elle
Stangerson. When Darzac went to Epinay, expecting to find Ballmeyer or
Larsan there, he was met by an accomplice of Larsan's, and kept waiting
until such time as the "coincidence" could be established.

It was all done with Machiavellian cunning; but Ballmeyer had reckoned
without Joseph Rouletabille.

Now that the Mystery of The Yellow Room has been cleared up, this is not
the time to tell of Rouletabille's adventures in America. Knowing the
young reporter as we do, we can understand with what acumen he had
traced, step by step, the story of Mathilde Stangerson and Jean Roussel.
At Philadelphia he had quickly informed himself as to Arthur William
Rance. There he learned of Rance's act of devotion and the reward
he thought himself entitled to for it. A rumour of his marriage with
Mademoiselle Stangerson had once found its way into the drawing-rooms of
Philadelphia. He also learned of Rance's continued attentions to her and
his importunities for her hand. He had taken to drink, he had said, to
drown his grief at his unrequited love. It can now be understood why
Rouletabille had shown so marked a coolness of demeanour towards Rance
when they met in the witnesses' room, on the day of the trial.

The strange Roussel-Stangerson mystery had now been laid bare. Who was
this Jean Roussel? Rouletabille had traced him from Philadelphia to
Cincinnati. In Cincinnati he became acquainted with the old aunt, and
had found means to open her mouth. The story of Ballmeyer's arrest threw
the right light on the whole story. He visited the "presbytery"--a small
and pretty dwelling in the old colonial style--which had, indeed,
"lost nothing of its charm." Then, abandoning his pursuit of traces of
Mademoiselle Stangerson, he took up those of Ballmeyer. He followed them
from prison to prison, from crime to crime. Finally, as he was about
leaving for Europe, he learned in New York that Ballmeyer had, five
years before, embarked for France with some valuable papers belonging to
a merchant of New Orleans whom he had murdered.

And yet the whole of this mystery has not been revealed. Mademoiselle
Stangerson had a child, by her husband,--a son. The infant was born in
the old aunt's house. No one knew of it, so well had the aunt managed to
conceal the event.

What became of that son?--That is another story which, so far, I am not
permitted to relate.

About two months after these events, I came upon Rouletabille sitting on
a bench in the