted, and
the present witness, moreover, had come to name the real murderer.

“Are you going to tell us who the murderer was?” asked the President,
somewhat convinced though still sceptical.
“I have come for that purpose, Monsieur President!” replied
Rouletabille.
An attempt at applause was silenced by the usher.
“Joseph Rouletabille,” said Maître Henri Robert, “has not been
regularly subpoenaed as a witness, but I hope, Monsieur President, you will
examine him in virtue of your discretionary powers.”
“Very well!” said the President, “we will question him. But we must
proceed in order.”
The Advocate-General rose:
“It would, perhaps, be better,” he said, “if the young man were to tell us
now whom he suspects.”
The President nodded ironically:—
“If the Advocate-General attaches importance to the deposition of
Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille, I see no reason why this witness should not
give us the name of the murderer.”
A pin drop could have been heard. Rouletabille stood silent looking
sympathetically at Darzac, who, for the first time since the opening of the
trial, showed himself agitated.
“Well,” cried the President, “we wait for the name of the murderer.”
Rouletabille, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, drew his watch and,
looking at it, said:—
“Monsieur President, I cannot name the murderer before half-past six
o’clock!”
Loud murmurs of disappointment filled the room. Some of the lawyers
were heard to say: “He’s making fun of us!”
The President in a stern voice, said:—
“This joke has gone far enough. You may retire, Monsieur, into the
witnesses’ room. I hold you at our disposition.”
Rouletabille protested.
“I assure you, Monsieur President,” he cried in his sharp, clear voice,
“that when I do name the murderer you will understand why I could not
speak before half-past six. I assert this on my honour. I can, however, give
you now some explanation of the murder of the keeper. Monsieur Frédéric
Larsan, who has seen me at work at the Glandier, can tell you with what
care I studied this case. I found myself compelled to differ with him in

arresting Monsieur Robert Darzac, who is innocent. Monsieur Larsan
knows of my good faith and knows that some importance may be attached
to my discoveries, which have often corroborated his own.”
Frédéric Larsan said:—
“Monsieur President, it will be interesting to hear Monsieur Joseph
Rouletabille, especially as he differs from me.”
A murmur of approbation greeted the detective’s speech. He was a good
sportsman and accepted the challenge. The struggle between the two
promised to be exciting.
As the President remained silent, Frédéric Larsan continued:
“We agree that the murderer of the keeper was the assailant of
Mademoiselle Stangerson; but as we are not agreed as to how the murderer
escaped, I am curious to hear Monsieur Rouletabille’s explanation.”
“I have no doubt you are,” said my friend.
General laughter followed this remark. The President angrily declared
that if it was repeated, he would have the court cleared.
“Now, young man,” said the President, “you have heard Monsieur
Frédéric Larsan; how did the murderer get away from the court?”

Rouletabille looked at Madame Mathieu, who smiled back at him sadly.
“Since Madame Mathieu,” he said, “has freely admitted her intimacy
with the keeper—”
“Why, it’s the boy!” exclaimed Daddy Mathieu.
“Remove that man!” ordered the President.
Mathieu was removed from the court. Rouletabille went on:—
“Since she has made this confession, I am free to tell you that she often
met the keeper at night on the first floor of the donjon, in the room which
was once an oratory. These meetings became more frequent when her
husband was laid up by his rheumatism. She gave him morphine to ease his
pain and to give herself more time for the meetings. Madame Mathieu came
to the château that night, enveloped in a large black shawl which served
also as a disguise. This was the phantom that disturbed Daddy Jacques. She
knew how to imitate the mewing of Mother Angenoux’ cat and she would
make the cries to advise the keeper of her presence. The recent repairs of
the donjon did not interfere with their meetings in the keeper’s old room, in

the donjon, since the new room assigned to him at the end of the right wing
was separated from the steward’s room by a partition only.
“Previous to the tragedy in the court Madame Mathieu and the keeper
left the donjon together. I learnt these facts from my examination of the
footmarks in the court the next morning. Bernier, the concierge, whom I had
stationed behind the donjon—as he will explain himself—could not see
what passed in the court. He did not reach the court until he heard the
revolver shots, and then he fired. When the woman parted from the man she
went towards the open gate of the court, while he returned to his room.
“He had almost reached the door when the revolvers rang out. He had
just reached the corner when a shadow bounded by. Meanwhile, Madame
Mathieu, surprised by the revolver shots and by the entrance of people into
the court, crouched in the darkness. The court is a large one and, being near
the gate, she might easily have passed out unseen. But she remained and
saw the body being carried away. In great agony of mind she neared the
vestibule and saw the dead body of her lover on the stairs lit up by Daddy
Jacques’ lantern. She then fled; and Daddy Jacques joined her.
“That same night, before the murder, Daddy Jacques had been
awakened by the cat’s cry, and, looking through his window, had seen the
black phantom. Hastily dressing himself he went out and recognised her. He
is an old friend of Madame Mathieu, and when she saw him she had to tell
him of her relations with the keeper and begged his assistance. Daddy
Jacques took pity on her and accompanied her through the oak grove out of
the park, past the border of the lake to the road to Epinay. From there it was
but a very short distance to her home.
“Daddy Jacques returned to the château, and, seeing how important it
was for Madame Mathieu’s presence at the château to remain unknown, he
had done all he could to hide it. I appeal to Monsieur Larsan, who saw me,
next morning, examine the two sets of footprints.”
Here Rouletabille turning towards Madame Mathieu, with a bow, said:
—
“The footprints of Madame bear a strange resemblance to the neat
footprints of the murderer.”
Madame Mathieu trembled and looked at him with wide eyes as if in
wonder at what he would say next.
“Madame has a shapely foot, long and rather large for a woman. The
imprint, with its pointed toe, is very like that of the murderer’s.”

A movement in the court was repressed by Rouletabille. He held their
attention at once.
“I hasten to add,” he went on, “that I attach no importance to this.
Outward signs like these are often liable to lead us into error, if we do not
reason rightly. Monsieur Robert Darzac’s footprints are also like the
murderer’s, and yet he is not the murderer!”
The President turning to Madame Mathieu asked:—
“Is that in accordance with what you know occurred?”
“Yes, Monsieur President,” she replied, “it is as if Monsieur
Rouletabille had been behind us.”
“Did you see the murderer running towards the end of the right wing?”
“Yes, as clearly as I saw them afterwards carrying the keeper’s body.”
“What became of the murderer?—You were in the court and could
easily have seen?”
“I saw nothing of him, Monsieur President. It became quite dark just
then.”
“Then Monsieur Rouletabille,” said the President, “must explain how
the murderer made his escape.”
Rouletabille continued:
“It was impossible for the murderer to escape by the way he had entered
the court without our seeing him; or if we couldn’t see him we must
certainly have felt him, since the court is a very narrow one enclosed in
high iron railings.”
“Then if the man was hemmed in that narrow square, how is it you did
not find him?—I have been asking you that for the last half hour.”
“Monsieur President,” replied Rouletabille, “I cannot answer that
question before half-past six!”
By this time the people in the court-room were beginning to believe in
this new witness. They were amused by his melodramatic action in thus
fixing the hour; but they seemed to have confidence in the outcome. As for
the President, it looked as if he also had made up his mind to take the young
man in the same way. He had certainly been impressed by Rouletabille’s
explanation of Madame Mathieu’s part.
“Well, Monsieur Rouletabille,” he said, “as you say; but don’t let us see
any more of you before half-past six.”
Rouletabille bowed to the President, and made his way to the door of
the witnesses’ room.

