The Mystery of the Yellow Room. Гастон Леру

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, employeed 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 Frederic 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 nightlight 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