 CHAPTER 1 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 Roul Taville. 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 proposed of a recent nomination of the illustrious Dangerson to the great of Grandcross of the Legion of Honor, an evening journal, in an article miserable for its ignorance or audacious for its perfidy, had not resuscitated a terrible adventure of which Joseph Roul Taville had told me he wished to be forever 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 Nave trial and the tragic history of the death of little Manaldo 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 Naves 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 text the conscience of our judges. The solution of the problem baffled everybody who tried to find it. It was like a dramatic rebus of 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. At which nobody could find out, Joseph Roul Tabay, aged 18, then a reporter engaged on a leading journal, succeeded in discovering. But when, at the Assise 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 a feast 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 Chateau du Glanzie. 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 Glanzie, on the border of the forest of Saint-Jean-viève, above Epinée-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 library chamber adjoining this laboratory. The doctors could not answer for the life of mademoiselle Stangerson. The impression made on Paris by this news may be easily imagined. Already at that time, the learned world was so 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 M. and M. Curie to the discovery of radium. It was expected that 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 Glendier, 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 M. Stangerson, in her night dress, was found lying on the floor in the agonies of death. We have at last been able to interview Daddy Jacques, as he is called in the country, an old servant in the Stangerson family. Daddy Jacques entered the 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 meters, 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 M. Stangerson was still working when the thing happened. I had been cleaning and putting instruments in order all the evening, and was waiting for M. Stangerson to go to bed. M. 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 M. Stangerson, and bade him good night. To me she said, Bonsoir 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 M. Stangerson, there's mademoiselle doppelocking herself in. She must be afraid of the bade du bon Dieu. M. Stangerson did not even hear me. He was so deeply absorbed in what he was doing. Just then we heard the distant meowing of a cat. Is that going to keep us awake all night? I said to myself, for I must tell you, M. Stangerson, 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 felt to take up her lodging there in the spring. Just 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, M. 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 attached importance to the fact that we made no noise, for because of that the assassins certainly thought that we had left the place. And suddenly, while the cuckoo was sounding the half after midnight, a desperate clamor broke out in the yellow room. There was the voice of mademoiselle, quite murder, murder, help! Immediately afterward revolver shots rang out, and there was a great noise of tables and furniture being thrown to the ground, as if in the curse 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 M. 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 vault. We tried to force it open, but it remained firm. M. Stangerson was like a madman, and truly it was enough to make him one, for we heard mademoiselle still calling, help, help! M. Stangerson showered terrible blows on the door, and wept with rage and sobbered 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 about in the pavilion, prevented my advance 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 gatekeepers, who had been attracted by the pistol reports and by Eric Rice. In a few words, I told them what had happened, and directed the concierge to join M. 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 protected 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 is 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 Mr. 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 a 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's commode, a dressing table, and two chairs. By the light of the big lamp, we saw all at a glance. Mademoiselle, in her night's 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 fingernails on her throat. The flesh of her neck having been almost torn by the nails. From the wound on the right temple, a stream of blood had run down and made a little pool on the floor. When Mr. 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 wretched 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 passed all imagination. Everybody 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 hand-cut of red with blood, without any initials, an old cap, and many fresh foot marks of a man on the floor, foot marks of a man with large feet, whose boot sores 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, another 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. When then ascertained, by counting the cartridges, that the assassin had fired two shots. Oh! It was fortunate for me that Monsieur Stangerston 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 of the continual lamentations with which he garnished his narrative. It is quite understood, Daddy Jacques, quite understood, that you are very found of your masters, and you want them to know it, and never cease repeating it, especially since the discovery of your revolver. It is 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 out at the château, makes it impossible for us to gain admission at the Grandier, 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 M. Marquet, the magistrate of Corbeille. 