I quietly made my way through the crowd and left the court almost at
the same time as Rouletabille. He greeted me heartily, and looked happy.
“I’ll not ask you, my dear fellow,” I said, smiling, “what you’ve been
doing in America; because I’ve no doubt you’ll say you can’t tell me until
after half-past six.”
“No, my dear Sainclair, I’ll tell you right now why I went to America. I
went in search of the name of the other half of the murderer!”
“The name of the other half?”
“Exactly. When we last left the Glandier I knew there were two halves
to the murderer and the name of only one of them. I went to America for the
name of the other half.”
I was too puzzled to answer. Just then we entered the witnesses’ room,
and Rouletabille was immediately surrounded. He showed himself very
friendly to all except Arthur Rance to whom he exhibited a marked coldness
of manner. Frédéric Larsan came in also. Rouletabille went up and shook
him heartily by the hand. His manner toward the detective showed that he
had got the better of the policeman. Larsan smiled and asked him what he
had been doing in America. Rouletabille began by telling him some
anecdotes of his voyage. They then turned aside together apparently with
the object of speaking confidentially. I, therefore, discreetly left them and,
being curious to hear the evidence, returned to my seat in the court-room
where the public plainly showed its lack of interest in what was going on in
their impatience for Rouletabille’s return at the appointed time.

On the stroke of half-past six Joseph Rouletabille was again brought in.
It is impossible for me to picture the tense excitement which appeared on
every face, as he made his way to the bar. Darzac rose to his feet, frightfully
pale.
The President, addressing Rouletabille, said gravely:—
“I will not ask you to take the oath, because you have not been regularly
summoned; but I trust there is no need to urge upon you the gravity of the
statement you are about to make.”
Rouletabille looked the President quite calmly and steadily in the face,
and replied:
“Yes, Monsieur.”

“At your last appearance here,” said the President, “we had arrived at
the point where you were to tell us how the murderer escaped, and also his
name. Now, Monsieur Rouletabille, we await your explanation.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” began my friend amidst a profound silence. “I
had explained how it was impossible for the murderer to get away without
being seen. And yet he was there with us in the court.”
“And you did not see him? At least that is what the prosecution
declares.”
“No! we all of us saw him, Monsieur le Président!” cried Rouletabille.
“Then why was he not arrested?”
“Because no one, besides myself, knew that he was the murderer. It
would have spoiled my plans to have had him arrested, and I had then no
proof other than my own reasoning. I was convinced we had the murderer
before us and that we were actually looking at him. I have now brought
what I consider the indisputable proof.”
“Speak out, Monsieur! Tell us the murderer’s name.”
“You will find it on the list of names present in the court on the night of
the tragedy,” replied Rouletabille.
The people present in the court-room began showing impatience. Some
of them even called for the name, and were silenced by the usher.
“The list includes Daddy Jacques, Bernier the concierge, and Mr. Arthur
Rance,” said the President. “Do you accuse any of these?”
“No, Monsieur!”
“Then I do not understand what you are driving at. There was no other
person at the end of the court.”
“Yes, Monsieur, there was, not at the end, but above the court, who was
leaning out of the window.”
“Do you mean Frédéric Larsan!” exclaimed the President.
“Yes! Frédéric Larsan!” replied Rouletabille in a ringing tone. “Frédéric
Larsan is the murderer!”

The court-room became immediately filled with loud and indignant
protests. So astonished was he that the President did not attempt to quiet it.
The quick silence which followed was broken by the distinctly whispered
words from the lips of Robert Darzac:
“It’s impossible! He’s mad!”

“You dare to accuse Frédéric Larsan, Monsieur?” asked the President.
“If you are not mad, what are your proofs?”
“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?”
“He did. I told him I would.”
“Do you mean to say that knowing Larsan was the murderer you gave
him the opportunity to escape?”
“Yes, Monsieur President, I did,” replied Rouletabille, proudly. “I am
not a policeman, I am a journalist; and my business is not to arrest people.
My business is in the service of truth, and is not that of an executioner. If
you are just, Monsieur, you will see that I am right. You can now
understand why I refrained until this hour to divulge the name. I gave
Larsan time to catch the 4-17 train for Paris, where he would know where to
hide himself, and leave no traces. You will not find Frédéric Larsan,”
declared Rouletabille, fixing his eyes on Monsieur Robert Darzac. “He is
too cunning. He is a man who has always escaped you and whom you have
long searched for in vain. If he did not succeed in outwitting me, he can yet
easily outwit any police. This man who, four years ago, introduced himself
to the Sûreté, and became celebrated as Frédéric Larsan, is notorious under
another name—a name well known to crime. Frédéric Larsan, Monsieur
President, is Ballmeyer!”

“Ballmeyer!” cried the President.
“Ballmeyer!” exclaimed Robert Darzac, springing to his feet.
“Ballmeyer!—It was true, then!”
“Ah! Monsieur Darzac; you don’t think I am mad, now!” cried
Rouletabille.
Ballmeyer! Ballmeyer! No other word could be heard in the court-room.
The President adjourned the hearing.

Those of my readers who may not have heard of Ballmeyer will wonder
at the excitement the name caused. And yet the doings of this remarkable
criminal form the subject-matter of the most dramatic narratives of the
newspapers and criminal records of the past twenty years. It had been
reported that he was dead, and thus had eluded the police as he had eluded
them throughout the whole of his career.
Ballmeyer was the best specimen of the high-class “gentleman
swindler.” He was an adept at sleight of hand tricks, and no bolder or more
ruthless crook ever lived. He was received in the best society, and was a
member of some of the most exclusive clubs. On many of his depredatory
expeditions he had not hesitated to use the knife and the mutton-bone. No
difficulty stopped him and no “operation” was too dangerous. He had been
caught, but escaped on the very morning of his trial, by throwing pepper
into the eyes of the guards who were conducting him to Court. It was
known later that, in spite of the keen hunt after him by the most expert of
detectives, he had sat that same evening at a first performance in the
Théâtre Français, without the slightest disguise.
He left France, later, to “work” America. The police there succeeded in
once capturing him, but the extraordinary man escaped the next day. It
would need a volume to recount the adventures of this master-criminal. And
yet this was the man Rouletabille had allowed to get away! Knowing all
about him and who he was, he afforded the criminal an opportunity for
another laugh at the society he had defied! I could not help admiring the
bold stroke of the young journalist, because I felt certain his motive had
been to protect both Mademoiselle Stangerson and rid Darzac of an enemy
at the same time.
The crowd had barely recovered from the effect of the astonishing
revelation when the hearing was resumed. The question in everybody’s

