GOTHIC CRIME MYSTERIES: The Phantom of the Opera, The Secret of the Night, The Mystery of the Yellow Room,The Man with the Black Feather & Balaoo. Gaston Leroux

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СКАЧАТЬ at table. We ate our dinner in the best of humours, and I had no difficulty in appreciating the feelings of certainty which both Rouletabille and Larsan felt. Rouletabille told the great Fred that I had come on a chance visit, and that he had asked me to stay and help him in the heavy batch of writing he had to get through for the “Epoque.” I was going back to Paris, he said, by the eleven o’clock train, taking his “copy,” which took a story form, recounting the principal episodes in the mysteries of the Glandier. Larsan smiled at the explanation like a man who was not fooled and politely refrains from making the slightest remark on matters which did not concern him.

      With infinite precautions as to the words they used, and even as to the tones of their voices, Larsan and Rouletabille discussed, for a long time, Mr. Arthur Rance’s appearance at the chateau, and his past in America, about which they expressed a desire to know more, at any rate, so far as his relations with the Stangersons. At one time, Larsan, who appeared to me to be unwell, said, with an effort:

      “I think, Monsieur Rouletabille, that we’ve not much more to do at the Glandier, and that we sha’n’t sleep here many more nights.”

      “I think so, too, Monsieur Fred.”

      “Then you think the conclusion of the matter has been reached?”

      “I think, indeed, that we have nothing more to find out,” replied Rouletabille.

      “Have you found your criminal?” asked Larsan.

      “Have you?”

      “Yes.”

      “So have I,” said Rouletabille.

      “Can it be the same man?”

      “I don’t know if you have swerved from your original idea,” said the young reporter. Then he added, with emphasis: “Monsieur Darzac is an honest man!”

      “Are you sure of that?” asked Larsan. “Well, I am sure he is not. So it’s a fight then?”

      “Yes, it is a fight. But I shall beat you, Monsieur Frederic Larsan.”

      “Youth never doubts anything,” said the great Fred laughingly, and held out his hand to me by way of conclusion.

      Rouletabille’s answer came like an echo:

      “Not anything!”

      Suddenly Larsan, who had risen to wish us goodnight, pressed both his hands to his chest and staggered. He was obliged to lean on Rouletabille for support, and to save himself from falling.

      “Oh! Oh!” he cried. “What is the matter with me?—Have I been poisoned?”

      He looked at us with haggard eyes. We questioned him vainly; he did not answer us. He had sunk into an armchair and we could get not a word from him. We were extremely distressed, both on his account and on our own, for we had partaken of all the dishes he had eaten. He seemed to be out of pain; but his heavy head had fallen on his shoulder and his eyelids were tightly closed. Rouletabille bent over him, listening for the beatings of the heart.

      My friend’s face, however, when he stood up, was as calm as it had been a moment before agitated.

      “He is asleep,” he said.

      He led me to his chamber, after closing Larsan’s room.

      “The drug?” I asked. “Does Mademoiselle Stangerson wish to put everybody to sleep, to-night?”

      “Perhaps,” replied Rouletabille; but I could see he was thinking of something else.

      “But what about us?” I exclaimed. “How do we know that we have not been drugged?”

      “Do you feel indisposed?” Rouletabille asked me coolly.

      “Not in the least.”

      “Do you feel any inclination to go to sleep?”

      “None whatever.”

      “Well, then, my friend, smoke this excellent cigar.”

      And he handed me a choice Havana, one Monsieur Darzac had given him, while he lit his briarwood—his eternal briarwood.

      We remained in his room until about ten o’clock without a word passing between us. Buried in an armchair Rouletabille sat and smoked steadily, his brow in thought and a far-away look in his eyes. On the stroke of ten he took off his boots and signalled to me to do the same. As we stood in our socks he said, in so low a tone that I guessed, rather than heard, the word:

      “Revolver.”

      I drew my revolver from my jacket pocket.

      “Cock it!” he said.

      I did as he directed.

      Then moving towards the door of his room, he opened it with infinite precaution; it made no sound. We were in the “off-turning” gallery. Rouletabille made another sign to me which I understood to mean that I was to take up my post in the dark closet.

      When I was some distance from him, he rejoined me and embraced me; and then I saw him, with the same precaution, return to his room. Astonished by his embrace, and somewhat disquieted by it, I arrived at the right gallery without difficulty, crossing the landing-place, and reaching the dark closet.

      Before entering it I examined the curtain-cord of the window and found that I had only to release it from its fastening with my fingers for the curtain to fall by its own weight and hide the square of light from Rouletabille—the signal agreed upon. The sound of a footstep made me halt before Arthur Rance’s door. He was not yet in bed, then! How was it that, being in the chateau, he had not dined with Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter? I had not seen him at table with them, at the moment when we looked in.

      I retired into the dark closet. I found myself perfectly situated. I could see along the whole length of the gallery. Nothing, absolutely nothing could pass there without my seeing it. But what was going to pass there? Rouletabille’s embrace came back to my mind. I argued that people don’t part from each, other in that way unless on an important or dangerous occasion. Was I then in danger?

      My hand closed on the butt of my revolver and I waited. I am not a hero; but neither am I a coward.

      I waited about an hour, and during all that time I saw nothing unusual. The rain, which had begun to come down strongly towards nine o’clock, had now ceased.

      My friend had told me that, probably, nothing would occur before midnight or one o’clock in the morning. It was not more than half-past eleven, however, when I heard the door of Arthur Rance’s room open very slowly. The door remained open for a minute, which seemed to me a long time. As it opened into the gallery, that is to say, outwards, I could not see what was passing in the room behind the door.

      At that moment I noticed a strange sound, three times repeated, coming from the park. Ordinarily I should not have attached any more importance to it than I would to the noise of cats on the roof. But the third time, the mew was so sharp and penetrating that I remembered what I had heard about the cry of the Bete du bon Dieu. As the cry had accompanied all the events at the Glandier, I could not refrain from shuddering at the thought.

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