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, M. 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 M. Marquet. I can only say 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 M. 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 recognize. If nothing is added to the material facts so far established, I fear that the mystery which surrounds the abominable crime of which Mademoiselle Sanderson 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, and examination which I shall tomorrow entrust 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's way the assassin gained that mission. He entered by the door and hid himself under the bed, awaiting when was a Sanderson. 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 Jack 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 Jack says. The article concluded with these lines. We want to know what Daddy Jack meant by the cry of the bed 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 cats of an old woman. Mother Agenou, as she is called in the country, mother Agenou is a sort of saint, who lives in a hut in the heart of the forest, not far from the grotto of Saint-Jean-Vierve. The yellow room, the bed du bon dieu, mother Agenou, the devil, Saint-Jean-Vierve, Daddy Jack, 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 Frederick Larson, who had been sent to London for an affair of stolen securities, to return immediately to Paris. CHAPTER II OF THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Stuart Bell. THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM BY GASTON LAROU CHAPTER II IN WHICH JOSEPH RUTTERBILL APPEARS FOR THE FIRST TIME I remember, as well as if it occurred yesterday, the entry of young Rutterbill into my bedroom that morning. It was about eight o'clock, and I was still in bed, reading the article in the matter relative to the Glondier crime. But before going further, it's time that I present my friend to the reader. I first knew Joseph Rutterbill 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 San Lazar. 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's 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. Hell, 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 row over scumf, another forgotten story, he had taken to one of the editors of the Epoch, a paper then rivaling the Matan 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 Routabil 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 maul window of his paper the left foot of the row over scumf. 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 Routabil, what he would expect to earn as a general reporter on the APOC. Two hundred francs a month, the youngster replied modestly, hardly able to breathe in 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 APOC that discovered the left foot of the row over scumf. Here, my young friend, the man is nothing, the paper everything. Having said this, he begged the new reporters to retire, but before the youth had reached the door he called him back to ask his name. The other replied, Joseph, Joseph's scene. 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-cafe, 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 unraveler of intricate and obscure affairs which found its way to the office of the Chief of the Suratay. When the case was worth the trouble, Andrew Tobill, 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-cafe that I became intimate the acquainted with him. Criminal lawyers and journalists are not enemies. The former needed advertisement and 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. Sometime after this I was put in charge of the law-news of the Karee de Boulevard. My entry into journalism could not but strengthen the ties which united me to Ruta Bill. 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 epoch, 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. Acustomed 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 and 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 today, the Gazette of Crime. Morse-minded people may complain of this. For myself, I regarded 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. Rootabil, 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 matel with a trembling hand and cried, well, my dear Sinclair, have you read it? The Glondier Crime? Yes, the Yellow Room. What do you think of it? I think that it must have been the devil or the bed de bondure 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 Jack did wrong to leave behind him the weapon with which the crime was committed. And as he occupied the attic immediately above Maroiselle Stangerson's room, the builder's job ordered by the examining magistrate will give us the key of the enigma. It won't 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 Mongeur Stangerson without his absence being noticed. That of course is only a hypothesis. Routabil 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 Routabil. 