mind was: Admitting that Larsan was the murderer, how did he get out of
The Yellow Room?
Rouletabille was immediately called to the bar and his examination
continued.
“You have told us,” said the President, “that it was impossible to escape
from the end of the court. Since Larsan was leaning out of his window, he
had left the court. How did he do that?”
“He escaped by a most unusual way. He climbed the wall, sprang onto
the terrace, and, while we were engaged with the keeper’s body, reached the
gallery by the window. He then had little else to do than to open the
window, get in and call out to us, as if he had just come from his own room.
To a man of Ballmeyer’s strength all that was mere child’s play. And here,
Monsieur, is the proof of what I say.”
Rouletabille drew from his pocket a small packet, from which he
produced a strong iron peg.
“This, Monsieur,” he said, “is a spike which perfectly fits a hole still to
be seen in the cornice supporting the terrace. Larsan, who thought and
prepared for everything in case of any emergency, had fixed this spike into
the cornice. All he had to do to make his escape good was to plant one foot
on a stone which is placed at the corner of the château, another on this
support, one hand on the cornice of the keeper’s door and the other on the
terrace, and Larsan was clear of the ground. The rest was easy. His acting
after dinner as if he had been drugged was make believe. He was not
drugged; but he did drug me. Of course he had to make it appear as if he
also had been drugged so that no suspicion should fall on him for my
condition. Had I not been thus overpowered, Larsan would never have
entered Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber that night, and the attack on
her would not have taken place.”
A groan came from Darzac, who appeared to be unable to control his
suffering.
“You can understand,” added Rouletabille, “that Larsan would feel
himself hampered from the fact that my room was so close to his, and from
a suspicion that I would be on the watch that night. Naturally, he could not
for a moment believe that I suspected him! But I might see him leaving his
room when he was about to go to Mademoiselle Stangerson. He waited till I
was asleep, and my friend Sainclair was busy trying to rouse me. Ten
minutes after that Mademoiselle was calling out, ‘Murder!’ ”

“How did you come to suspect Larsan?” asked the President.
“My pure reason pointed to him. That was why I watched him. But I did
not foresee the drugging. He is very cunning. Yes, my pure reason pointed
to him; but I required tangible proof so that my eyes could see him as my
pure reason saw him.”
“What do you mean by your pure reason?”
“That power of one’s mind which admits of no disturbing elements to a
conclusion. The day following the incident of ‘the inexplicable gallery,’ I
felt myself losing control of it. I had allowed myself to be diverted by
fallacious evidence; but I recovered and again took hold of the right end. I
satisfied myself that the murderer could not have left the gallery, either
naturally or supernaturally. I narrowed the field of consideration to that
small circle, so to speak. The murderer could not be outside that circle. Now
who were in it? There was, first, the murderer. Then there were Daddy
Jacques, Monsieur Stangerson, Frédéric Larsan, and myself. Five persons in
all, counting in the murderer. And yet, in the gallery, there were but four.
Now since it had been demonstrated to me that the fifth could not have
escaped, it was evident that one of the four present in the gallery must be a
double—he must be himself and the murderer also. Why had I not seen this
before? Simply because the phenomenon of the double personality had not
occurred before in this inquiry.
“Now who of the four persons in the gallery was both that person and
the assassin? I went over in my mind what I had seen. I had seen at one and
the same time, Monsieur Stangerson and the murderer, Daddy Jacques and
the murderer, myself and the murderer; so that the murderer, then, could not
be either Monsieur Stangerson, Daddy Jacques, or myself. Had I seen
Frédéric Larsan and the murderer at the same time?—No!—Two seconds
had passed, during which I lost sight of the murderer; for, as I have noted in
my papers, he arrived two seconds before Monsieur Stangerson, Daddy
Jacques, and myself at the meeting-point of the two galleries. That would
have given Larsan time to go through the ‘off-turning’ gallery, snatch off his
false beard, return, and hurry with us as if, like us, in pursuit of the
murderer. I was sure now I had got hold of the right end in my reasoning.
With Frédéric Larsan was now always associated, in my mind, the
personality of the unknown of whom I was in pursuit—the murderer, in
other words.

“That revelation staggered me. I tried to regain my balance by going
over the evidences previously traced, but which had diverted my mind and
led me away from Frédéric Larsan. What were these evidences?
“1st. I had seen the unknown in Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber.
On going to Frédéric Larsan’s room, I had found Larsan sound asleep.
“2nd. The ladder.
“3rd. I had placed Frédéric Larsan at the end of the ‘off-turning’ gallery
and had told him that I would rush into Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room to
try to capture the murderer. Then I returned to Mademoiselle Stangerson’s
chamber where I had seen the unknown.
“The first evidence did not disturb me much. It is likely that, when I
descended from my ladder, after having seen the unknown in Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s chamber, Larsan had already finished what he was doing
there. Then, while I was re-entering the château, Larsan went back to his
own room and, undressing himself, went to sleep.
“Nor did the second evidence trouble me. If Larsan were the murderer,
he could have no use for a ladder; but the ladder might have been placed
there to give an appearance to the murderer’s entrance from without the
château; especially as Larsan had accused Darzac and Darzac was not in the
château that night. Further, the ladder might have been placed there to
facilitate Larsan’s flight in case of absolute necessity.
“But the third evidence puzzled me altogether. Having placed Larsan at
the end of the ‘off-turning gallery,’ I could not explain how he had taken
advantage of the moment when I had gone to the left wing of the château to
find Monsieur Stangerson and Daddy Jacques, to return to Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s room. It was a very dangerous thing to do. He risked being
captured,—and he knew it. And he was very nearly captured. He had not
had time to regain his post, as he had certainly hoped to do. He had then a
very strong reason for returning to his room. As for myself, when I sent
Daddy Jacques to the end of the ‘right gallery,’ I naturally thought that
Larsan was still at his post. Daddy Jacques, in going to his post, had not
looked, when he passed, to see whether Larsan was at his post or not.
“What, then, was the urgent reason which had compelled Larsan to go
to the room a second time? I guessed it to be some evidence of his presence
there. He had left something very important in that room. What was it? And
had he recovered it? I begged Madame Bernier who was accustomed to

