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Title: The Mystery of M. Felix

Author: B. L. Farjeon

Release Date: October 12, 2016 [EBook #53263]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books (The Ohio State University)

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Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page Scan Source:

https://books.google.com/books?id=qdw9AQAAMAAJ

(The Ohio State University)

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX

BY

B. L. FARJEON

AUTHOR OF "GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "MISER FAREBROTHER,"

ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY

150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION PLACE

COPYRIGHT, 1890,

BY

J. W. LOVELL CO.

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX.

CONTENTS

I.

A CRY FOR HELP FLOATS THROUGH THE NIGHT.

II.

THE SPECTRE CAT.

III.

A THRILLING INCIDENT.

IV.

A DISCUSSION ABOUT RED CATS AND WHITE SNOW.

V.

DR. LAMB TELLS THE CONSTABLES AND MRS. MIDDLEMORE WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MR. FELIX.

VI.

THE "EVENING MOON" INDULGES IN A BOMBASTIC RETROSPECT, IN WHICH SOME VERY TALL AND VERY FINE WRITING WILL BE DETECTED BY THE OBSERVANT READER.

VII.

AN EXAMINATION OF CERTAIN DISCREPANCIES IN THE STATEMENTS OF THE THREE PRINCIPAL WITNESSES.

VIII.

A STARTLING PHASE IN THE MYSTERY.

IX.

INTRODUCES SOPHY.

X.

OUR REPORTER GIVES MRS. MIDDLEMORE SOME SENSIBLE ADVICE.

XI.

THE "EVENING MOON" IS INUNDATED WITH CORRESPONDENCE CONCERNING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY OF M. FELIX.

XII.

THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" MAKES A DISCOVERY.

XIII.

THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" GIVES SOPHY A TREAT.

XIV.

SOPHY IMPARTS STRANGE NEWS TO THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON."

XV.

A SINGULAR ADVENTURE ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT.

XVI.

AT THE BOW STREET POLICE STATION.

XVII.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

XVIII.

HOW THE CHARGE WAS DISPOSED OF.

XIX.

WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE RIVER.

XX.

MRS. MIDDLEMORE IS VICTIMIZED.

XXI.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

BOOK SECOND.

A LIFE DRAMA: LINKS IN THE MYSTERY.

XXII.

THE HALF-BROTHERS.

XXIII.

TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE.

XXIV.

SLANDER.

XXV.

LOST, OR SAVED?

XXVI.

SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE.

XXVII.

LEONARD RETURNS HOME.

XXVIII.

THE FALSE FRIEND.

XXIX.

ON THE TRACK.

XXX.

THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE.

XXXI.

LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS.

XXXII.

LEONARD MEETS WITH A FELLOW-SCOUNDREL.

XXXIII.

A FOUL DEED.

XXXIV.

DR. PETERSSEN EXPLAINS HIMSELF.

XXXV.

EMILIA AND LEONARD.

XXXVI.

"ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I."

XXXVII.

A GOOD WOMAN.

XXXVIII.

CONSTANCE AND JULIAN.

XXXIX.

IN ENGLAND ONCE MORE.

XL.

DR. PETERSSEN REAPPEARS ON THE SCENE.

XLI.

DR. PETERSSEN BRINGS M. FELIX TO BOOK.

XLII.

EMILIA AND M. FELIX.

BOOK THIRD

WHAT BECAME OF M. FELIX, AS RELATED IN THE FIRST PERSON BY ROBERT AGNOLD, ON THE REPORTING STAFF OF THE "EVENING MOON."

XLIII.

ROBERT AGNOLD TAKES UP THE THREADS OF THE STORY.

XLIV.

EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS.

XLV.

DR. PETERSSEN IS TRACKED.

XLVI.

I ENTER INTO AN ARRANGEMENT WITH SOPHY.

XLVII.

I RECEIVE A STRANGE VISITOR.

XLVIII.

SOPHY ENTERS DR. PETERSSEN'S ESTABLISHMENT AS A FRIENDLY PATIENT.

XLIX.

M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT.

L.

CLEVER SOPHY.

LI.

SOPHY MAKES A STRANGE STATEMENT.

LII.

THE GHOST OF M. FELIX.

LIII.

THE PORTRAIT OF GERALD PAGET.

LIV.

OBTAIN AN EXPLANATION FROM EMILIA.

LV.

TREACHERY.

LVI.

NIGHT IN DEERING WOODS.

LVII.

THE CAVERN IN THE CLIFF.

LVIII.

FRIENDS TO THE RESCUE.

LIX.

FROM THE COLUMNS OF THE "THE EVENING MOON," UNDER THE HEADING, "THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX SOLVED."

LX.

ROBERT AGNOLD'S LAST WORDS.

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX.

CHAPTER I.

A CRY FOR HELP FLOATS THROUGH THE NIGHT.

"Help!"

Through the whole of the night, chopping, shifting winds had been tearing through the streets of London, now from the north, now from the south, now from the east, now from the west, now from all points of the compass at once; which last caprice--taking place for at least the twentieth time in the course of the hour which the bells of Big Ben were striking--was enough in itself to make the policeman on the beat doubtful of his senses.

"What a chap hears in weather like this," he muttered, "and what he fancies he hears, is enough to drive him mad."

He had sufficient justification for the remark, for there were not only the wild pranks of Boreas to torment and distract him, but there was the snow which, blown in fine particles from roofs and gables, and torn from nooks where it lay huddled up in little heaps against stone walls (for the reason that being blown there by previous winds it could get no further), seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in whirling into his face, which was tingling and smarting with cold, and as a matter of course into his eyes, which it caused to run over with tears. With a vague idea that some appeal had been made officially to him as a representative of law and order, he steadied himself and stood still for a few moments, with a spiritual cold freezing his heart, even as the temporal cold was freezing his marrow.

"Help!"

The bells of Big Ben were still proclaiming the hour of midnight. If a man at such a time might have reasonably been forgiven the fancy that old Westminster's tower had been invaded by an army of malicious witches, how much more readily might he have been forgiven for not being able to fix the direction from which this cry for help proceeded? Nay, he could scarcely have been blamed for doubting that the cry was human.

For the third time--

"Help!"

Then, so far as that appeal was concerned, silence. The cry was heard no more.

The policeman still labored under a vague impression that his duty lay somewhere in an undefined direction, and his attitude was one of strained yet bewildered attention. Suddenly he received a terrible shock. Something touched his foot. He started back, all his nerves thrilling with an unreasonable spasm of horror. Instinctively looking down, he discovered that he had been ridiculously alarmed by a miserable, half-starved, and nearly whole-frozen cat, which, with the scanty hairs on its back sticking up in sharp points, was creeping timorously along in quest of an open door. Recovering from his alarm, the policeman stamped his feet and clapped his hands vigorously to keep the circulation in them.

His beat was in the heart of Soho, and he was at that moment in Gerard Street, in which locality human life is represented in perhaps stranger variety than can be found in any other part of this gigantic city of darkness and light. As a protection against the fierce wind he had taken refuge within the portal of the closed door of an old house which lay a little back from the regular line of buildings in the street. Little did he dream that the cry for help had proceeded from that very house, the upper portion of which was inhabited by a gentleman known as M. Felix by some, as Mr. Felix by others. Well named, apparently, for although he was not young, M. Felix was distinguished by a certain happy, light-hearted air, which marked him as one who held enjoyment of the pleasures of life as a kind of religion to be devoutly observed. The lower portion of the house was occupied by the landlady, Mrs. Middlemore, who acted as housekeeper to M. Felix. It was the nightly habit of this estimable woman to go for her supper beer at half-past eleven, and return, beaming, at a few minutes after twelve.

These late hours did not interfere with the performance of her duties, because M. Felix was by no means an early riser, seldom breakfasting, indeed, before noon. Despite the inclemency of the weather, Mrs. Middlemore had not deviated on this night from her usual custom. She was a widow, without responsibilities, and no person had a right to meddle with her affairs. Besides, as she frequently remarked, she was quite able to take care of herself.

A welcome diversion occurred to the constable who was stamping his feet within the portal of Mrs. Middlemore's street door. A brother constable sauntered up, and accosted him.

"Is that you, Wigg?"

"As much as there's left of me," replied Constable Wigg.

"You may well say that," observed the new-comer, who rejoiced in the name of Nightingale. "It's all a job to keep one's self together. What a night!"

"Bitter. I've been regularly blown off my feet."

"My case. I'm froze to a stone. The North Pole ain't in it with this, and whether I've got a nose on my face is more than I'd swear to. Anything up?"

"Nothing, except----"

"Except what?" asked Constable Nightingale, as his comrade paused. He put his hand to his nose as he asked the question, his reference to it having inspired doubts as to his being still in possession of the feature.

"A minute or two ago," said Constable Wigg, "I had half a fancy that I heard somebody cry out 'Help!'"

"Ah! Did you go?"

"How could I? I wasn't sure, you know."

"Who could be sure of anything," remarked Constable Nightingale, charitably, "on such a night?"

"Nobody. It must have been the wind."