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 Mamazone Stangerson? I don't understand, or rather I've never understood, I said. Routabil shrugged his shoulders. Is there nothing in this article in the matter by which you were particularly struck? Nothing, I 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, as still further protection against entry. Mamazone Stangerson took quite extraordinary precautions. It's clear to me that she feared someone. That was why she took such precautions, even Daddy Jack'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 defends herself. There was a struggle, and she used the revolver skillfully enough to wound the assassin in the hand, which explains the impression on the wall, and on the door of the large bloodstained 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 Mamazone Stangerson against the assassin. Now, what weapon did the murderer use? Well, the blow on the temple seems to show that the murderer wished to stun Mamazone Stangerson after he had unsuccessfully tried to strangle her. He must have known that the attic was inhabited by Daddy Jack, 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 her to be allurising, and that is what has to be explained. I am going to the Chateau du Glondier and have come to see whether you will go with me. I? Yes, my boy, I want you. The APOC 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? Monge Robert Dazak is at the Chateau du Glondier. That's true, his despair must be boundless. I must have a talk with him. Routabil said it in a tone that surprised me. Is it because you think there's 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 Monge Robert Dazak from having been of great service to him in a civil action, while I was acting as secretary to Métro Barbé de Latour. Monge Robert Dazak, who was at that time about 40 years of age, was a professor of physics at the Sabon. 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 Routabil, who was impatiently moving about my sitting room. Have you any ideas on 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 Sinclair, concluded Routabil. The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Le Roux, Chapter 3 A man has passed, like a shadow through the blinds. Half an hour later, Routabil and I were on the platform of the Orlean station, awaiting the departure of the train, which was to take us to Epine sur Orge. On the platform, we found M. de Marquet and his registrar, who represented the judicial court of Corbeille. M. Marquet had spent the night in Paris, attending the final rehearsal at the Scala, of a little play of which he was the unknown author, signing himself simply Castigarie d'Indo. M. de Marquet was beginning to be a noble or gentleman. Generally, he was extremely polite and full of gay humor, 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 Audion. Because of the mystery which shrouded it, the case of the Yellow Room was certain to fascinate so theatrical in 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 embryos, 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 M. de Marquet say to the register what he saw. I hope, my dear M. Malin, this builder with his pickaxe will not destroy so funny mystery. Have no fear, replied M. Malin. 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, M. Malin, we did a discrete movement of the head, drew M. de Marquet's attention to us, the face of that gentleman clouded, and, as he saw Rolta B approaching, hat in hand, he sprang into one of the empty carriages, saying, half-allowed to his register, as he did so. Above all, no journalists. M. Malin replied in the same tone. I understand, and then tried to prevent Rolta B from entering the same compartment with the examining magistrate. Excuse me, gentlemen, this compartment is reserved. I am a journalist, M. Malin, engaged on the epoch, said my young friend, with a great show of gesture and politeness, and I have a word or two to say to M. de Marquet. M. Malin 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. Rolta B was already in the compartment. I went in after him and seated myself by his side. The registrar followed and closed the carriage door. M. de Marquet looked at him. Ah, sir, Rolta B began. You must not be angry with M. de Malin. It is not with M. de Marquet that I desire to have the honour of speaking, but with M. Castigarri d'Ando. Permit me to congratulate you, personally, as well as the writer for the epoch, and Rolta B, having first introduced me, introduced himself. M. de Marquet, with a nervous gesture, caressed his beard into a point, and explained to Rolta B, 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 M. Castigarri d'Ando and the examining magistrate of Corbeille were one and the same person. The work of the dramatic author might interfere, he said, after a slight hesitation, with Dutch of the magistrate, especially in a province where one's labours are a little more than routine. Oh, you may rely on my discretion, cried Rolta B. The train was in motion. We have started, said the examining magistrate, surprised at seeing us still in the carriage. Yes, M. de Marquet, choose has started, said Rolta B, smiling amiably, on its way to the Château du Glondier, a fine case, M. de Marquet, a fine case. An obscure, incredible, unfathomable, inexplicable affair, and there is only one thing I fear, M. Rolta B, that the journalist will be trying to explain it. My friend felt this, a wrap on his knuckles. Yes, he said simply, that is to be feared, the medal in everything. As for my interest, M. de Marquet, 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 M. de Marquet. To the Château du Glondier replied Rolta B, without turning. You'll not get in, M. Rolta B. Will you prevent me? said my friend, already prepared to fight. Not I. I like to press and journalists too well to be in any way disagreeable to them. But M. 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 Glendier yesterday. M. de Marquet compressed his lips, and seemed ready to relapse into obstinate silence. He only relaxed a little when Rolta B no longer left him in ignorance of the fact that we were going to the Glendier for the purpose of shaking hands with an old and intimate friend, M. Robert Darzak, a man whom Rolta B 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 M. Stangerson. His sufferings are truly painful to witness, escaped like a regret from the lips of M. de Marquet. But it is to be hoped that M. 