clean the room to look, and she found a pair of eye-glasses—this pair,
Monsieur President!”
And Rouletabille drew the eye-glasses, of which we know, from his
pocket.
“When I saw these eye-glasses,” he continued, “I was utterly
nonplussed. I had never seen Larsan wear eye-glasses. What did they mean?
Suddenly I exclaimed to myself: ‘I wonder if he is long-sighted?’ I had
never seen Larsan write. He might, then, be long-sighted. They would
certainly know at the Sûreté, and also know if the glasses were his. Such
evidence would be damning. That explained Larsan’s return. I know now
that Larsan, or Ballmeyer, is long-sighted and that these glasses belonged to
him.
“I now made one mistake. I was not satisfied with the evidence I had
obtained. I wished to see the man’s face. Had I refrained from this, the
second terrible attack would not have occurred.”
“But,” asked the President, “why should Larsan go to Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s room, at all? Why should he twice attempt to murder her?”
“Because he loves her, Monsieur President.”
“That is certainly a reason, but—”
“It is the only reason. He was madly in love, and because of that, and—
other things, he was capable of committing any crime.”
“Did Mademoiselle Stangerson know this?”
“Yes, Monsieur; but she was ignorant of the fact that the man who was
pursuing her was Frédéric Larsan, otherwise, of course, he would not have
been allowed to be at the château. I noticed, when he was in her room after
the incident in the gallery, that he kept himself in the shadow, and that he
kept his head bent down. He was looking for the lost eye-glasses.
Mademoiselle Stangerson knew Larsan under another name.”
“Monsieur Darzac,” asked the President, “did Mademoiselle Stangerson
in any way confide in you on this matter? How is it that she has never
spoken about it to anyone? If you are innocent, she would have wished to
spare you the pain of being accused.”
“Mademoiselle Stangerson told me nothing,” replied Monsieur Darzac.
“Does what this young man say appear probable to you?” the President
asked.
“Mademoiselle Stangerson has told me nothing,” he replied stolidly.

“How do you explain that, on the night of the murder of the keeper,” the
President asked, turning to Rouletabille, “the murderer brought back the
papers stolen from Monsieur Stangerson?—How do you explain how the
murderer gained entrance into Mademoiselle Stangerson’s locked room?”
“The last question is easily answered. A man like Larsan, or Ballmeyer,
could have had made duplicate keys. As to the documents, I think Larsan
had not intended to steal them, at first. Closely watching Mademoiselle with
the purpose of preventing her marriage with Monsieur Robert Darzac, he
one day followed her and Monsieur into the Grands Magasins de la Louvre.
There he got possession of the reticule which she lost, or left behind. In that
reticule was a key with a brass head. He did not know there was any value
attached to the key till the advertisement in the newspapers revealed it. He
then wrote to Mademoiselle, as the advertisement requested. No doubt he
asked for a meeting, making known to her that he was also the person who
had for some time pursued her with his love. He received no answer. He
went to the Post Office and ascertained that his letter was no longer there.
He had already taken complete stock of Monsieur Darzac, and, having
decided to go to any lengths to gain Mademoiselle Stangerson, he had
planned that, whatever might happen, Monsieur Darzac, his hated rival,
should be the man to be suspected.
“I do not think that Larsan had as yet thought of murdering
Mademoiselle Stangerson; but whatever he might do, he made sure that
Monsieur Darzac should suffer for it. He was very nearly of the same height
as Monsieur Darzac and had almost the same sized feet. It would not be
difficult, to take an impression of Monsieur Darzac’s footprints, and have
similar boots made for himself. Such tricks were mere child’s play for
Larsan, or Ballmeyer.
“Receiving no reply to his letter, he determined, since Mademoiselle
Stangerson would not come to him, that he would go to her. His plan had
long been formed. He had made himself master of the plans of the château
and the pavilion. So that, one afternoon, while Monsieur and Mademoiselle
Stangerson were out for a walk, and while Daddy Jacques was away, he
entered the latter by the vestibule window. He was alone, and, being in no
hurry, he began examining the furniture. One of the pieces, resembling a
safe, had a very small key-hole. That interested him! He had with him the
little key with the brass head, and, associating one with the other, he tried
the key in the lock. The door opened. He saw nothing but papers. They

must be very valuable to have been put away in a safe, and the key to which
to be of so much importance. Perhaps a thought of blackmail occurred to
him as a useful possibility in helping him in his designs on Mademoiselle
Stangerson. He quickly made a parcel of the papers and took it to the
lavatory in the vestibule. Between the time of his first examination of the
pavilion and the night of the murder of the keeper, Larsan had had time to
find out what those papers contained. He could do nothing with them, and
they were rather compromising. That night he took them back to the
château. Perhaps he hoped that, by returning the papers he might obtain
some gratitude from Mademoiselle Stangerson. But whatever may have
been his reasons, he took the papers back and so rid himself of an
encumbrance.”
Rouletabille coughed. It was evident to me that he was embarrassed. He
had arrived at a point where he had to keep back his knowledge of Larsan’s
true motive. The explanation he had given had evidently been
unsatisfactory. Rouletabille was quick enough to note the bad impression he
had made, for, turning to the President, he said: “And now we come to the
explanation of the Mystery of The Yellow Room!”

A movement of chairs in the court with a rustling of dresses and an
energetic whispering of “Hush!” showed the curiosity that had been
aroused.
“It seems to me,” said the President, “that the Mystery of The Yellow
Room, Monsieur Rouletabille, is wholly explained by your hypothesis.
Frédéric Larsan is the explanation. We have merely to substitute him for
Monsieur Robert Darzac. Evidently the door of The Yellow Room was open
at the time Monsieur Stangerson was alone, and that he allowed the man
who was coming out of his daughter’s chamber to pass without arresting
him—perhaps at her entreaty to avoid all scandal.”
“No, Monsieur President,” protested the young man. “You forget that,
stunned by the attack made on her, Mademoiselle Stangerson was not in a
condition to have made such an appeal. Nor could she have locked and
bolted herself in her room. You must also remember that Monsieur
Stangerson has sworn that the door was not open.”
“That, however, is the only way in which it can be explained. The
Yellow Room was as closely shut as an iron safe. To use your own

expression, it was impossible for the murderer to make his escape either
naturally or supernaturally. When the room was broken into he was not
there! He must, therefore, have escaped.”
“That does not follow.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no need for him to escape—if he was not there!”
“Not there!”
“Evidently, not. He could not have been there, if he were not found
there.”
“But, what about the evidences of his presence?” asked the President.
“That, Monsieur President, is where we have taken hold of the wrong
end. From the time Mademoiselle Stangerson shut herself in her room to the
time her door was burst open, it was impossible for the murderer to escape.
He was not found because he was not there during that time.”
“But the evidences?”
“They have led us astray. In reasoning on this mystery we must not take
them to mean what they apparently mean. Why do we conclude the
murderer was there?—Because he left his tracks in the room? Good! But
may he not have been there before the room was locked. Nay, he must have
been there before! Let us look into the matter of these traces and see if they
do not point to my conclusion.
“After the publication of the article in the ‘Matin’ and my conversation
with the examining magistrate on the journey from Paris to Epinay-sur-
Orge, I was certain that The Yellow Room had been hermetically sealed, so
to speak, and that consequently the murderer had escaped before
Mademoiselle Stangerson had gone into her chamber at midnight.
“At the time I was much puzzled. Mademoiselle Stangerson could not
have been her own murderer, since the evidences pointed to some other
person. The assassin, then, had come before. If that were so, how was it that
Mademoiselle had been attacked after? or rather, that she appeared to have
been attacked after? It was necessary for me to reconstruct the occurrence
and make of it two phases—each separated from the other, in time, by the
space of several hours. One phase in which Mademoiselle Stangerson had
really been attacked—the other phase in which those who heard her cries
thought she was being attacked. I had not then examined The Yellow Room.
What were the marks on Mademoiselle Stangerson? There were marks of
strangulation and the wound from a hard blow on the temple. The marks of

strangulation did not interest me much; they might have been made before,
and Mademoiselle Stangerson could have concealed them by a collarette, or
any similar article of apparel. I had to suppose this the moment I was
compelled to reconstruct the occurrence by two phases. Mademoiselle
Stangerson had, no doubt, her own reasons for so doing, since she had told
her father nothing of it, and had made it understood to the examining
magistrate that the attack had taken place in the night, during the second
phase. She was forced to say that, otherwise her father would have
questioned her as to her reason for having said nothing about it.
“But I could not explain the blow on the temple. I understood it even
less when I learned that the mutton-bone had been found in her room. She
could not hide the fact that she had been struck on the head, and yet that
wound appeared evidently to have been inflicted during the first phase,
since it required the presence of the murderer! I thought Mademoiselle
Stangerson had hidden the wound by arranging her hair in bands on her
forehead.
“As to the mark of the hand on the wall, that had evidently been made
during the first phase—when the murderer was really there. All the traces of
his presence had naturally been left during the first phase; the mutton-bone,
the black footprints, the Basque cap, the handkerchief, the blood on the
wall, on the door, and on the floor. If those traces were still all there, they
showed that Mademoiselle Stangerson—who desired that nothing should be
known—had not yet had time to clear them away. This led me to the
conclusion that the two phases had taken place one shortly after the other.
She had not had the opportunity, after leaving her room and going back to
the laboratory to her father, to get back again to her room and put it in order.
Her father was all the time with her, working. So that after the first phase
she did not re-enter her chamber till midnight. Daddy Jacques was there at
ten o’clock, as he was every night; but he went in merely to close the blinds
and light the night-light. Owing to her disturbed state of mind she had
forgotten that Daddy Jacques would go into her room and had begged him
not to trouble himself. All this was set forth in the article in the ‘Matin.’
Daddy Jacques did go, however, and, in the dim light of the room, saw
nothing.
“Mademoiselle Stangerson must have lived some anxious moments
while Daddy Jacques was absent; but I think she was not aware that so
many evidences had been left. After she had been attacked she had only

time to hide the traces of the man’s fingers on her neck and to hurry to the
laboratory. Had she known of the bone, the cap, and the handkerchief, she
would have made away with them after she had gone back to her chamber
at midnight. She did not see them, and undressed by the uncertain glimmer
of the night light. She went to bed, worn-out by anxiety and fear—a fear
that had made her remain in the laboratory as late as possible.
“My reasoning had thus brought me to the second phase of the tragedy,
when Mademoiselle Stangerson was alone in the room. I had now to
explain the revolver shots fired during the second phase. Cries of ‘Help!—
Murder!’ had been heard. How to explain these? As to the cries, I was in no
difficulty; since she was alone in her room these could result from
nightmare only. My explanation of the struggle and noise that were heard is
simply that in her nightmare she was haunted by the terrible experience she
had passed through in the afternoon. In her dream she sees the murderer
about to spring upon her and she cries, ‘Help! Murder!’ Her hand wildly
seeks the revolver she had placed within her reach on the night-table by the
side of her bed, but her hand, striking the table, overturns it, and the
revolver, falling to the floor, discharges itself, the bullet lodging in the
ceiling. I knew from the first that the bullet in the ceiling must have resulted
from an accident. Its very position suggested an accident to my mind, and
so fell in with my theory of a nightmare. I no longer doubted that the attack
had taken place before Mademoiselle had retired for the night. After
wakening from her frightful dream and crying aloud for help, she had
fainted.
“My theory, based on the evidence of the shots that were heard at
midnight, demanded two shots—one which wounded the murderer at the
time of his attack, and one fired at the time of the nightmare. The evidence
given by the Berniers before the examining magistrate was to the effect that
only one shot had been heard. Monsieur Stangerson testified to hearing a
dull sound first followed by a sharp ringing sound. The dull sound I
explained by the falling of the marble-topped table; the ringing sound was
the shot from the revolver. I was now convinced I was right. The shot that
had wounded the hand of the murderer and had caused it to bleed so that he
left the bloody imprint on the wall was fired by Mademoiselle in self-
defence, before the second phase, when she had been really attacked. The
shot in the ceiling which the Berniers heard was the accidental shot during
the nightmare.

“I had now to explain the wound on the temple. It was not severe
enough to have been made by means of the mutton-bone, and Mademoiselle
had not attempted to hide it. It must have been made during the second
phase. It was to find this out that I went to The Yellow Room, and I
obtained my answer there.”
Rouletabille drew a piece of white folded paper from his pocket, and
drew out of it an almost invisible object which he held between his thumb
and forefinger.
“This, Monsieur President,” he said, “is a hair—a blond hair stained
with blood;—it is a hair from the head of Mademoiselle Stangerson. I found
it sticking to one of the corners of the overturned table. The corner of the
table was itself stained with blood—a tiny stain—hardly visible; but it told
me that, on rising from her bed, Mademoiselle Stangerson had fallen
heavily and had struck her head on the corner of its marble top.
“I had still to learn, in addition to the name of the assassin, which I did
later, the time of the original attack. I learned this from the examination of
Mademoiselle Stangerson and her father, though the answers given by the
former were well calculated to deceive the examining magistrate.
Mademoiselle Stangerson had stated very minutely how she had spent the
whole of her time that day. We established the fact that the murderer had
introduced himself into the pavilion between five and six o’clock. At a
quarter past six the professor and his daughter had resumed their work. At
five the professor had been with his daughter, and since the attack took
place in the professor’s absence from his daughter, I had to find out just
when he left her. The professor had stated that at the time when he and his
daughter were about to re-enter the laboratory he was met by the keeper and
held in conversation about the cutting of some wood and the poachers.
Mademoiselle Stangerson was not with him then since the professor said: ‘I
left the keeper and rejoined my daughter who was at work in the
laboratory.’
“It was during that short interval of time that the tragedy took place.
That is certain. In my mind’s eye I saw Mademoiselle Stangerson re-enter
the pavilion, go to her room to take off her hat, and find herself faced by the
murderer. He had been in the pavilion for some time waiting for her. He had
arranged to pass the whole night there. He had taken off Daddy Jacques’s
boots; he had removed the papers from the cabinet; and had then slipped
under the bed. Finding the time long, he had risen, gone again into the