"Not a doubt of it. If anybody told me he saw Polar bears about I shouldn't dispute with him." Then Constable Nightingale took a step forward, and glanced up at the windows of the front rooms occupied by M. Felix, in which shone a perfect blaze of light. "He must be jolly warm up there."

"Who?" inquired Constable Wigg, his eyes following his comrade's glance.

"Mr. Felix."

"And who's Mr. Felix when he's at home?"

"Why, you don't mean to say you don't know him!"

"Never heard of him. I've only been on the beat two nights."

"I forgot. He's a trump, a regular A-one-er. You're in for a good tip or two. I was on night duty here this time last year, and he behaved handsome. Tipped me at Christmas, and tipped me at New Year's. Half a sov. each time. And at other times, too. Altogether he was as good as between four and five pounds to me while I was here."

"That's something like," said Constable Wigg, with something of eager hope in his voice; "not many like him knocking around. But"--with sudden suspicion--"why should he be so free? Anything wrong about him?"

"Not a bit of it," replied Constable Nightingale, blowing on his ice-cold fingers. "He's a diamond of the first water--a tip-top swell, rolling in money. That's what's the matter with Mr. Felix. Don't you wish you had the same complaint? 'Constable,' said he to me, when I came on this beat last year, 'you're on night duty here, eh?' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' he says, acting like a gentleman; 'I live in this house'--we were standing at this very door--'and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.'"

"And a very good point it is," remarked Constable Wigg, with growing interest, "for a gentleman to make."

"I thought so myself, and I found it so. 'And I always make it a point,' says he, of 'looking after them as looks after me.' Fact is, Wigg, he comes home late sometimes, with a glass of wine to much in him, and he knows the usefulness of us. Carries a lump of money about him, and likes to feel himself safe. Never what you call drunk, you know. Just a bit sprung, as a real gentleman should be, and always with a pleasant word ready. So, whenever I met him coming home late, I'd walk behind him to his door here, and give him good-night; which he appreciated."

"Much obliged to you for the information, Nightingale."

"Ought to do these little turns for one another, Wigg. The man who was on the beat before me gave me the office, and it's only friendly for me to give it to you." Constable Nightingale looked pensively over the shoulder of his brother constable, and added, "I behaved liberal to him."

"I'll do likewise to you," said Constable Wigg, "if anything happens."

"Was sure you would, Wigg," responded Constable Nightingale, briskly. "What would the force be worth if we didn't stick together? When I see Mr. Felix I'll put in a good word for you. He took a regular fancy to me, and told me if I got the beat again to come to him immediate. Once you see him, you can't miss knowing him. Tall and slim, with hair getting gray. No whiskers; only a mustache, curled. Speaks with a foreign accent--parleyvooish. His clothes fit like a glove. Patent leather boots always, except when he wears shoes; white tie generally. I remember Mrs. Middlemore----"

"Who's she?"

"His landlady. A most respectable woman--made of the right stuff. Ah, a real good sort she is! Goes out every night for her supper beer between eleven and twelve."

"I must have seen her half an hour ago."

"Of course you did. If it was to rain cats and dogs or snowed for a month, she wouldn't miss going. Has she come back?"

"No."

"She stops out as a rule till about this time; fond of a gossip, you know. Most of us are. She'll be here soon, if she can keep her feet. The snow's getting thicker--and listen to the wind! Let's get close to the door. Well, I remember Mrs. Middlemore coming out to me one night, and saying, 'You're wanted up there,' meaning in Mr. Felix's rooms----"

Constable Wigg interposed. "Just now you said parleyvooish."

"So I did, and so I meant."

"Speaks with a foreign accent, you said."

"I don't deny it."

"And you keep on saying Mr. Felix."

"Well?"

"Shouldn't it be Monseer?"

"Well, perhaps; but not Monseer--Monshure."

"I give in to you, Nightingale; I'm not a French scholar."

"Let's call him Mr., for all that. Monshure twists the tongue unless you're born there."

"I'm agreeable. Call him Mr. if you like. Hallo!"

The exclamation was caused by Mrs. Middlemore's street door being suddenly opened without any preliminary warning from within, and with such swiftness and violence that the policemen almost fell through it into the passage. As they were recovering their equilibrium a man stepped out of the house, or rather stumbled out of it, in a state of great excitement. He had a crimson scarf round his neck; it was loosely tied, and the ends floated in the wind. The little bit of color shone bright in the glare of white snow. Its wearer pulled the door after him and hurried along the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and taking no notice of the policemen, who strained their eyes after him. He walked very unsteadily, and was soon out of sight.

CHAPTER II.

THE SPECTRE CAT.

"That's a rum start," said Constable Wigg. "Was it Mr. Felix?"

"No," replied Constable Nightingale, "Mr. Felix is altogether a different kind of man. Takes things more coolly. Walks slow, talks slow, thinks slow, looks at you slow. This fellow was like a flash of lightning. Did you catch sight of his face?"

"He was in such a devil of a hurry that there was no catching sight of anything except the red handkerchief round his neck. There was no mistaking that. Seemed a youngish man."

"Yes. Been on a visit to Mr. Felix, most likely."

"Or to some other lodger in the house," suggested Constable Wigg.

"There ain't no other," said Constable Nightingale. "Every room in it except the basement is let to Mr. Felix."

"A married man, then' with a large family?"

"No," said Constable Nightingale, with a little cough. "Single. Or, perhaps, a widower. No business of ours, Wigg."

"Certainly not. Go on with your story, Nightingale. 'You're wanted up there' says Mrs. Middlemore."

"Yes. 'You're wanted up there,' she says, meaning Mr. Felix's rooms. 'Did Mr. Felix send for me?' I ask. 'He did,' she answers. 'He rings his bell and says, "Go for a policeman." And he'll not be sorry it's you, Mr. Nightingale, because you're a man as can be trusted,' Mrs. Middlemore's precise words. You see, Wigg, me and her ain't exactly strangers. I'm a single man, and I'm mistook if she ain't got a bit of money put by."

"You're a knowing one, Nightingale,' said Constable Wigg, somewhat enviously, and it is not to the credit of human nature to state that there flashed into his mind the base idea of endeavoring to supplant his brother constable in Mrs. Middlemore's good graces. What should hinder him? He was a single man, many years younger than Constable Nightingale, and much better looking. All was fair in love and war. The "bit of money put by" was a temptation from Lucifer.

"That's what brings me round here now and then," continued Constable Nightingale, complacently. "A man might go a good deal further than Mrs. Middlemore, and fare a good deal worse. 'I suppose,' says I to her, 'there's somebody with Mr. Felix as he wants to get rid of, and as won't go?' 'I ain't at liberty to say,' she answers, 'but you're pretty near the mark. Come and see for yourself, and don't forget that Mr. Felix has got a liberal heart, and hates fuss.' Upon that, Wigg, I holds my tongue, because I'm a man as knows how to, and I follows Mrs. Middlemore into the house. I'd been inside before, of course, but never upstairs, always down and Mrs. Middlemore had told me such a lot about Mr. Felix's rooms that I was curious to see them. 'Furnished like a palace,' Mrs. Middlemore used to say; so up the stairs I steps, Mrs. Middlemore showing the way, and I don't mind confessing that before we got to the first landing I put my arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist--but that's neither here nor there. She stops on the landing, and knocks at the door----"

But here Constable Nightingale was compelled to pause, and to hold on tight to his comrade. The storm quite suddenly reached such a pitch of fury that the men could scarcely keep their feet, and it would have been impossible to hear a word that was spoken. It was not a fitful display of temper; so fierce grew the wind that it blew the street door open with a crash, and as the policemen were leaning against it, the consequence was that they were precipitated into the passage, and fell flat upon their backs. The reason of the door being blown open so readily was probably, as Constable Nightingale afterward remarked, because the man who had recently left the house so hastily had not pulled it tight behind him, but the tempest was raging so furiously that it might well have made light of such an obstacle as an old street door. It was with difficulty the policemen recovered their feet, and the strength of the wind as it rushed through the passage was so great that the idea that they would be safer inside the house than out occurred to both of them at once. To expose themselves to the fury of the elements in the open would undoubtedly have been attended with danger. Instinctively they advanced to the door, and after a struggle succeeded in shutting it. That being accomplished, they stood in the dark passage, mentally debating what they should do next.

"There's something moving," whispered Constable Wigg, trembling. He was not remarkable for courage, and had a horror of darkness.

Constable Nightingale was made of sterner stuff. He promptly pulled out his dark lantern, and cast its circle of light upon the floor; and there, creeping timidly along close to the wall, they saw the miserable half-starved cat which had shaken Constable Wigg's nerves earlier in the night. It had taken advantage of the open street door to obtain the shelter for which it had long been seeking.

"It ain't the first time," said Constable Wigg, in a vicious tone, "that this little beast has given me a turn. Just before you come up it run across me and almost sent my heart into my mouth."

But for a mournful, fear-stricken look in its yellow eyes, the light of the dark lantern seemed to deprive the wretched cat of the power of motion. It remained perfectly still, cowering to the ground. Even when Constable Wigg gave it a spiteful kick it did not move of its own volition, and it was only when the attention of the policeman was no longer directed toward it that it slunk slowly and stealthily away.

