The Mystery of the Yellow Room

tabille into my bedroom that morning. It was about eight o'clock and I was s

, it is time that I prese

h 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. How, 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 Rue Oberskampf-another forgotten story-he had taken to one

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 s

ried, "will make

d to the journal, he asked the lad, who was shortly to become famous as Roul

gster replied modestly, hardly able to

been engaged on the paper for a month. Let it be quite understood that it was not you but the 'Epoque' that di

tire, but before the youth had reached the door he

h Jose

ef, "but since you will not be required to

he 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 unraveller of intricate and obscure affairs which found its way to the offic

, the former need advertisement, the latter information. We chatted together, and I soon warmed towards him. His inte

es which united me to Rouletabille. After a while, my new friend being allowed to carry out an idea of a judicial correspondence column, whi

aordinary seriousness of mind. Accustomed 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 cau

porter, 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

y publishing the details of crimes, the press ends by encouraging their commission. But then, with some people we can never do right. Rouletabille, as I have said, entered my room that morning of the 26th of October, 18

Sainclair,-ha

andier

w Room"!-What do

n the Devil or the Bete du Bon

seri

d the attic immediately above Mademoiselle Stangerson's room, the builder's job ordered by the examining magistrate will give us the key of the enigma and it will not be long before we learn by what natural tra

l English translation

r," the reader may su

no murder is ac

never without, smoked for a few minutes in silence-no doubt to ca

a lawyer and I doubt not your ability to save the guilty from conviction; but if you were a magistrate

oke energetically,

more and more mysterious. That's why it interests me. The examining mag

he way by which the mur

the present. But I have an idea as to th

By whom, then

emoiselle S

or rather, I have nev

shrugged hi

icle in the 'Matin' by which

he whole of the story it

ked door-with the

ectly natural thing i

!-And t

e b

ver-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 defended herself. There was a struggle, and she used the revolver skilfully enough to wound the assassin in

he temple was not do

t weapon did the murderer use? The blow on the temple seems to show that the murderer wished to stun Mademoiselle Stangerson,-after he had unsuccessfully tried to strangle her.

w the murderer got out of "T

hat has to be explained. I am going to the Chateau du Gla

I

definitely entrusted this case to me, and

y can I be of a

arzac is at the Ch

is despair must

ve a talk

d it in a tone t

there is something to be

es

e retired to my sitting-room

ge, was a professor of physics at the Sorbonne. 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 th

as to the murderer'

ociety, he is, at least, a man belonging to the up

led you to

andkerchief, and the marks of the r

erers don't leave traces behi

of you yet, my dear Saincla