“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. “Have n’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.