Meanwhile the tempest raged more furiously than ever outside. The shrieking wind tore through the streets, carrying devastation in its train, and the air was thick with whirling, blinding snow.

"Did you ever hear anything like it?" said Constable Nightingale.

"Never," said Constable Wigg.

"It would be madness to go out," said Constable Nightingale. "We should be dashed to pieces. Besides, what good could we do? Besides, who would be likely to want us? Besides, who's to know?"

* * * * * *

There was a world of philosophy in these reflections, which Constable Wigg was only too ready to acknowledge.

"What do you propose, Nightingale?" he asked.

"That we go down to Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen," replied Constable Nightingale, "and make ourselves comfortable. I know the way."

He led it, and Constable Wigg very cheerfully accompanied him. The kitchen was the coziest of apartments, and their hearts warmed within them as they entered it. Mrs. Middlemore, like a sensible woman, had taken the precaution to bank up the fire before she left the house, and it needed but one touch from the poker to cause it to spring into a bright glowing blaze. This touch was applied by Constable Nightingale, and the shadows upon walls and ceiling leapt into ruddy life.

"This is something like," said Constable Wigg, stooping and warming himself.

Having no further need for his dark lantern, Constable Nightingale tucked it snugly away, and then proceeded to light a candle which, in its flat tin candlestick and a box of matches handy, stood on the kitchen table. They were not the only articles on the table. There was no table-cloth, it is true, but what mattered that? The whitest of table-cloths would have made but a sorry supper, and in the present instance could not have added to the attractions which the lighted candle revealed. There was bread, there was butter, there was cheese, there were pickles, there was a plate of sausages, there was half a roast fowl, and there was a fine piece of cold pork. Constable Wigg's eyes wandered to the table, and became, so to speak, glued there. He was now standing with his back to the fire, and was being comfortably warmed through. Even a kitchen may become a veritable Aladdin's cave, and this was the case with Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, in the estimation of Constable Wigg.

"If there's one thing I like better than another for supper," he said, meditatively, and with pathos in his voice, "it is cold pork and pickles. And there's enough for three, Nightingale, there's enough for three."

Constable Nightingale nodded genially, and, with the air of a man familiar with his surroundings, took up a piece of butter on a knife, and put it to his mouth.

"The best fresh," he observed.

"You don't say so?" exclaimed Constable Wigg, not contentiously, but in amiable wonder.

"Taste it," said Constable Nightingale, handing his comrade the knife with a new knob of butter on it.

"It is the best fresh," said Constable Wigg. "She lives on the fat of the land." This evidence of good living and the cheerful homeliness of the kitchen strengthened his notion of supplanting Constable Nightingale in the affections of Mrs. Middlemore, but he was careful not to betray himself. "You know your way about, Nightingale. It ain't the first time you've been in this here snuggery."

Constable Nightingale smiled knowingly, and said, "Cold pork and pickles ain't half a bad supper, to say nothing of sausages, roast fowl, and----and----." He sniffed intelligently and inquired, "Ain't there a baked tatery smell somewheres near?"

"Now you mention it," replied Constable Wigg, also sniffing, "I believe there is."

"And here they are, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, opening the door of the oven, and exposing four large, flowery potatoes baking in their skins. "Not yet quite done, not yet quite ready to burst, and all a-growing and a-blowing, and waiting for butter and pepper. They're relishy enough without butter and pepper, but with butter and pepper they're a feast for a emperor."

"Ah," sighed Constable Wigg, "it's better to be born lucky than rich. Now just cast your eye at the door, Nightingale. I'm blessed if that beastly cat ain't poking its nose in again." And as though there was within him a superabundance of vicious energy which required immediate working off, Constable Wigg threw his truncheon at the cat, which, without uttering a sound, fled from the kitchen. "What riles me about that cat is that it moves about like a ghost, without as much as a whine. It takes you all of a sudden, like a stab in the back. It'll be up to some mischief before the night is out."

"Why, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, with a laugh, "you talk of it as if it wasn't a cat at all."

"I don't believe it is. In my opinion it's a spectre cat, a spirit without a solid body. I lifted it with my foot in the street, and not a sound came from it. I kicked it in the passage, and it crept away like a ghost. I let fly my truncheon at it and hit it on the head, and off it went like a shadder, without a whine. It ain't natural. If it comes across me again I advise it to say its prayers."

Which, to say the least of it, was an absurd recommendation to offer to a cat. But Constable Wigg was in an unreasonable and spiteful temper, and he became morose and melancholy when he saw how thoroughly Constable Nightingale was making himself at home in Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen; or perhaps it was the sight of the tempting food on the table which, without lawful invitation, he dared not touch. However it was, he was not allowed much time for gloomy reflection, his thoughts being diverted by the violent slamming of the street door, and by the further sound of a person breathing heavily in her course downstairs.

"It's Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, in a low tone. "I never thought she'd be able to open the door alone with such a wind blowing. We'll give her a surprise."

They heard Mrs. Middlemore stop outside the kitchen, and exclaim, "Well! To think I should 'ave been so foolish as to leave the candle alight! I could 'ave swore I blowed it out before I left the room!" Then she opened the door, and it was well that Constable Nightingale darted forward to her support, for if he had not she would have fallen to the ground in affright, and the supper beer would have been lost to taste, if not to sight. It was as well, too, that he put his face close enough to her lips to partially stifle a kind of a hysterical gurgle which was escaping therefrom. It was, however, a proceeding of which Constable Wigg did not inwardly approve.

"Pluck up, Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, cheerily, "there's nothing wrong. It's only me and my mate, Wigg, who's on night duty here. Everything's as right as a fiddle. Take a pull at the beer--a long pull. Now you feel better, don't you?"

Mrs. Middlemore--her movements being enviously watched by Constable Wigg, whose thirst was growing almost unbearable--removed her lips from the jug, and said:

"Ever so much. But how did you get in?"

"Didn't get in at all," said Constable Nightingale, jocosely; "we were blown in."

"Blown in!"

"Yes, my dear. We was standing outside, Wigg and me, leaning against the door, when the wind come like a clap of thunder, and blew it clean open, and of course we went with it, flat on our backs the pair of us. When we got on our feet again the wind was tearing so, and the snow was pelting down that fierce, that I thought we might venture to take a liberty, and we come down here to warm ourselves. And that's the long and the short of it, my dear."

He still had his arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist, and now he gave her a hug. She was a pleasant-faced, round-bodied woman, some forty years of age, and she looked up smilingly as the constable--her favorite constable--hugged her, and said,

"Well, now, I declare you did startle me. When I opened the door, and sor two men a-standing in my kitchen, I thought of burglars, and you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather.

"And now we're here," said Constable Nightingale, "I don't suppose you'd have the heart to turn us out."

"Turn you out!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, "I wouldn't turn a cat out on such a night as this!"

"More cats," thought Constable Wigg, with his eyes on the cold pork and pickles.

CHAPTER III.

A THRILLING INCIDENT.

"The wonder is," said Constable Nightingale, while Mrs. Middlemore shook the snow out of her clothes, "how you had the courage to venture out in such weather."

"It's 'abit, Mr. Nightingale, that's what it is. Once I get to doing a thing regular, done it must be if I want to keep my peace of mind. There wouldn't be a wink of sleep for me if I didn't go and fetch my supper beer myself every night. I don't keep a gal, Mr. Winks----"

"Wigg," said that gentleman in correction, with a dreamy look at the beer-jug.

"I beg you a thousand pardons, Mr. Wigg, I'm sure. I don't keep a gal, and that's why my place is always nice and clean, as you see it now. If you want your work done, do it yourself--that's my motter. Not that I can't afford to keep a gal, but Mr. Felix he ses when he come to me about the rooms when I didn't 'ave a blessed lodger in the 'ouse, 'I'll take 'em,' he ses, 'conditionally. You mustn't let a room in the place to anybody but me.' 'But I make my living out of the rooms, sir,' ses I, 'and I can't afford to let 'em remain empty.' 'You can afford,' ses Mr. Felix, 'if I pay for 'em remaining empty. What rent do you arks for the whole 'ouse with the exception of the basement?' I opened my mouth wide, I don't mind telling you that, Mr. Wigg, when I put a price upon the 'ouse. All he ses is, 'Agreed.' 'Then there's attendance, sir,' I ses. 'How much for that?' he arks. I opens my mouth wide agin, and all he ses is, 'Agreed.' You see, Mr. Wigg, seeing as' ow you're a friend of Mr. Nightingale's, and as no friend of his'n can be anything but a gentleman, there's no 'arm in my telling you a thing or two about Mr. Felix, more especially as you're on night duty 'ere."

"Here's to our better acquaintance," said Constable Wigg, laying hands on the beer-jug in an absent kind of way, and raising it to his mouth. When, after a long interval, he put it down again with a sigh of intense satisfaction, he met the reproachful gaze of Constable Nightingale, who gasped:

"Well, of all the cheek! Without ever being asked!"

"Love your heart," said Mrs. Middlemore, "what does that matter? He's as welcome as the flowers in May, being a friend of your'n." She handed the jug to Constable Nightingale, asking, as she did so, "Did you ever 'ave a inspiration, Mr. Nightingale?"