laboratory, then into the vestibule, looked into the garden, and had seen,
coming towards the pavilion, Mademoiselle Stangerson—alone. He would
never have dared to attack her at that hour, if he had not found her alone.
His mind was made up. He would be more at ease alone with Mademoiselle
Stangerson in the pavilion, than he would have been in the middle of the
night, with Daddy Jacques sleeping in the attic. So he shut the vestibule
window. That explains why neither Monsieur Stangerson, nor the keeper,
who were at some distance from the pavilion, had heard the revolver shot.
“Then he went back to The Yellow Room. Mademoiselle Stangerson
came in. What passed must have taken place very quickly. Mademoiselle
tried to call for help; but the man had seized her by the throat. Her hand had
sought and grasped the revolver which she had been keeping in the drawer
of her night-table, since she had come to fear the threats of her pursuer. The
murderer was about to strike her on the head with the mutton-bone—a
terrible weapon in the hands of a Larsan or Ballmeyer; but she fired in time,
and the shot wounded the hand that held the weapon. The bone fell to the
floor covered with the blood of the murderer, who staggered, clutched at the
wall for support—imprinting on it the red marks—and, fearing another
bullet, fled.
“She saw him pass through the laboratory, and listened. He was long at
the window. At length he jumped from it. She flew to it and shut it. The
danger past, all her thoughts were of her father. Had he either seen or
heard? At any cost to herself she must keep this from him. Thus when
Monsieur Stangerson returned, he found the door of The Yellow Room
closed, and his daughter in the laboratory, bending over her desk, at work!”
Turning towards Monsieur Darzac, Rouletabille cried:—
“You know the truth! Tell us, then, if that is not how things happened.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” replied Monsieur Darzac.
“I admire you for your silence,” said Rouletabille, “but if Mademoiselle
Stangerson knew of your danger, she would release you from your oath.
She would beg of you to tell all she has confided to you. She would be here
to defend you!”
Monsieur Darzac made no movement, nor uttered a word. He looked at
Rouletabille sadly.
“However,” said the young reporter, “since Mademoiselle is not here, I
must do it myself. But, believe me, Monsieur Darzac, the only means to

save Mademoiselle Stangerson and restore her to her reason, is to secure
your acquittal.”
“What is this secret motive that compels Mademoiselle Stangerson to
hide her knowledge from her father?” asked the President.
“That, Monsieur, I do not know,” said Rouletabille. “It is no business of
mine.”
The President turning to Monsieur Darzac endeavoured to induce him to
tell what he knew.
“Do you still refuse, Monsieur, to tell us how you employed your time
during the attempts on the life of Mademoiselle Stangerson?”
“I cannot tell you anything, Monsieur.”
The President turned to Rouletabille as if appealing for an explanation.
“We must assume, Monsieur President, that Monsieur Robert Darzac’s
absensions are closely connected with Mademoiselle Stangerson’s secret,
and that Monsieur Darzac feels himself in honour bound to remain silent. It
may be that Larsan, who, since his three attempts, has had everything in
training to cast suspicion on Monsieur Darzac, had fixed on just those
occasions for a meeting with Monsieur Darzac at a spot most
compromising. Larsan is cunning enough to have done that.”
The President seemed partly convinced, but still curious, he asked:
“But what is this secret of Mademoiselle Stangerson?”
“That I cannot tell you,” said Rouletabille. “I think, however, you know
enough now to acquit Monsieur Robert Darzac! Unless Larsan should
return, and I don’t think he will,” he added, with a laugh.
“One question more,” said the President. “Admitting your explanation,
we know that Larsan wished to turn suspicion on Monsieur Robert Darzac,
but why should he throw suspicion on Daddy Jacques also?”
“There came in the professional detective, Monsieur, who proves
himself an unraveller of mysteries, by annihilating the very proofs he had
accumulated. He’s a very cunning man, and a similar trick had often
enabled him to turn suspicion from himself. He proved the innocence of one
before accusing the other. You can easily believe, Monsieur, that so
complicated a scheme as this must have been long and carefully thought out
in advance by Larsan. I can tell you that he had long been engaged on its
elaboration. If you care to learn how he had gathered information, you will
find that he had, on one occasion, disguised himself as the commissionaire
between the ‘Laboratory of the Sûreté’ and Monsieur Stangerson, of whom

‘experiments’ were demanded. In this way he had been able before the
crime, on two occasions to take stock of the pavilion. He had ‘made up’ so
that Daddy Jacques had not recognised him. And yet Larsan had found the
opportunity to rob the old man of a pair of old boots and a cast-off Basque
cap, which the servant had tied up in a handkerchief, with the intention of
carrying them to a friend, a charcoal-burner on the road to Epinay. When
the crime was discovered, Daddy Jacques had immediately recognised these
objects as his. They were extremely compromising, which explains his
distress at the time when we spoke to him about them. Larsan confessed it
all to me. He is an artist at the game. He did a similar thing in the affair of
the ‘Crédit Universel,’ and in that of the ‘Gold Ingots of the Mint.’ Both
these cases should be revised. Since Ballmeyer or Larsan has been in the
Sûreté a number of innocent persons have been sent to prison.”

Chapter XXVIII.
In Which it is Proved That One Does not Always
Think of Everything
Great excitement prevailed when Rouletabille had finished. The court-
room became agitated with the murmurings of suppressed applause. Maître
Henri Robert called for an adjournment of the trial and was supported in his
motion by the public prosecutor himself. The case was adjourned. The next
day Monsieur Robert Darzac was released on bail, while Daddy Jacques
received the immediate benefit of a “no cause for action.” Search was
everywhere made for Frédéric Larsan, but in vain. Monsieur Darzac finally
escaped the awful calamity which, at one time, had threatened him. After a
visit to Mademoiselle Stangerson, he was led to hope that she might, by
careful nursing, one day recover her reason.
Rouletabille, naturally, became the “man of the hour.” On leaving the
Palais de Justice, the crowd bore him aloft in triumph. The press of the
whole world published his exploits and his photograph. He, who had
interviewed so many illustrious personages, had himself become illustrious
and was interviewed in his turn. I am glad to say that the enormous success
in no way turned his head.
We left Versailles together, after having dined at “The Dog That
Smokes.” In the train I put a number of questions to him which, during our
meal, had been on the tip of my tongue, but which I had refrained from
uttering, knowing he did not like to talk “shop” while eating.
“My friend,” I said, “that Larsan case is wonderful. It is worthy of you.”
He begged me to say no more, and humorously pretended an anxiety for
me should I give way to silly praise of him because of a personal
admiration for his ability.
“I’ll come to the point, then,” I said, not a little nettled. “I am still in the
dark as to your reason for going to America. When you left the Glandier
you had found out, if I rightly understand, all about Frédéric Larsan; you
had discovered the exact way he had attempted the murder?”

