THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW ROOM
"Five minutes ago, you did not know the murderer; how can you say that you expect him this evening?"
"Because I know that he must come."
Rouletabille very slowly filled his pipe and lit it. That meant an interesting story. At that moment we heard some one walking in the gallery and passing before our door. Rouletabille listened. The sound of the footstep died away in the distance.
"Is Frédéric Larsan in his room?" I asked, pointing to the partition.
"No," my friend answered. "He went to Paris this morning,—still on the scent of Darzac, who also left for Paris. That matter will turn out badly. I expect that Monsieur Darzac will be arrested in the course of the next week. The worst of it is that everything seems to be in league against him,—circumstances, things, people. Not an hour passes without bringing some new evidence against him. The examining magistrate is overwhelmed by it—and blind."
"Frédéric Larsan, however, is not a novice," I said.
"I thought so," said Rouletabille, with a slightly contemptuous turn of his lips, "I fancied he was a much abler man. I had, indeed, a great admiration for him, before I got to know his method of working. It's deplorable. He owes his reputation solely to his ability; but he lacks reasoning power—the mathematics of his ideas are very poor."
I looked closely at Rouletabille and could not
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