Constable Nightingale did not immediately reply, his face being buried in the jug. When it was free, and he had wiped his mouth, he said, in a mild tone--any harsh judgment he may have harbored against Constable Wigg being softened by the refreshing draught--

"I must have had one to-night when I come this way, out of my beat, to have a talk with Wigg, and to see that you was all right. The taters in the oven'll be burnt to a cinder if they're not took out immediate."

"You've got a nose for baked taters, you 'ave," said Mrs. Middlemore, admiringly. "Trust you for finding out things without eyes! But you always can smell what I've got in the oven."

Constable Wigg rubbed his hands joyously when he saw Mrs. Middlemore lay three plates and draw three chairs up to the table. Then she whipped the baked potatoes out of the oven, saying,

"Done to a turn. Now we can talk and 'ave supper at the same time. Make yourself at 'ome, Mr. Wigg, and 'elp yourself to what you like. I'll 'ave a bit of fowl, Mr. Nightingale, and jest a thin slice of the cold pork, if you please Mr. Wigg. It's a favorite dish of yours, I can see. Mr. Nightingale, you won't make compliments, I'm sure. You're the last man as ought to in this 'ouse." Constable Nightingale pressed her foot under the table, and she smiled at him, and continued, "I was going to tell you about my inspiration when I got the supper beer. A pint and a half won't be enough,' ses I to myself; a pint and a half's my regular allowance, Mr. Wigg, and I don't find it too much, because I don't drink sperrits. 'A pint and a half won't be enough,' ses I to myself; 'I shouldn't be surprised if a friend dropped in, so I'll double it.' And I did."

"That's something like an inspiration," said Constable Nightingale, looking amorously at Mrs. Middlemore, who smiled amorously at him in return.

Constable Wigg cut these amorous inclinings short by remarking, "We was talking of Mr. Felix. Nightingale commenced twice to-night telling a story about him, and it's not told yet."

"Not my fault, Wigg," Constable Nightingale managed to say, with his mouth full.

"I'll tell my story first," said Mrs. Middlemore, "and he can tell his afterward. Try them sausages, Mr. Wigg. Mr. Felix always 'as the best of everythink. I buy 'em at Wall's. So when he ses 'Agreed' to the rent and attendance, he ses, 'And about servants?' 'I can't afford to keep more than one, sir,' I ses. 'You can, ses he; 'you can afford to keep none. You'll find me the best tenant you ever 'ad, and what you've got to do is to foller my instructions. 'I'll do my best, sir,' ses I. 'It'll pay you,' ses he, 'to let me do exactly as I please, and never to cross me.' And I'm bound to say, Mr. Wigg, that it 'as paid me never to cross 'im and never to arks questions. 'We shall git along capitally together,' ses he, 'without servants. They're a prying, idle lot, and I won't 'ave 'em creeping up the stairs on welwet toes to find out what I'm doing. So keep none, Mrs. Middlemore,' he ses, 'not the ghost of one. You can wait on me without assistance. If I want to entertain a visitor or two I'll 'ave the meals brought in ready cooked, and if we want hextra attendance I'll git Gunter to send in a man as knows 'is business and can 'old 'is tongue.' Of course I was agreeable to that, and he pays me down a month in advance, like the gentleman he is. Though I don't drink sperrits, Mr. Nightingale, that's no reason why you should deny yourself. You know where the bottle is, and per'aps Mr. Wigg will jine you."

"Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Wigg, "you're a lady after my own heart, and I'm glad I'm alive. Here's looking toward you."

"Thank you, Mr. Wigg," said Mrs. Middlemore, "and what I say is it's a shame that men like you and Mr. Nightingale should be trapesing the streets with the snow coming down and the wind a-blowing as it is now. Jest listen to it; it's going on worse than ever. Might I take the liberty of inquiring--you being on the beat, Mr. Wigg--whether you sor a lady come out of the house while I was gone for the supper beer?"

"No lady came out of the house," replied Constable Wigg. "A man did."

"A man!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "Not Mr. Felix, surely!"

"No, not him," said Constable Nightingale. "A strange-looking man with a red handkercher round his neck."

"A strange-looking man, with a red 'andkercher round 'is neck?" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore. "'Ow did he git in?"

"That's not for us to say," said Constable Nightingale. "Perhaps Mr. Felix let him in when you was away."

"Yes, most likely," said Mrs. Middlemore, with an air of confusion which she strove vainly to conceal from the observation of her visitors; "of course, that must be. Mr. Felix often lets people in 'isself. 'Mrs. Middlemore,' he ses sometimes, 'if there's a ring or a knock at the door, I'll attend to it. You needn't trouble yourself.' And I don't--knowing 'im, and knowing it'll pay me better to foller 'is instructions. For there's never a time that sech a thing 'appens that Mr. Felix doesn't say to me afterward, 'Here's a half-sovering for you, Mrs. Middlemore.'"

"You're in for one to-morrow morning, then," observed Constable Wigg, "because it was a man we saw and not a woman."

"He won't forgit it," said Mrs. Middlemore, "not 'im. He's too free and generous with 'is money, so long as he's let alone, and not pry'd upon. What he does is no business of mine, and I'm not going to make it mine."

"Ah," Mrs. Middlemore, said Constable Wigg, emptying his second glass of whiskey, "you know which side your bread is buttered."

"I wasn't born yesterday," said Mrs. Middlemore, with a shrewd smile, "and I've seed things that I keep to myself. Why not? You'd do the same if you was in my shoes, wouldn't you?"

"That we would," replied both the policeman in one breath; and Constable Wigg added, "You're a lucky woman to have such a lodger."

"Well," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I don't deny it. I never met with such a man as Mr. Felix, and I don't believe there is another. Why, when he took possession, he ses, 'Clear out every bit of furniture there is in the rooms. Send it to auction if you like and sell it, and pocket the money. When I leave you shall either 'ave all my furniture, or I'll furnish the rooms over agin according to your fancy, and it shan't cost you a penny.' I was agreeable. Because why? Because he give me forty pound on account, to show that he was in earnest. Then he begins to furnish, and if you was to see 'is rooms, Mr. Wigg, you'd be that took aback that you wouldn't know what to say. All sorts of wonderful woods, satings, picters, swords and daggers, strange rugs and carpets, painted plates and dishes, 'angings, old lamps, and goodness only knows what I don't understand 'arf of 'em. There! I've talked enough about Mr. Felix for once. Let's talk of something else."

"Do you keep cats, Mrs. Middlemore?" asked Constable Nightingale, brewing another grog for himself and Constable Wigg.

"I don't," replied Mrs. Middlemore. "Mr. Felix won't 'ave one in the 'ouse."

"There's one in the house now, though," said Constable Nightingale. "It come in when the wind burst open the street door, and Wigg and me fell into the passage. He says it's not a cat, but a spectre, a ghost."

"Lord save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Middlemore. "If Mr. Felix sees it he'll never forgive me. He 'as a 'atred of 'em. And the ghost of a cat, too!" She was so impressed that she edged closer to Constable Nightingale.

"It was a spectre cat," said Constable Wigg, desirous to do something to divert Mrs. Middlemore's thoughts from Mr. Felix, and also from her leaning toward his comrade. "And then there was that cry for 'Help' I fancied I heard."

"What cry for help?" asked Mrs. Middlemore.

"I thought I heard it three times," said Constable Wigg--but he was prevented from going further by an incident which was followed by a startling picture. Constable Nightingale, rather thrown off his balance by the drink he had imbibed, and desirous to meet the advances of Mrs. Middlemore, slyly put his arm round her waist, and to hide the movement from the observation of his brother constable, made a clumsy movement over the table, and overturned the candle, the effect of which was to put out the light and to leave them in darkness. He was not sorry for it, for the reason that he was hugging Mrs. Middlemore close. But Constable Wigg started up in fear, and cried:

"Somebody has pushed open the door!"

In point of fact the kitchen-door had been quietly pushed open, and the other two observed it when their attention was directed toward it.

"What is it?" whispered Mrs. Middlemore, shaking like a jelly, "Oh, what is it?"

Constable Nightingale, for the second time that night pulled out his dark lantern, and cast its light upon the door. And there, imbedded in the circle of light, was the cat which had already twice before alarmed Constable Wigg. They uttered a cry of horror, and indeed they were justified by the picture which presented itself. The cat was red. Every bristle, sticking up on its skin, was luminous with horrible color. It was a perfect ball of blood.

CHAPTER IV.

A DISCUSSION ABOUT RED CATS AND WHITE SNOW.

In a fit of terror the constable dropped the lantern, and the cat, unseen by the occupants of the kitchen, scuttled away.

"If you don't light the candle," gasped Mrs. Middlemore, "I shall go off." And she forthwith proceeded to demonstrate by screaming, "Oh, oh, oh!"

"She's done it, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale. "Strike a light, there's a good fellow, and pick up the lantern. I can't do it myself; I've got my arms full."

Constable Wigg had now recovered his courage, and inspired by jealousy, quickly struck a match and lit the candle. Mrs. Middlemore lay comfortably in the arms of Constable Nightingale, who did not seem anxious to rid himself of his burden. Stirred to emulative sympathy, Constable Wigg took possession of one of Mrs. Middlemore's hands, and pressed and patted it with a soothing, "There, there, there! What has made you come over like this? There's nothing to be frightened of, is there, Nightingale?"

