The Mystery of the Yellow Room. Гастон Леру

will not be able to give you any information, Monsieur Rouletabille.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because they were arrested half an hour ago.”

      “Arrested!” cried Rouletabille; “then they are the murderers!”

      Frederic Larsan shrugged his shoulders.

      “When you can’t arrest the real murderer,” he said with an air of supreme irony, “you can always indulge in the luxury of discovering accomplices.”

      “Did you have them arrested, Monsieur Fred?”

      “Not I!—I haven’t had them arrested. In the first place, I am pretty sure that they have not had anything to do with the affair, and then because—”

      “Because of what?” asked Rouletabille eagerly.

      “Because of nothing,” said Larsan, shaking his head.

      “Because there were no accomplices!” said Rouletabille.

      “Aha!—you have an idea, then, about this matter?” said Larsan, looking at Rouletabille intently, “yet you have seen nothing, young man—you have not yet gained admission here!”

      “I shall get admission.”

      “I doubt it. The orders are strict.”

      “I shall gain admission, if you let me see Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do that for me. You know we are old friends. I beg of you, Monsieur Fred. Do you remember the article I wrote about you on the gold bar case?”

      The face of Rouletabille at the moment was really funny to look at. It showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond which some prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much eloquence, not only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features, that I could not refrain from bursting into laughter. Frederic Larsan, no more than myself, could retain his gravity. Meanwhile, standing on the other side of the gate, he calmly put the key in his pocket. I closely scrutinised him.

      He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His forehead was prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper lip, without moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather small and round, with a look in them that was at once searching and disquieting. He was of middle height and well built, with a general bearing elegant and gentlemanly. There was nothing about him of the vulgar policeman. In his way, he was an artist, and one felt that he had a high opinion of himself. The sceptical tone of his conversation was that of a man who had been taught by experience. His strange profession had brought him into contact with so many crimes and villanies that it would have been remarkable if his nature had not been a little hardened.

      Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from the chateau and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab which had conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from the station at Epinay.

      “Ah!” said Frederic Larsan, “if you want to speak with Monsieur Robert Darzac, he is here.”

      The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging Frederic Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed for time to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he recognised me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac inquired what had brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment. I noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was lined as if from the effects of some terrible suffering.

      “Is Mademoiselle getting better?” I immediately asked.

      “Yes,” he said. “She will be saved perhaps. She must be saved!”

      He did not add “or it will be my death”; but I felt that the phrase trembled on his pale lips.

      Rouletabille intervened:

      “You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.”

      Frederic Larsan interrupted:

      “May I leave you?” he asked of Robert Darzac. “Have you a key, or do you wish me to give you this one.”

      “Thank you. I have a key and will lock the gate.”

      Larsan hurried off in the direction of the chateau, the imposing pile of which could be perceived a few hundred yards away.

      Robert Darzac, with knit brow, was beginning to show impatience. I presented Rouletabille as a good friend of mine, but, as soon as he learnt that the young man was a journalist, he looked at me very reproachfully, excused himself, under the necessity of having to reach Epinay in twenty minutes, bowed, and whipped up his horse. But Rouletabille had seized the bridle and, to my utter astonishment, stopped the carriage with a vigorous hand. Then he gave utterance to a sentence which was utterly meaningless to me.

      “The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its brightness.”

      The words had no sooner left the lips of Rouletabille than I saw Robert Darzac quail. Pale as he was, he became paler. His eyes were fixed on the young man in terror, and he immediately descended from the vehicle in an inexpressible state of agitation.

      “Come!—come in!” he stammered.

      Then, suddenly, and with a sort of fury, he repeated:

      “Let us go, monsieur.”

      He turned up by the road he had come from the chateau, Rouletabille still retaining his hold on the horse’s bridle. I addressed a few words to Monsieur Darzac, but he made no answer. My looks questioned Rouletabille, but his gaze was elsewhere.

      CHAPTER VI. In the Heart of the Oak Grove

      We reached the 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 Darzac led us into the modern part of the chateau by a large door, protected by a projecting awning—a “marquise” as it is called. Rouletabille, who had resigned the horse and the cab to the care of a servant, never took his eyes off Monsieur Darzac. I followed his look and perceived that it was directed solely towards the gloved hands of the Sorbonne professor. When we were in a tiny sitting-room fitted with old furniture, Monsieur Darzac turned to Rouletabille and said sharply:

      “What do you want?”

      The reporter answered in an equally sharp tone:

      “To shake you by the hand.”

      Darzac shrank back.

      “What does that mean?”

      Evidently he understood, what I also understood, that my friend suspected him of the abominable attempt on the life of Mademoiselle Stangerson. The impression of the blood-stained hand on the walls of “The Yellow Room” was in his mind. I looked at the man closely. His haughty face with its expression ordinarily so straightforward was at this moment strangely troubled. He held out his right hand and, referring to me, said:

      “As you are a friend of Monsieur Sainclair who has rendered me invaluable services in a just cause, monsieur, I see no reason for refusing you my hand—”

      Rouletabille did not take the extended hand. Lying with the utmost audacity, he said:

      “Monsieur, I have lived several years in Russia, where I have acquired the habit of never taking any but an ungloved hand.”

      I thought that the Sorbonne professor would express his anger openly, but, on the contrary, by a visibly violent effort, he calmed himself, took off his gloves, and showed his hands; they were unmarked by any cicatrix.

      “Are you satisfied?”

      “No!” replied Rouletabille. “My dear friend,” he said, turning to me, “I am obliged to ask you to leave us alone for a moment.”

      I bowed and retired; stupefied by what I had seen and heard. I could not understand why Monsieur Robert Darzac had not already shown the door to my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend.