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 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.