“Quite so. And you,” he said, turning the conversation, “did you suspect
nothing?”
“Nothing!”
“It’s incredible!”
“I don’t see how I could have suspected anything. You took great pains
to conceal your thoughts from me. Had you already suspected Larsan when
you sent for me to bring the revolvers?”
“Yes! I had come to that conclusion through the incident of the
‘inexplicable gallery.’ Larsan’s return to Mademoiselle Stangerson’s room,
however, had not then been cleared up by the eye-glasses. My suspicions
were the outcome of my reasoning only; and the idea of Larsan being the
murderer seemed so extraordinary that I resolved to wait for actual evidence
before venturing to act. Nevertheless, the suspicion worried me, and I
sometimes spoke to the detective in a way that ought to have opened your
eyes. I spoke disparagingly of his methods. But until I found the eye-glasses
I could but look upon my suspicion of him in the light of an absurd
hypothesis only. You can imagine my elation after I had explained Larsan’s
movements. I remember well rushing into my room like a madman and
crying to you: ‘I’ll get the better of the great Fred. I’ll get the better of him
in a way that will make a sensation!’
“I was then thinking of Larsan, the murderer. It was that same evening
that Darzac begged me to watch over Mademoiselle Stangerson. I made no
efforts until after we had dined with Larsan, until ten o’clock. He was right
there before me, and I could afford to wait. You ought to have suspected,
because when we were talking of the murderer’s arrival, I said to you: ‘I am
quite sure Larsan will be here to-night.’
“But one important point escaped us both. It was one which ought to
have opened our eyes to Larsan. Do you remember the bamboo cane? I was
surprised to find Larsan had made no use of that evidence against Robert
Darzac. Had it not been purchased by a man whose description tallied
exactly with that of Darzac? Well, just before I saw him off at the train,
after the recess during the trial, I asked him why he hadn’t used the cane
evidence. He told me he had never had any intention of doing so; that our
discovery of it in the little inn at Epinay had much embarrassed him. If you
will remember, he told us then that the cane had been given him in London.
Why did we not immediately say to ourselves: ‘Fred is lying. He could not
have had this cane in London. He was not in London. He bought it in

Paris’? Then you found out, on inquiry at Cassette’s, that the cane had been
bought by a person dressed very like Robert Darzac, though, as we learned
later, from Darzac himself, it was not he who had made the purchase.
Couple this with the fact we already knew, from the letter at the poste
restante, that there was actually a man in Paris who was passing as Robert
Darzac, why did we not immediately fix on Fred himself?
“Of course, his position at the Sûreté was against us; but when we saw
the evident eagerness on his part to find convicting evidence against
Darzac, nay, even the passion he displayed in his pursuit of the man, the lie
about the cane should have had a new meaning for us. If you ask why
Larsan bought the cane, if he had no intention of manufacturing evidence
against Darzac by means of it, the answer is quite simple. He had been
wounded in the hand by Mademoiselle Stangerson, so that the cane was
useful to enable him to close his hand in carrying it. You remember I
noticed that he always carried it?
“All these details came back to my mind when I had once fixed on
Larsan as the criminal. But they were too late then to be of any use to me.
On the evening when he pretended to be drugged I looked at his hand and
saw a thin silk bandage covering the signs of a slight healing wound. Had
we taken a quicker initiative at the time Larsan told us that lie about the
cane, I am certain he would have gone off, to avoid suspicion. All the same,
we worried Larsan or Ballmeyer without our knowing it.”
“But,” I interrupted, “if Larsan had no intention of using the cane as
evidence against Darzac, why had he made himself up to look like the man
when he went in to buy it?”
“He had not specially ‘made up’ as Darzac to buy the cane; he had come
straight to Cassette’s immediately after he had attacked Mademoiselle
Stangerson. His wound was troubling him and, as he was passing along the
Avenue de l’Opera, the idea of the cane came to his mind and he acted on it.
It was then eight o’clock. And I, who had hit upon the very hour of the
occurrence of the tragedy, almost convinced that Darzac was not the
criminal, and knowing of the cane, I still never suspected Larsan. There are
times . . .”
“There are times,” I said, “when the greatest intellects . . .” Rouletabille
shut my mouth. I still continued to joke him, but, finding he did not reply, I
saw he was no longer paying any attention to what I was saying. I found he
was fast asleep.

Chapter XXIX.
The Mystery of Mademoiselle Stangerson
During the days that followed I had several opportunities to question
him as to his reason for his voyage to America, but I obtained no more
precise answers than he had given me on the evening of the adjournment of
the trial, when we were on the train for Paris. One day, however, on my still
pressing him, he said:
“Can’t you understand that I had to know Larsan’s true personality?”
“No doubt,” I said, “but why did you go to America to find that out?”
He sat smoking his pipe, and made no further reply. I began to see that I
was touching on the secret that concerned Mademoiselle Stangerson.
Rouletabille evidently had found it necessary to go to America to find out
what the mysterious tie was that bound her to Larsan by so strange and
terrible a bond. In America he had learned who Larsan was and had
obtained information which closed his mouth. He had been to Philadelphia.
And now, what was this mystery which held Mademoiselle Stangerson
and Monsieur Robert Darzac in so inexplicable a silence? After so many
years and the publicity given the case by a curious and shameless press;
now that Monsieur Stangerson knows all and has forgiven all; all may be
told. In every phase of this remarkable story Mademoiselle Stangerson had
always been the sufferer.
The beginning dates from the time when, as a young girl, she was living
with her father in Philadelphia. A visitor at the house, a Frenchman, had
succeeded by his wit, grace and persistent attention, in gaining her
affections. He was said to be rich and had asked her of her father. Monsieur
Stangerson, on making inquiries as to Monsieur Jean Roussel, found that
the man was a swindler and an adventurer. Jean Roussel was but another of
the many names under which the notorious Ballmeyer, a fugitive from
France, tried to hide himself. Monsieur Stangerson did not know of his
identity with Ballmeyer; he learned that the man was simply undesirable for
his daughter. He not only refused to give his consent to the marriage but

denied him admission into the house. Mathilde Stangerson, however, had
fallen in love. To her Jean Roussel was everything that her love painted
him. She was indignant at her father’s attitude, and did not conceal her
feelings. Her father sent her to stay with an aunt in Cincinnati. There she
was joined by Jean Roussel and, in spite of the reverence she felt for her
father, ran away with him to get married.
They went to Louisville and lived there for some time. One morning,
however, a knock came at the door of the house in which they were and the
police entered to arrest Jean Roussel. It was then that Mathilde Stangerson,
or Roussel, learned that her husband was no other than the notorious
Ballmeyer!
The young woman in her despair tried to commit suicide. She failed in
this, and was forced to rejoin her aunt at Cincinnati. The old lady was
overjoyed to see her again. She had been anxiously searching for her and
had not dared to tell Monsieur Stangerson of her disappearance. Mathilde
swore her to secrecy, so that her father should not know she had been away.
A month later, Mademoiselle Stangerson returned to her father, repentant,
her heart dead within her, hoping only one thing: that she would never again
see her husband, the horrible Ballmeyer. A report was spread, a few weeks
later, that he was dead, and she now determined to atone for her
disobedience by a life of labour and devotion for her father. And she kept
her word.
All this she had confessed to Robert Darzac, and, believing Ballmeyer
dead, had given herself to the joy of a union with him. But fate had
resuscitated Jean Roussel—the Ballmeyer of her youth. He had taken steps
to let her know that he would never allow her to marry Darzac—that he still
loved her.
Mademoiselle Stangerson never for one moment hesitated to confide in
Monsieur Darzac. She showed him the letter in which Jean Roussel asked
her to recall the first hours of their union in their beautiful and charming
Louisville home. “The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the
garden its brightness,” he had written. The scoundrel pretended to be rich
and claimed the right of taking her back to Louisville. She had told Darzac
that if her father should know of her dishonour, she would kill herself.
Monsieur Darzac had sworn to silence her persecutor, even if he had to kill
him. He was outwitted and would have succumbed had it not been for the
genius of Rouletabille.

