join and allowed a bright stream of light to escape
and fall upon the path at our feet. I planted the ladder under the
window. I am almost sure that I made no noise; and while Daddy Jacques
remained at the foot of the ladder, I mounted it, very quietly, my stout
stick in my hand. I held my breath and lifted my feet with the greatest
care. Suddenly a heavy cloud discharged itself at that moment in a fresh
downpour of rain.

"At the same instant the sinister cry of the Bete du bon Dieu arrested
me in my ascent. It seemed to me to have come from close by me--only a
few yards away. Was the cry a signal?--Had some accomplice of the
man seen me on the ladder!--Would the cry bring the man to the
window?--Perhaps! Ah, there he was at the window! I felt his head above
me. I heard the sound of his breath! I could not look up towards him;
the least movement of my head, and--I might be lost. Would he see
me?--Would he peer into the darkness? No; he went away. He had seen
nothing. I felt, rather than heard, him moving on tip-toe in the room;
and I mounted a few steps higher. My head reached to the level of the
window-sill; my forehead rose above it; my eyes looked between
the opening in the blinds--and I saw--A man seated at Mademoiselle
Stangerson's little desk, writing. His back was turned toward me. A
candle was lit before him, and he bent over the flame, the light from
it projecting shapeless shadows. I saw nothing but a monstrous, stooping
back.

"Mademoiselle Stangerson herself was not there!--Her bed had not been
lain on! Where, then, was she sleeping that night? Doubtless in the
side-room with her women. Perhaps this was but a guess. I must content
myself with the joy of finding the man alone. I must be calm to prepare
my trap.

"But who, then, is this man writing there before my eyes, seated at the
desk, as if he were in his own home? If there had not been that ladder
under the window; if there had not been those footprints on the carpet
in the gallery; if there had not been that open window, I might have
been led to think that this man had a right to be there, and that he was
there as a matter of course and for reasons about which as yet I knew
nothing. But there was no doubt that this mysterious unknown was the
man of The Yellow Room,--the man to whose murderous assault Mademoiselle
Stangerson--without denouncing him--had had to submit. If I could but
see his face! Surprise and capture him!

"If I spring into the ro