"Nothing at all," replied Constable Nightingale, irascibly, for he by no means relished his comrade's insidious attempt to slide into Mrs. Middlemore's affections. "You're better now, ain't you?"

"A little," murmured Mrs. Middlemore, "a very little."

"Take a sip of this," said Constable Wigg, holding a glass to her lips, "it'll bring you round."

Ignoring her previous declaration that she did not "drink sperrits," Mrs. Middlemore sipped the glass of whiskey, and continued to sip, with intermittent shudders, till she had drained the last drop. Then she summoned sufficient strength to raise herself languidly from Constable Nightingale's arms, and look toward the door.

"Where's it gone to?" she asked, in a trembling voice. "What's become of the 'orrid creature?"

"What horrid creature, my dear?" inquired Constable Nightingale, winking at his comrade.

"The cat! The red cat!"

"A red cat!" exclaimed Constable Nightingale, in a jocular voice; "who ever heard of such a thing? Who ever saw such a thing?"

"Why, I did--and you did, too."

"Not me," said Constable Nightingale, with another wink at Constable Wigg.

"Nor me," said that officer, following the lead.

"Do you mean to tell me you didn't see a cat, and that the cat you sor wasn't red?"

"I saw a cat, yes," said Constable Nightingale, "but not a red 'un--no, not a red un'. What do you say, Wigg?"

"I say as you says, Nightingale."

"There's lobsters, now," said Constable Nightingale; "we know what color they are when they're boiled, but we don't boil cats, that I know of, and if we did they wouldn't turn red. You learned natural history when you was at school, Wigg. What did they say about red cats?"

"It's against nature," said Constable Wigg, adding, with an unconscious imitation of Macbeth, "there's no such thing."

"I must take your word for it," said Mrs. Middlemore, only half convinced, "but if ever my eyes deceived me they deceived me jest now. If you two gentlemen wasn't here, I'd be ready to take my oath the cat was red. And now I come to think of it, what made the pair of you cry out as you did?"

"What made us cry out?" repeated Constable Nightingale, who, in this discussion, proved himself much superior to his brother officer in the matter of invention. "It was natural, that's what it was, natural. I'm free to confess I was a bit startled. First, there's the night--listen to it; it's going on worse than ever--ain't that enough to startle one? I've been out in bad nights, but I never remember such a one-er as this. Did you, Wigg?"

"Never. If it goes on much longer, it'll beat that American blizzard they talked so much of."

"That's enough to startle a chap," continued Constable Nightingale, "letting alone anything else. But then, there was that talk about a spectre cat. I ain't frightened of much that I know of. Put a man before me, or a dog, or a horse, and I'm ready to tackle 'em, one down and the other come up, or altogether if they like; but when you come to spectres, I ain't ashamed to say I'm not up to 'em. Its constitootional, Mrs. Middlemore; I was that way when I was little. There was a cupboard at home, and my mother used to say, 'Don't you ever open it, Jimmy; there's a ghost hiding behind the door.' I wouldn't have put my hand on the knob for untold gold. It's the same now. Anything that's alive I don't give way to; but when it comes to ghosts and spectres I take a back seat, and I don't care who knows it. Then there was that cry for 'Help,' that Wigg was speaking of. Then there was the candle going out"--he gave Mrs. Middlemore a nudge as he referred to this incident--"and the sudden opening of the door there. It was all them things together that made me cry out; and if brother Wigg's got any other explanation to give I shall be glad to hear it."

"No, Nightingale," said the prudent and unimaginative Wigg, "I couldn't improve on you. You've spoke like a man, and I hope our good-looking, good-natured landlady is satisfied."

This complimentary allusion served to dispel Mrs. Middlemore's fears, and in a more contented frame of mind she resumed her seat at the table, the constables following her example.

"May the present moment," said Constable Nightingale, lifting his glass and looking affectionately at Mrs. Middlemore, "be the worst of our lives; and here's my regards to you."

"And mine, my good creature," said Constable Wigg.

"Gents both," said Mrs. Middlemore, now thoroughly restored, "I looks toward yer."

Whereupon they all drank, and settled themselves comfortably in their chairs.

"What was in that cupboard," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "that your mother told you there was a ghost in?"

"What was in it? Now, that shows how a body may be frightened at nothing. I didn't find it out till I was a man, and it was as much a ghost as I am. But there's a lady present, and I'd better not go on."

"Yes, you must," said Mrs. Middlemore, positively. "You've made me that curious that I'll never speak another word to you if you don't tell me."

"Rather than that should happen, I must let you into the secret, I suppose. But you won't mind me mentioning it?"

"Not a bit, Mr. Nightingale. Speak free."

"Well, if you must know, it was where she kept a spare bustle, and a bit or two of hair, and some other little vanities that she didn't want us young 'uns to pull about. There, the murder's out, and I wouldn't have mentioned the things if you hadn't been so curious; but it's a privilege of your sex, Mrs. Middlemore, one of your amiable weaknesses that we're bound to respect."

Mrs. Middlemore laughed, and asked Constable Wigg what he was thinking of. That worthy had, indeed, put on his considering cap, as the saying is; he felt that Constable Nightingale was making the running too fast, and that he should be left hopelessly in the rear unless he made an attempt to assert himself, and to show that he knew a thing or two.

"I was thinking of the red cat," he said.

"Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, in a tone of reproof, "I'm astonished at you. When everything's been made smooth!"

"For the moment, Nightingale, for the moment," said Constable Wigg, complacently. "But there's by and by to reckon with. It ain't to be expected that Mrs. Middlemore can have us always with her, though I'm sure I should ask for nothing better. What could a man want better than this? Outside snow and blow, inside wine and shine."

"You're quite a poet, Mr. Wigg," said Mrs. Middlemore, admiringly.

"I don't see it," grumbled Constable Nightingale; "where's the wine?"

"If this," said Constable Wigg, raising his glass and looking at its contents with the eye of a connoisseur, "ain't as good as the best of wine, I stand corrected. Did you never hear of a poet's license, Nightingale?" He asked this question banteringly.

"No, I didn't, and I don't believe you know where to get one, and what the Government charges for it."

"I'm afraid, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, beginning to feel the effects of the drink, "that you've no soul for poetry."

"Never you mind whether I have or haven't," retorted Constable Nightingale.

"Gents both," interposed Mrs. Middlemore, "whatever you do, don't fall out. You're as welcome as welcome can be, but don't fall out."

"I bear no malice," said Constable Nightingale, who was really a simple-minded, good-hearted fellow; "shake hands, Wigg, and let bygones be bygones. All I want you to do is to let the red cat alone, or to stick to the point, and have done with it once and for all."

"Very good, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, assuming the lofty air of a man who had established his claim to pre-eminence. "I'll stick to the point, and if I don't make Mrs. Middlemore's mind easy, I'll give up. Not easy as long as we're here, but easy when we're gone, as gone we must be some time or other, because it don't stand to reason that this storm's going to last forever. I'm only thinking of you, I give you my word, ma'am."

"You're very kind, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Middlemore, inclining, with the proverbial fickleness of her sex, now to Constable, Nightingale and now to Constable Wigg.

"It's the least I can do," proceeded Constable Wigg, addressing himself solely to his hostess, "after the way I've been treated here. Not for the last time, I hope."

"Not by a many," said Mrs. Middlemore, smirking at the flatterer, "if it remains with me."

"You're monarch of all you survey, ma'am," observed the wily Wigg, smirking back at her, "and remain with you it must, as long as you remain single."

"Oh, Mr. Wigg!"

"It's nobody's fault but your own if you do; there's not many as can pick and choose, but you're one as can. Perhaps you're hard to please, ma'am----"

"I ain't," said Mrs. Middlemore, so energetically that Constable Nightingale began to think it time to interfere.

"You're forgetting the red cat, Wigg," he said.

"Not at all," said Constable Wigg, blandly; "I'm coming to it, but I don't forget that Mrs. Middlemore has nerves. It amounts to this, ma'am. I've read a bit in my time, and I'm going to give you--and Nightingale, if he ain't too proud--the benefit of it. You did see a red cat, ma'am."

"Did I?" said Mrs. Middlemore, looking around with a shiver.

"You did, ma'am, and yet the cat wasn't red. I thought it was red, and so did Nightingale, if he'll speak the truth. I'll wait for him to say."

"I won't keep you waiting long," said Constable Nightingale, in a surly tone. "As you and Mrs. Middlemore seem to be of one mind, I'll make a clean breast of it. I thought it was red, and when I made light of it I did it for her sake."

He said this so tenderly that Mrs. Middlemore rewarded him with a look of gratitude; but she kept her eyes averted from the kitchen door.