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 one under 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 when the revolver she was wounded, said Rolta B, glancing at me in triumph. M. 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 register, as if he no longer knew us. But Rolta B was not to be so easily shaken off. He moved nearer to the examining magistrate, and, drawing a copy of the matter from his pocket, he showed it to him and said, There is one thing, M. which I may inquire of you without committing an indiscretion. You have, of course, seen the account given in the matter. It is absurd, is it not? It is absurd, is it not? Not in the slightest, M. What? The yellow room has but one buried 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, M. That's so. That's how the matter stands. Rolta B 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 M. was as dangerous and wear her hair on that evening? I don't know, replied M. de Marquet. That's a very important point, said Rolta B. 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 were mistaken, M. Rolta B, replied the magistrate, but was as dangerous as 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 remembered the doctor saying to me, while he was examining the wound. It is a great pity M. was as dangerous and 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 Rolta B, 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 her 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 Rolta B eagerly, seems to be more and more inexplicable. Can you tell me, M. how many openings there are in the pavilion? I mean doors and windows. There are five, replied M. 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 the inside, except with the two special keys which are never out of possession, of either Daddy Jacques or M. Stangerson. Mademoiselle Stangerson had no need for one, since Daddy Jacques enlarged 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 M. 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 onto the country, the window in the vestibule, looking into the park. It is by that window that he escaped from the pavilion, cried Rôle Tabille. How do you know that? demanded M. de Marquet, fixing a strange look on my young friend. We'll see later how he got away from the yellow room, replied Rôle Tabille. 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 could see that he found a window that was not barred, that of the vestibule, which opens onto the park, that is to say, into the interior of the estate. There's not much magic in all that. Yes, said M. 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 measurement 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, M. de Holtaby, 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? M. 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 Holtaby. 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 be questioned. Holtaby followed up his thought and 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, M. 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 opened 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 Holtaby 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 Jack's revolver. There are no footmarks in the attic other than those of Daddy Jack himself, said the magistrate, with a significant turn of his head. Then, after an apparent decision, he added, Daddy Jack was with M. 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. M. 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 Rotavie. In the ceiling, that's very curious, in the ceiling. He puffed a while 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 would it take to walk to the Château du Glondier, Rotavie asked, one of the railways' porters? An hour and a half or an hour and three quarters, easy walking, the man replied. Rotavie 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 is 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 yet. 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 a murmur. Poor woman. Is it one of the dangers in your pitting? Yes. She is a noble woman, and worthy of being pitied. A woman of great, very great character, I imagine. I imagine. You know her, then? Not at all. I have never seen her. 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 Hultaby, 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 these 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, asked 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. 4. In the bosom of wild nature The Château du Grandierre is one of the oldest châteaux in the Île 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 Philippe Lebel. It now could be seen a few hundred yards from the road, leading from the village of Saint-Jean-Vierre-de-Montelli. A mass of inharmonious structures, it is dominated by a Danjean. When the visitor has mounted the crumbling steps of this ancient Danjean, he reaches a little plateau where, in the 17th century, Georges Filbert de Saint-Quigny, Lorde of the Grandierre, Massonneuve, 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 the 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 Glondier, ancient Glondierrum, 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 chateau 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 reflection. If I have lingered a little over this description of the Glendier, 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, and author is always something of a romancer, and God knows the mystery of the yellow room is quite fully 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 de Glendier had for a long time been unoccupied. Another old château in the neighbourhood, built in the 14th 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 Courbet, an inn called the Aubert de Donjon, which