Mademoiselle Stangerson was herself helpless in the hands of such a
villain. She had tried to kill him when he had first threatened and then
attacked her in The Yellow Room. She had, unfortunately, failed, and felt
herself condemned to be for ever at the mercy of this unscrupulous wretch
who was continually demanding her presence at clandestine interviews.
When he sent her the letter through the Post Office, asking her to meet him,
she had refused. The result of her refusal was the tragedy of The Yellow
Room. The second time he wrote asking for a meeting, the letter reaching
her in her sick chamber, she had avoided him by sleeping with her women.
In that letter the scoundrel had warned her that, since she was too ill to
come to him, he would come to her, and that he would be in her chamber at
a particular hour on a particular night. Knowing that she had everything to
fear from Ballmeyer, she had left her chamber on that night. It was then that
the incident of the “inexplicable gallery” occurred.
The third time she had determined to keep the appointment. He asked
for it in the letter he had written in her own room, on the night of the
incident in the gallery, which he left on her desk. In that letter he threatened
to burn her father’s papers if she did not meet him. It was to rescue these
papers that she made up her mind to see him. She did not for one moment
doubt that the wretch would carry out his threat if she persisted in avoiding
him, and in that case the labours of her father’s lifetime would be for ever
lost. Since the meeting was thus inevitable, she resolved to see her husband
and appeal to his better nature. It was for this interview that she had
prepared herself on the night the keeper was killed. They did meet, and
what passed between them may be imagined. He insisted that she renounce
Darzac. She, on her part, affirmed her love for him. He stabbed her in his
anger, determined to convict Darzac of the crime. As Larsan he could do it,
and had so managed things that Darzac could never explain how he had
employed the time of his absence from the château. Ballmeyer’s
precautions were most cunningly taken.
Larsan had threatened Darzac as he had threatened Mathilde—with the
same weapon, and the same threats. He wrote Darzac urgent letters,
declaring himself ready to deliver up the letters that had passed between
him and his wife, and to leave them for ever, if he would pay him his price.
He asked Darzac to meet him for the purpose of arranging the matter,
appointing the time when Larsan would be with Mademoiselle Stangerson.
When Darzac went to Epinay, expecting to find Ballmeyer or Larsan there,

he was met by an accomplice of Larsan’s, and kept waiting until such time
as the “coincidence” could be established.
It was all done with Machiavellian cunning; but Ballmeyer had
reckoned without Joseph Rouletabille.

Now that the Mystery of The Yellow Room has been cleared up, this is
not the time to tell of Rouletabille’s adventures in America. Knowing the
young reporter as we do, we can understand with what acumen he had
traced, step by step, the story of Mathilde Stangerson and Jean Roussel. At
Philadelphia he had quickly informed himself as to Arthur William Rance.
There he learned of Rance’s act of devotion and the reward he thought
himself entitled to for it. A rumour of his marriage with Mademoiselle
Stangerson had once found its way into the drawing-rooms of Philadelphia.
He also learned of Rance’s continued attentions to her and his importunities
for her hand. He had taken to drink, he had said, to drown his grief at his
unrequited love. It can now be understood why Rouletabille had shown so
marked a coolness of demeanour towards Rance when they met in the
witnesses’ room, on the day of the trial.
The strange Roussel-Stangerson mystery had now been laid bare. Who
was this Jean Roussel? Rouletabille had traced him from Philadelphia to
Cincinnati. In Cincinnati he became acquainted with the old aunt, and had
found means to open her mouth. The story of Ballmeyer’s arrest threw the
right light on the whole story. He visited the “presbytery”—a small and
pretty dwelling in the old colonial style—which had, indeed, “lost nothing
of its charm.” Then, abandoning his pursuit of traces of Mademoiselle
Stangerson, he took up those of Ballmeyer. He followed them from prison
to prison, from crime to crime. Finally, as he was about leaving for Europe,
he learned in New York that Ballmeyer had, five years before, embarked for
France with some valuable papers belonging to a merchant of New Orleans
whom he had murdered.
And yet the whole of this mystery has not been revealed. Mademoiselle
Stangerson had a child, by her husband,—a son. The infant was born in the
old aunt’s house. No one knew of it, so well had the aunt managed to
conceal the event.
What became of that son?—That is another story which, so far, I am not
permitted to relate.

About two months after these events, I came upon Rouletabille sitting
on a bench in the Palais de Justice, looking very depressed.
“What’s the matter, old man?” I asked. “You are looking very downcast.
How are your friends getting on?”
“Apart from you,” he said, “I have no friends.”
“I hope that Monsieur Darzac—”
“No doubt.”
“And Mademoiselle Stangerson—How is she?”
“Better—much better.”
“Then you ought not to be sad.”
“I am sad,” he said, “because I am thinking of the perfume of the lady in
black—”
“The perfume of the lady in black!—I have heard you often refer to it.
Tell me why it troubles you.”
“Perhaps—some day; some day,” said Rouletabille.
And he heaved a profound sigh.

Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the first edition published by
Brentano’s in 1908. Archaic and inconsistent spellings and punctuation
have generally been left unchanged. However, the following alterations
have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in
the text:

Fourteen occurrences of invalid or misleading punctuation (twelve of
which involved errors in placement or type of quotation marks) have
been corrected.
Two occurrences of paragraphs ending without punctuation have been
corrected.
The original text contained the misspelled words “uttereed”,
“villanies”, and “hmself”; these have all been corrected.
The original text also contained the following misspellings specific to
non-English names and phrases:
two occurrences of “Bête Du Bon Dieu”;
two occurrences of “Monsieur Marquet”;
two occurrences of “Frédérick Larsan”;
three occurrences of “Rue Oberskampf”;
four occurrences of “Mâitre”; and
thirteen occurrences of “Elysée”.
These have all been corrected.
Similarly, errors in the text appearing within the illustration in Chapter
XIV were also corrected.
The phrase “is if we were” has been corrected to “as if we were”, in
Chapter XVII.
The original text has no heading for Chapter XVII, despite being part
of the same continuous excerpt as Chapters XVI and XVIII. This
absence has been corrected.

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