"Now we can get on like a house on fire," said Constable Wigg. "When you winked at me, Nightingale, I didn't contradict you, but I fell a-thinking, and then what I read come to my mind. You've been out in the snow, Mrs. Middlemore, and you saw nothing but white. We've been out in the snow, ma'am, and we saw nothing but white. Not for a minute, not for five, not for ten but for hours I may say. I remember reading somewhere that when you've looked for a longish time upon nothing but white, that it's as likely as not the next thing you see will be red, never mind what the color really is. That's the way with us. The cat's been haunting me, in a manner of speaking, the whole livelong night, and what with that and the snow, and being all of a sudden shoved into darkness, the minute a light shines on the wretched thing it comes to me as red as a ball of fire; and it comes to you the same, because the snow's got into your eyes and affected your sight."

"Bosh!" exclaimed Constable Nightingale.

"What's that you say, Nightingale?" asked Constable Wigg.

"Bosh! I didn't want to frighten Mrs. Middlemore, and that's the reason I wouldn't harp on it, but now you've raked it up again I'll have the matter settled."

So saying, Constable Nightingale rose from his chair.

"Where are you going?" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find that cat," replied Constable Nightingale, "if it's in the house. If it isn't red, I give in and apologize. If it is, I shall take the liberty of saying for the third time, Bosh!"

He walked toward the door, but started back before he reached it, and pointing to the floor, asked,

"What do you call that, Wigg? Is that a deloosion!"

Constable Wigg advanced, looked down, rubbed his eyes, looked down again, and answered,

"I'm bound to say there's no mistaking the color. Have you got any red ochre in the house, ma'am?"

"Not a bit," gasped Mrs. Middlemore, "as I knows on."

"These," said Constable Nightingale, kneeling, and examining the floor, "are marks of the cat's paws, and they're red. Look for yourself, Wigg."

"There's no denying it," said the baffled Wigg.

"You're on duty here, Wigg."

"What do you advise, Nightingale? You've been longer in the force than me."

"It's got to be looked into by somebody. It ain't for me to do it, because I'm out of my beat, and I don't want to be made an example of. Would you oblige me by going to the door and giving the alarm?"

"What for?"

"For me, being at a distance, to hear it. For me hearing it, to run to your assistance. Do you twig? My being on your beat must be accounted for. That will account for it."

This ingenious suggestion relieved Constable Wigg's mind as well as his comrade's.

"That's a good idea," he said; "and it'll account, too, for our being in the house, supposing anything should be said about it."

"Exactly. Being here with Mrs. Middlemore's permission. You've got a lot to learn, Wigg, and one of the lessons I'd advise you to take to heart"--here he looked significantly at Mrs. Middlemore--"is not to poach on a pal's preserves."

Constable Wigg may have felt the reproach, but he took no notice of it. "You may as well come to the door with me, Nightingale."

"I've no objections."

"I'll come too," said Mrs. Middlemore, nervously. "I wouldn't be left alone here for anythink you could orfer me."

The three walked upstairs to the passage, Mrs. Middlemore needing the support of Constable Nightingale's arm round her waist; but the moment the fastenings of the street-door were unloosed, it flew open as though a battering ram had been applied to it, and the wind and snow swept in upon them with undiminished fury.

"Hanged if it ain't getting worse and worse!" muttered Constable Nightingale, helping the others to shut the door, which was accomplished with great difficulty.

"Don't make a noise in the passage," whispered Mrs. Middlemore to Constable Wigg. "Mr. Felix 'll 'ear it, and he'd never forgive me."

"We'll take it for granted, then, that the alarm is given," said Constable Nightingale, "and we'll go downstairs, and consider what ought to be done."

CHAPTER V.

DR. LAMB TELLS THE CONSTABLES AND MRS. MIDDLEMORE WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MR. FELIX.

Arrived once more in that comfortable apartment, they shook off the snow dust which had blown in upon them from the street. Then Constable Nightingale assumed a judicial attitude.

"In case of anything being wrong," he said, "we must all be agreed upon what has took place before it's discovered."

"Before what's discovered?" cried Mrs. Middlemore.

"That we've got to find out."

"It's ten to one there's nothing to find out," said Constable Wigg.

"It's ten to one there is," retorted Constable Nightingale. "I go a bit deeper than you, Wigg; but whether there is or there ain't, it's always well to be prepared with a story. I've got something in my mind that you don't seem to have in yours; what it is you shall hear presently. Mrs. Middlemore, going out for her supper-beer at her usual hour, about half-past eleven shuts the street-door behind her, and does not return till past twelve. Is that correct, ma'am?"

"Quite correct, Mr. Nightingale; but what are you driving at?"

"All in good time, my dear. You leave the house safe, and you are sure you shut the street-door tight?"

"I'll take my oath of it."

"It may come to that; I don't want to scare you, but it may come to that. When you come back with the supper-beer you find the street-door open?"

"But I don't."

"Excuse me, you do; it's necessary."

"Oh!"

"And I'll tell you why. When you come home you find Wigg and me here, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You've heard how we got in, but it's a fact that we had no business here unless we was called in. We must have been called in by somebody, and whoever it was must have had a reason for inviting us. Is that sound, Wigg?"

"As sound as a rock, Nightingale."

"Mr. Felix didn't call us in, and there's no one else in the house while you've gone for your supper-beer?" Mrs. Middlemore coughed, which caused Constable Nightingale to ask, "What's that for?"

"It ain't for me to say," replied Mrs. Middlemore. "What you want to git at is that there's only two people living regularly in the 'ouse, Mr. Felix and me. If Mr. Felix makes it worth my while to keep my own counsel, I'm going to keep it, and I don't care what happens."

"I wouldn't persuade you otherwise. Gentlemen that's so liberal with their money as him ain't to be met with every day. Very well, then. There's only you and Mr. Felix living in the house, and he don't call us in. It's you that does that. Why? You shut the street-door tight when you went out; you find it open when you come back, and at the same time you see a man with a red handkercher round his neck run out of the house. Of course you're alarmed; Wigg happens to be near, and you call him; he, thinking he may want assistance, calls me; and that's how it is we're both here at the present moment. That's pretty straight, isn't it?"

Both his hearers agreed that it was, and he proceeded:

"But we mustn't forget that we've been here some time already. I make it, by my silver watch that I won in a raffle, twenty minutes to two. Your kitchen clock, Mrs. Middlemore, is a little slow."

"Do what I will," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I can't make it go right."

"Some clocks," observed Constable Nightingale, with a touch of humor--he was on the best of terms with himself, having, in a certain sense, snuffed out Constable Wigg--"are like some men and women; they're either too slow or too fast, and try your hardest you can't alter 'em. We must be able to account for a little time between past twelve o'clock and now; there's no need to be too particular; such a night as this is 'll excuse a lot. I'll take the liberty of stopping your clock and putting the hands back to twelve, so that you won't be fixed to a half-hour or so. The clock stopped while you was getting your supper-beer, of course. Likewise I stop my watch, and put the hands back to about the same time. Now, what do I do when Wigg calls me here? I hear what you, ma'am, have to say about the street-door being open and a man running out and almost upsetting you, and I make tracks after him. I don't catch him, and then I come back here, and that brings us up to this very minute. Plain sailing, so far. You'll bear it in mind, you and Wigg, won't you?"

"I've got it," said Wigg, "at my fingers' ends."

"So 'ave I," said Mrs. Middlemore.

"But what are you going to do now?" asked Constable Wigg.

"To find the cat," replied Constable Nightingale.

"Going to take it up?" This, with a fine touch of sarcasm.

"No, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, speaking very seriously. "I want to make sure where it got that red color from, because, not to put too fine a point on it, it's blood."

Mrs. Middlemore uttered a stifled scream, and clapped her hands on her hips.

"That," continued Constable Nightingale, in a tone of severity to his brother constable, "is what I had in my mind and you didn't have in yours. Why, if you look with only half an eye at them stains on the floor, you can't mistake 'em."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," moaned Mrs. Middlemore, "we shall all be murdered in our beds?"

"Nothing of the sort, my dear," said Constable Nightingale; "we'll look after you. Pull yourself together, there's a good soul, and answer me one or two questions. I know that Mr. Felix comes home late sometimes."

"Very often, very often."

"And that, as well as being generous with his money, he likes his pleasures. Now, are you sure he was at home when you went out for your beer?"

"I'm certain of it."

"And that he did not go out before you come back?"

"How can I tell you that?"

"Of course. A stupid question. But, at all events, he ain't the sort of man to go out in such a storm as this?"

"Not 'im. He's too fond of his comforts."

"Does he ever ring for you in the middle of the night--at such a time as this, for instance?"

"Never."

"Has he ever been took ill in the night, and rung you up?"

"Never."

"Do you ever go up to his room without being summoned?"

"It's more than I dare. I should lose the best customer I ever had in my life. He made things as clear as can be when he first come into the 'ouse. 'Never,' he ses to me, 'under any circumstances whatever, let me see you going upstairs to my rooms unless I call you. Never let me ketch you prying about. If I do, you shall 'ear of it in a way you won't like.'"

Constable Nightingale was silent a few moments, and then he said, briskly, "Let's us go and hunt up that cat."

But although they searched the basement through they could not find it.

"Perhaps," suggested Constable Wigg, "it got out of the house when we opened the street-door just now."

"Perhaps," assented Constable Nightingale, laconically.

Then they ascended the stairs to the ground floor, Constable Nightingale examining very carefully the marks of the cat's paws on the oilcloth.