offered passing hospitality to wagoners, 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 a 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, whether 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 dying, 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. Madame Moselle Stangerson was, at the time when her father returned from America, and bought the Glendier 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 splendor, all the riches of the young American blood of her paternal grandfather, William Stangerson. A citizen of Philadelphia, William Stangerson had been obliged to become naturalized 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, Matilde 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 Glendier 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 Glendier. Interrogated in her turn, the young girl replied calmly, Where could we work better than in this solitude? Vermetta Moselle 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 Matilde 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 fiancee, a name he accepted with melancholy resignation. That was Monsieur Robert Darzac. Moselle 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 that it sound, was spread about Paris, that Mademoiselle Stangerson had at last consented to crown the inexhaustible flame of Monsieur Robert Darzac. It needed that Monsieur Robert Darzac himself should not deny this matrimonial rumor 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 Glangier, as soon as he and his daughter had put the finishing touches to their report, summing up their labours on the disassociation of matter. The new household would install itself in the Glangier, 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. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit libravox.org. Recording by Stuart Bell. The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Larue Chapter 5 In which Joseph Routabil makes a remark to Monsieur Robert Darzac, which produces its little effect. Routabil and I have been walking for several minutes by the side of a long wall, bounding the vast property of Mongeau Stangeson, and it already came 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 solo 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. Routabil had brought me to a standstill by gesture. Hush! Frederick Larson is at work. Don't let us disturb him. Routabil 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 Routabil had given proof of his unique talent, Larson was reputed as the most skillful unraveler of the most mysterious and complicated crimes. His reputation was worldwide, and the police of London and even of America often called him into 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 suratay had, at the outset of the mystery of the yellow room, telegraphed his precious subordinate to London, where he had been sent in a big case of stolen securities to return with all haste. Frederick, who at the suratay was called the great Frederick, 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 Routabil 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. Routabil rushed after him and I followed. Frederick Larson waited for us. Mongeur Fred, said Routabil, 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 Mongeur Robert Darzak is at the shatter at this moment? Here is one of his friends of the Paris bar who desires to speak with him. I really don't know, Mongeur Routabil 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 Routabil, pointing to the lodge, the door and windows of which were closed shut. The concierges will not be able to give you any information, Mongeur Routabil. Why not? Because they were arrested half an hour ago. Arrested? cried Routabil, then they are the murderers. Frederick Larson 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, Mongeur 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 Routabil eagerly. Because of nothing, said Larson, shaking his head. Because there were no accomplices, said Routabil. Aha! You have an idea, then, about this matter, said Larson, looking at Routabil 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 Mongeur Robert Dazak. Do that for me. You know we're old friends. I beg if you, Mongeur Fred. Do you remember the article I wrote about you on the gold bar case? The face of Routabil 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. Frederick Larson, 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 scrutinized 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 chiseled. 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 villainers that it would have been remarkable if his nature had not been a little hardened. Larson turned his head at the sound of a vehicle, which had come from the chateau and reached the gate behind him. We recognized the cab, which had conveyed the examining magistrate in his registrar, from the station at Epene. Ah, said Frederick Larson, if you want to speak with Monser Robert Darzak, he is here. The cab was already at the park gate, and Robert Darzak was begging Frederick Larson to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed for time to catch the next train, leaving Epene for Paris. Then he recognized me. While the Sam was unlocking the gate, Monser Darzak inquired what had brought me to the glondier 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. His man was out 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 in his pale lips. Routabil intervened. You are in a hurry, Monser, but I must speak with you. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Frederick Larson interrupted. May I leave you, he asked of Robert Darzak. 