The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux (thriller books to read TXT) 📖

to the chateau. 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 eyeglasses 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 thoughts, 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 Frederic 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 chateau, 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 chateau that night? What is he doing here?”

We had gone some distance from the chateau 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 Elysee 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 chateau. 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 chateau by way of the forest. He reached the park by the grotto of Sainte-Genevieve, 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 chateau.

“You say that Monsieur Arthur Rance is accustomed to come to the chateau. 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 chateau 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 chateau?”

“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 chateau 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