When he had finished his omelette and we were again alone, Rouletabille continued the tale of his confidences. “When I sent you my telegram this morning,” he said, “I had only the word of Monsieur Darzac, that ‘perhaps’ the assassin would come to-night. I can now say that he will _certainly_ come. I expect him.” “What has made you feel this certainty?” “I have been sure since half-past ten o’clock this morning that he would come. I knew that before we saw Arthur Rance at the window in the court.” “Ah!” I said, “But, again—what made you so sure? And why since half-past ten this morning?” “Because, at half-past ten, I had proof that Mademoiselle Stangerson was making as many efforts to permit of the murderer’s entrance as Monsieur Robert Darzac had taken precautions against it.” “Is that possible!” I cried. “Haven’t you told me that Mademoiselle Stangerson loves Monsieur Robert Darzac?” “I told you so because it is the truth.” “Then do you see nothing strange—” “Everything in this business is strange, my friend; but take my word for it, the strangeness you now feel is nothing to the strangeness that’s to come!” “It must be admitted, then,” I said, “that Mademoiselle Stangerson and her murderer are in communication—at any rate in writing?” “Admit it, my friend, admit it! You don’t risk anything! I told you about the letter left on her table, on the night of the inexplicable gallery affair,—the letter that disappeared—into the pocket of Mademoiselle Stangerson. Why should it not have been a summons to a meeting? Might he not, as soon as he was sure of Darzac’s absence, appoint the meeting for the coming night?” And my friend laughed silently. There are moments when I ask myself if he is not laughing at _me_. The door of the inn opened. Rouletabille was on his feet so suddenly that one might have thought he had received an electric shock. “Mr. Arthur Rance!” he cried. Mr. Arthur Rance stood before us calmly bowing. Chapter XX An Act of Mademoiselle Stangerson “You remember me, Monsieur?” asked Rouletabille. “Perfectly!” replied Arthur Rance. “I recognise you as the lad at the bar. [The face of Rouletabille crimsoned at being called a ‘lad.’] I want to shake hands with you. You are a bright little fellow.” The American extended his hand and Rouletabille, relaxing his frown, shook it and introduced Mr. Arthur Rance to me. He invited him to share our meal. “No thanks. I breakfasted with Monsieur Stangerson.” Arthur Rance spoke French perfectly,—almost without an accent. “I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again, Monsieur. I thought you were to have left France the day after the reception at the Élysée.” Rouletabille and I, outwardly indifferent, listened most intently for every word the American would say. The man’s purplish red face, his heavy eyelids, the nervous twitchings, all spoke of his addiction to drink. How come it that so sorry a specimen of a man should be so intimate with Monsieur Stangerson?