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. Larson hurried off in the direction of the chateau, the imposing pile of which could be perceived a few hundred yards away. Robert Darzak, with knit brow, was beginning to show impatience. I presented Routabil as a good friend of mine, but as soon as he learned that the young man was a journalist, he looked at me very reproachfully, excused himself under the necessity of having to reach Apennae in twenty minutes, bowed, and whipped up his horse. But Routabil 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 no sooner left the lips of Routabil than I saw Robert Darzak 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, come, come in! he stammered. Then, suddenly, and with a sort of fury, he repeated, Let us go, Mongeur! He turned up by the road he had come from the chateau, Routabil still retaining his hold on the horse's bridle. I addressed a few words to Mongeur Darzak, but he made no answer. My looks questioned, Routabil, but his gaze was elsewhere. By Gaston Le Roux, Chapter 6 In the Heart of the Oak Grove We reached the chateau, 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 Darzak led us into the modern part of the chateau by a large door, protected by a projecting awning, a marquise, as it is called. Routabil, who had resigned the horse and the cab to the care of the servant, never took his eyes off Monsieur Darzak. 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 Darzak turned to Routabil and said sharply, What do you want? The reporter answered, in an equally sharp tone, to shake you by the hand. Darzak 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 bloodstained 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 Sinclair, who has rendered me invaluable services in a just cause, Monsieur, I see no reason for refusing you my hand. Routabil 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 sycetrics. Are you satisfied? No, replied Routabil. 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 Darzak had not already shown the door to my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend. I was angry myself with Routabil yet at moment, for his suspicion, 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 Routabil's mind? Was it possible that he thought Monsieur Robert Darzak 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 rang in my ears. What did it mean? I was eager to rejoin Routabil and question him. At that moment, the young man came out of the château in the company of Monsieur Robert Darzak, 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, Routabil 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 Routabil. 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. Would you come back with me to Paris? No, I shall remain here. I turned towards Routabil. He spoke quite seriously, and Monsieur Robert Darzak did not appear to be in the least degree surprised. We were passing by the Donjon and heard wailing voices. Routabil asked, Why have these people been arrested? It is a little my fault, said Monsieur Darzak. I happened to remark to the examining magistrate yesterday that it was inexplicable that the concierges had had time to hear the revolver shot, 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 lapsed after the firing of the shots when they were met by Darzak. That was suspicious, evidently, acquiesce Routabil. And were they dressed? That is what is so incredible. They were dressed, completely, not one part of their custom wanting. The woman wore sabbots, but the man had unlaced 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 caliber as that found in the room, for he couldn't use the one held for evidence, and made his register 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 M. de Marquet had them arrested at once. If they had been accomplices, Cedrultaby, 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 dove, and were entering the part of the park called the oak grove. The oaks here were centuries old. Autumn had already shriveled 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 might have made of the heads 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 morning, charged with great heavy clouds. And it was in this somber 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 sick 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. M. and Mademoiselle's dangerous must have found it an ideal seclusion for their work and their dreams. The pavilion had a ground floor which was reached by a few steps, and above it was an attic with which we need not concern ourselves. R. had drawn a plan of the building, showing the yellow room with its one window and its one door opening into the laboratory. The laboratory with its two large barred windows and its doors, one serving for the vestibule, the other for the yellow room. The vestibule with its unbarred window and door opening into the park. The laboratory, the stairs leading to the attic, and the large and only chimney in the pavilion, serving for the experiments of the laboratory. I assured myself that there was not a line in this plan that was wanting to help to the solution of the problem then set before the police. Thus my readers will know as much as Roltaby 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? Roltaby stopped and asked M. Darzak point blank. What was the motive for the crime? Speaking for myself, M. there can be no doubt on the matter. said Mademoiselle Stangerson's fiancee, greatly distressed. The nails of the fingers, the deep scratches on the chests and throat of Mademoiselle Stangerson showed that the wretch who attacked her attempted to commit a frightful crime. The medical expert who examined these traces yesterday affirmed that they were made by the same hand as that which left its imprint on the wall. An enormous hand, monsieur, much too large to go into my glove. He added with an indefinable smile. Could not that bloodstained 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 M. Darzak. We are now sure, said I, that it was Mademoiselle Stangerson who was armed with Daddy Jack's revolver, since she wounded the hand of the murderer. She wasn't feared, then, of somebody or something. Probably. Do you suspect anybody? No, replied M. Darzak, looking at Rolle-Tabille. Rolle-Tabille then said to me, You must know, my friend, that the inquiry is a little more advanced than M. 