"Do you see, Mrs. Middlemore? Blood. There's no mistaking it. And I'm hanged if it doesn't go upstairs to the first floor."

"You're not going up, Mr. Nightingale?" asked Mrs. Middlemore, under her breath, laying her hand on his arm.

"If I know myself," said Constable Nightingale, patting her hand, "I am. Whatever happens, it's my duty and Wigg's to get at the bottom of this. What else did you call us in for?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Middlemore, helplessly, "but if you have any feeling for me, speak low."

"I will, my dear. My feelings for you well you must know, but this is not the time. Look here at this stain, and this, and this. The spectre cat has been up these stairs. Puss, puss, puss, puss! Not likely that it'll answer; it's got the cunning of a fox. That's Mr. Felix's room, if my eyes don't deceive me."

"Yes, it is."

"But it don't look the same door as the one I have been through; it ain't the first time I've been here, you know. Where's the keyhole? I'll take my oath there was a keyhole when I last saw the door."

"The key 'ole's 'id. That brass plate covers it; it's a patent spring, and he fixes it some'ow from the inside; he presses something, and it slides down; then he turns a screw, and makes it tight."

"Can anyone do it but him?"

"I don't think they can; it's 'is own idea, he ses."

"See how we're getting on, Wigg. No one can work that brass plate but him; that shows he's at home." He knocked at the door, and called "Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

"He'll give me notice to leave," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm sure he will. He's the last man in the world to be broke in upon like this."

"Leave it to me, my dear," said Constable Nightingale, "I'll make it all right with him. What did he say to me when I was on this beat? I told you, you remember, Wigg. 'Constable,' says he, 'you're on night duty here.' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' says he, 'I live in this house, and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.' That was a straight tip, and I'm looking after him now. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

But though he called again and again, and rapped at the door twenty times, he received no answer from within the room.

"It's singular," he said, knitting his brows. "He must be a sound sleeper, must Mr. Felix. I'll try again."

He continued to knock and call "loud enough," as he declared, "to rouse the dead," but no response came to the anxious little group on the landing.

"There's not only no keyhole," said Constable Nightingale, "but there's no handle to take hold of. The door's for all the world like a safe without a knob. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix! Don't you hear us, sir? I've got something particular to say to you."

For all the effect he produced he might have spoken to a stone wall, and he and Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore stood looking helplessly at each other.

"I tell you what it is," he said, tightening his belt, "this has got beyond a joke. What with the silence, and the bloodstains, and the man with the red handkercher round his neck as run out of the house while Wigg and me was talking together outside, there's more in this than meets the eye. Now, Mrs. Middlemore, there's no occasion for us to speak low any more; it's wearing to the throat. Have you got any doubt at all that the brass plate there couldn't be fixed as it is unless somebody was inside the room?"

"I'm certain of it, Mr. Nightingale, I'm certain of it."

"Then Mr. Felix, or somebody else, must be there, and if he's alive couldn't help hearing us, unless he's took a sleeping draught of twenty-horse power. There's a bell wire up there; Wigg, give me a back."

Constable Wigg stooped, and Constable Nightingale stood on his back and reached the wire, which he pulled smartly for so long a time that Constable Wigg's back gave way, and brought Constable Nightingale to the ground somewhat unexpectedly. Certainly every person in the house possessed of the sense of hearing must have heard the bell, which had a peculiar resonant ring, and seemed on this occasion to have a hundred ghostly echoes which proclaimed themselves incontinently from attic to basement. No well-behaved echo would have displayed such a lack of method.

"Oughtn't that to rouse him?" asked Constable Nightingale.

"It ought to," replied Mrs. Middlemore, "if----" and then suddenly paused, the "if" frozen on her tongue.

"Ah," said Constable Nightingale, gravely, "if!"

There was a window on the landing, and he opened it. The snow dust floated through it, but in less quantities, and there was a perceptible abatement in the violence of the storm. He closed the window.

"It ain't so bad as it was. Mrs. Middlemore, do you think I could force this door open?"

"Not without tools," said Mrs. Middlemore. "It's made of oak."

"No harm in trying," said Constable Nightingale. "Here, Wigg, give us a pound."

They applied their shoulders with a will, but their united efforts produced no impression.

"It's got to be opened," said Constable Nightingale, "by fair means or foul. Wigg, do you know of a locksmith about here?"

"I don't."

In point of fact Constable Nightingale knew of one, but it was at some little distance, and he did not want to leave Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore alone.

"There's one in Wardour Street," he said.

"Is there?" said Constable Wigg. "I'm new to the neighborhood, and I'm certain I shouldn't be able to find it."

"All right," said Constable Nightingale, briskly, seeing his way out of the difficulty, "we'll go together."

"And leave me alone 'ere after what's happened!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "Not if you was to fill my lap with dymens! That 'orrid cat 'd come and scare the life out of me!"

"We can't all go," mused Constable Nightingale, with a stern eye on his comrade, "and I ain't a man to shirk a duty; but don't go back on a pal, Wigg, whatever you do."

"Nobody could ever bring that against me, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, in an injured tone; "and I don't know what you're driving at."

"I hope you don't," said Constable Nightingale, by no means softened, "that's all I've got to say. I hope you don't. You'd better both see me to the door, and shut it after me. And mind you keep your ears open to let me in when I come back."

Constable Nightingale, a victim to duty, was presently battling with the storm through the deserted streets, while Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore, at the housekeeper's suggestion, made their way to the warm kitchen, where she brewed for her companion a stiff glass of grog. "What did Mr. Nightingale mean," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "when he said never go back on a pal?"

"I'd rather not say," replied Constable Wigg, and then appeared suddenly to come to a different conclusion.

"But why not? The last of my wishes would be to vex you, and when you're curious you like to know, don't you, my--I beg you a thousand pardons--don't you, ma'am?"

"Mr. Wigg," observed Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm a woman, and I do like to know. Oh!" she cried, with a little shriek, "was that somebody moving upstairs?"

"No, my dear, no. Keep close to me; I will protect you and proud of the chance, as who wouldn't be? When Nightingale threw out that hint, he meant, if I'm not mistook, that a lady should have only one admirer, hisself."

"Well, I'm sure!"

"He's not a bad sort of fellow, is Nightingale--it ain't for me to say anything against him--but when he wants a monopoly of something very precious"--and Constable Wigg looked languishingly at Mrs. Middlemore--"when he wants that, and as good as says it belongs to him and no one else, he touches a tender point. There's no harm in my admiring you, my dear; who could help it, that's what I'd like to know? Thank you--I will take another lump of sugar. Yes, who could help it? Charms like yours--if you'll forgive me for mentioning 'em--ain't to be met with every day, and a man with a heart would have to be blind not to be struck. There! I wouldn't have spoke so free if it hadn't been for Nightingale and for your asking me what he meant. But a man can't always restrain his feelings, and I hope I haven't hurt yours, my dear."

"Not a bit, Mr. Wigg," said Mrs. Middlemore, and the tone would have been amorous had it not been for the mysterious trouble in her house; "you've spoke beautiful, and Mr. Nightingale ought to be ashamed of 'isself."

"Don't tell him I said anything, my dear."

"I won't. I give you my 'and on it."

He took it and squeezed it, and said, "What's passed we'll keep to ourselves."

"We will, Mr. Wigg."

"Here's to our better acquaintance, my dear."

"I'm sure you're kindness itself. Oh, Mr. Wigg, I 'ope nothing 'as 'appened to Mr. Felix."

"I hope so, too. My opinion is that he's out, and that the brass plate over the keyhole has got there by accident. But Nightingale always makes the worst of things. That's not my way. Wait till the worst comes, I say; it's time enough. You may worrit yourself to death, and be no better off for it after all."

In this strain they continued their conversation, Mrs. Middlemore declaring that it was quite a comfort to have Constable Wigg with her. She confided to him that she had a bit of money saved, and that Mr. Felix had said more than once that he would remember her in his will, which elicited from Constable Wigg the remark that he hoped Mr. Felix had made his will and had behaved as he ought to; "though, mind you," he added, "I don't believe anything's the matter with him, or that he's at home. It's all through that spectre cat, and as for bloodstains, they've got to be proved." A knocking and rattling at the street-door caused Mrs. Middlemore to cling very closely to him, and when she recovered her fright, they both went upstairs to let Constable Nightingale in.

"Is that you, Nightingale?" Constable Wigg called out before he turned the key.

"Yes, it's me," cried Constable Nightingale, without: "don't keep us waiting all night."

"He's got the locksmith with him," whispered Constable Wigg, with his lips very close to Mrs. Middlemore's ear. Then he threw open the street-door.

Constable Nightingale had somebody else with him besides the locksmith. Accompanying them was a tall, thin, gentlemanly-looking, but rather seedy young gentleman, who stepped quickly into the passage.

"Has anything took place?" inquired Constable Nightingale, glancing suspiciously from Constable Wigg to Mrs. Middlemore.

"Nothing," replied Constable Wigg. "There ain't been a sound in the house."

"Just as we turned the corner," said Constable Nightingale, with a motion of his hand toward the seedy young gentleman, "we met Dr. Lamb, who was coming home from a case, and as there's no knowing what might be wanted, I asked him to favor us with his company."