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. M. Darzak tells me it was a mutton bone. Why is M. Marquet surrounding this mutton bone with so much mystery? No doubt for the purpose of facilitating the inquiries of the agents of the Surte. 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? Rolle-Tabille added was contemptuous irony. Has a mutton bone been found in the yellow room? I asked him. Yes, M. S. Robert Darzak, at the foot of the bed. But I beg of you not to say anything about it. I made a gesture of a scent. 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 M. Marquet thinks. He has had it sent to the municipal laboratory at Paris to be analyzed. 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 Rolle-Tabille, a more certain weapon than a heavy hammer. The scoundrel has proved it to be so, said M. Robert Darzak, 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's dangerouson'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 implored her revolver too late. The first shot deviated and lodged in the ceiling. It was the second only that took effect. Having said this, M. Darzak not 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 recognized as Darzak. 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-basket cap. He was dressed in a complete suit of chestnut-colored 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 M. Darzak. Friends, said our guide, nobody in the pavilion did he jack? I ought not to allow anybody to enter, M. Rabbert. 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, Darzak, one question before anything else. What is it, young man, if I can answer it? Did your mistress wear her hair and 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. Roltaby 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, Saint Roltaby. 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 Stangers nor me, nor the concierges, who are in the prison. Why have they not put me in prison, too, on account of my revolver? Roltaby 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 Dalijac, 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, Saint Roltaby. There are footmarks visible on the path. The ground was very moist. I will look into that presently. Nonsense, interrupted Dalijac. The murderer did not go that way. Which way did he go, then? How do I know? Roltaby looked at everything, smelled everything. He went down on his knees, and rapidly examined every one of the paving tiles. Dalijac went on, Ah, you can't find anything, Monsieur. Nothing has been found. And now it is all dirty. Too many persons have champed 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 hob-nailed boots, I should not have failed to see where he had been. He has left marks enough in Mademoiselle's chamber. Roltaby rose. When was the last time you washed these tiles? He asked. And he fixed on Dalijac a most searching look. Why, as I told you, on the day of the crime, towards half past five, Rolma 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 foot marks. 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 room of my attic. That is 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. Rol Dabi went down upon his knees again, almost in front of his small laboratory, 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 Dadizhak 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, and 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? After a close scrutiny of the little laboratory and of the staircase leading up to the attic, to whom we seemed no longer to exist, entered the laboratory. I followed him. It was, I confessed, in a state of great excitement. Robert Darzak 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 lands of the valley, and across the plain to the large town, which could be clearly seen in fair weather. Today, however, a mist hung over the ground, and blood in that room. The whole of the 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 files, papers, reports, and electrical machine, and apparatus, as Mr. Darzak 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. Rolta B, 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, Mr. Darzak, he said. I bent over the piece of scorched paper, which Mr. Darzak took from the hand of Rolta B, 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 paralyzing effect. Mr. Darzak's first anxiety showed itself when he turned his eyes in the direction of Darzak. But, occupied as he was at another window, he had seen nothing. Then trembling, opening his pocket-book, he put the piece of paper into it, sighing, my God! During this time Rolta B had mounted into the opening of the ferregrate, that is to say, he had got upon the bricks of his 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. Rolta B 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 Darzak in contemplation. Well, Darzak, 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, Darzak, or you wouldn't speak of him in that way, said Rolta B, in a melancholy tone. If there is anyone who will find the murderer, it will be he. And Rolta B heaved a deep sigh. Before they find him, they will have to learn how they lost him, said Darzak, stolidly. At lunch we reached the door of the yellow room itself. There is the door behind which some terrible scene took place, said Rolta B, with a solemnity, which, under any other circumstance, would have been comical. End of chapter 6