Mrs. Middlemore knew Dr. Lamb, who kept a chemist's shop in the neighborhood, and she gave him a friendly nod. It must have been a trying case that the young gentleman had come from, for he looked particularly shaky, and was rather unsteady on his legs. The locksmith now made some sensible remarks to the effect that he had been awakened from a sound sleep, and would like to get back to bed again; therefore, had they not better get to work at once? His suggestion was acted upon, and they all proceeded upstairs.

"I'll give him another chance," said Constable Nightingale, and he forthwith exerted the full strength of his lungs and hammered away at the door, to as little purpose as he had previously done. "There's nothing for it," he said, very red in the face, "but to force open the door in the name of the law."

The locksmith, who had brought a basket of tools with him, declared he would make short work of it, but after examining the door was forced to confess inwardly that this was an idle boast. It was of stout oak, and to remove the brass plate and pick the lock occupied him much longer than he expected. However, in the course of about twenty minutes the task was accomplished, and the door stood open for them to enter. Standing for a moment irresolutely on the threshold they were greeted by a blast of cold air. Constable Nightingale was the first to notice that the window was open, and he stepped into the room and closed it. The others followed, and were treading close on his heels when he waved them back, and pointed downward. There, on the floor, was a little pool of blood. They shuddered as they gazed upon it.

"I thought as much," said Constable Nightingale, the first to speak. "There's been foul play here. Who opened that window, and left it open on such a night? The cry for help you heard, Wigg, came from this room."

"But there's nobody here," said Constable Wigg.

"That's his bedroom," said Mrs. Middlemore, in an awestruck voice, pointing to a room the door of which was ajar.

They stepped softly toward it, Dr. Lamb now taking the lead. In an arm-chair by the side of the bed sat a man, his arms hanging listlessly down. Dr. Lamb shook him roughly.

"Wake up!"

But the figure did not move. Dr. Lamb leant over the recumbent form, and thrust his hand inside the man's waistcoat. Then, with his fingers under the man's chin, he raised the head, so that the face was visible.

"Good Lord!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "It's Mr. Felix! What's the matter with him?"

Dr. Lamb put his finger to his lips, and did not immediately reply. When he removed his hand the head dropped down again, hiding the face.

"If you want to know what's the matter with the man," he said, presently, "he's dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore.

"As a doornail," said Dr. Lamb.

CHAPTER VI.

THE "EVENING MOON" INDULGES IN A BOMBASTIC RETROSPECT, IN WHICH SOME VERY TALL AND VERY FINE WRITING WILL BE DETECTED BY THE OBSERVANT READER.

"In pursuance of the policy which we inaugurated some four years since by the romance known as 'Great Porter Square,' we now present our readers with a story of today, which we with confidence declare to be as strange and exciting as that thrilling mystery, which may be regarded as the starting-point of a new and captivating description of journalism for the people. We use the term 'romance' advisedly, and are prepared to justify it, although the incidents which we set before hundreds of thousands of readers were true in every particular, and occurred in a locality with which every Londoner is familiar. We recall with pride the extraordinary variety of opinions which our publication of that story of real life, and the means we pursued to get at the heart of it, elicited. By many we were inordinately praised, by some we were mercilessly condemned. There were critics who declared that it was derogatory to the legitimate functions of a newspaper to present any matter of public interest in the garb in which we clothed it; there were others who, with a juster sense of the altered conditions of society by which we are ruled, and to which we are compelled to submit, declared that the new departure we made in the Great Porter Square Mystery was, to the general mass of readers, as wholesome as it was entertaining. Judging by results, these latter critics were most certainly in the right. The public read with eager avidity the details of that remarkable case as we published them, in our own original fashion, from day to day. The demand for copies of our several editions was so great that we were absolutely unable to satisfy it, and we are afraid that thousands of newspaper readers were compelled to pay exorbitant prices to the ragamuffins who vend the daily journals in the public streets. We made strong endeavors to put a stop to this extortion, but our efforts were vain, chiefly because the people themselves were content to pay three and four times the established price of the Evening Moon rather than be deprived of the pleasure of reading the tempting morsels with which its columns were filled. Letters of congratulation poured in upon us from all quarters, written by persons occupying the highest positions in society, as well as by others moving in the lowest stations, and from that time the success of the Evening Moon, as a journal which had firmly fixed itself in the affections of the people, was assured. If any excuse is needed for the system of journalism of which we were the first bold exponents, we might find it in the trite axiom that the ends justify the means, but we deny that any excuse whatever is required. It was no sentimental experiment that we were trying; we had carefully watched the currents of public opinion, and we started on our crusade to satisfy a need. The present state of society is such that the public insist upon their right to be made acquainted with the innermost details of cases which are brought before the tribunals; the moment these cases come before the public they are public property. There was a time when seemly and closed doors were the rule, and under the cloak of that pernicious system the most flagrant wrongs were committed; it is not so in the present day, and it is right that it should not be so. Public matters belong to the people, and so long as a proper and necessary measure of decency is observed, so long as private characters are not defamed, so long as homes and those who occupy them are not made wretched by infamous innuendoes, so long as the pen of the literary journalist is not employed for the purpose of scandal and blackmail--too often, we regret to say, convertible terms--the people's rights in this respect must be observed.

"We point with justifiable pride to the manner in which our example has been followed. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and, we may add, also of approval, and the columns of numberless newspapers with which we have no connection testify to the approval which our new system of journalism has won. We mention no names, and have no intention of complaining because the credit of initiating the new system has been withheld from us; we accept the compliment which has been paid to us, and we wish our contemporaries good luck. At the same time we point out to our hundreds of thousands of readers that no journal has, up to this day, succeeded in presenting public news in as tempting a manner as we are enabled to do. The reason for this lies in the extraordinary intelligence of our staff. Our writers are picked men, who could earn celebrity in other channels than those of newspaper columns, but who are content to serve us because they are paid as capable journalists ought to be paid, with a liberality which other newspaper proprietors would deem excessive, but which we do not. This is one of the secrets of our astonishing and unprecedented success. Our editors, sub-editors, special correspondents, and reporters are zealous as no others are because they are devoted to our cause, because they have regular and tangible proof that our welfare is theirs, because they share in the profits of our enterprise. Thus it is that we are now in possession of particulars relating to 'The Mystery of Monsieur Felix,' which not one of our contemporaries has been able to obtain, and thus it is that we are in a position to present to our readers a romance as thrilling as any that has ever emanated from the printing press. It presents features of novelty and surprise which can be found in no other cause célèbre, and our readers may rest assured that we shall follow up every clew in our possession with an intelligence frequently wanting in the officials of Scotland Yard. And, moreover, we have every right to maintain, and we shall establish the fact, that what we do is done in the sacred cause of justice. The wronged shall be righted, and the mystery clearly brought to light, before we have finished with the case of M. Felix.

"For a long period of time the term 'romance' has been misunderstood. Romance was supposed to lie outside the regions of the ordinary occurrences of everyday life. There was a glamour about the word, a kind of lustre which lifted it above and beyond the commonplace features of human struggle. It was, as it were, a castle built upon an eminence, with spires, and turrets, and gables, whose points shone brightly in the sun; it was, as it were, a species of ideal garden in which grew only rare flowers and stately trees; or a land of enchantment peopled by knights in silver armor, and by dainty ladies flinging kisses to their lords and lovers as they rode forth to the tournament or the battle. This was the bygone notion of Romance, the false idea which, thanks in a great measure to our efforts, is now utterly exploded. It has been found and proved that the truest regions of romance lie in humble courts and alleys, where the commonest flowers grow, where the air is not perfumed by odorous blossoms, where people dwell not in turreted castle or stately palace, but in the humblest homes and narrowest spaces, where common fustian and dimity, not glittering armor and silken sheen, are the ordinary wear; where faces are thin and anxious from the daily cares of toil, where the battle is not for vast tracts of country worth millions, but for the daily loaf of bread worth fourpence halfpenny. It has been found and proved that the police courts are a veritable hot-bed in which romance is forever springing up. When we contemplate the shattering of old false idols and ideals, it would almost seem as if we were living in an age of topsy-turvydom, but the sober fact is that the world is healthfully setting itself right, and is daily and hourly stripping off the veneer which lay thick upon what have been ridiculously called the good old times. We were the first to practically recognize this truth, and we have done our best to make it popular. It is from lowly annals that we culled the romance of 'Great Porter Square,' and it is from somewhat similar annals that we cull the present 'Mystery of M. Felix.' The story will be found as strange as it is true. All the passions of human nature are expressed in it, and there is one episode at least--even up to the point which it has already reached--so singular and startling as to be absolutely unique.

"We draw special attention to the words in our last sentence, 'even up to the point which it has already reached,' and we beg our readers to bear them well in mind. It may be in their remembrance that when we commenced to unravel the mystery of 'Great Porter Square' we had no knowledge of its conclusion. We held in our hands certain slight threads which we followed patiently up, and of which we kept firm hold, until we had woven them into a strand which villainy and duplicity could not break. We championed the cause of a man who, upon no evidence whatever--simply from the officious and mistaken zeal of a few policemen--was brought up to the police court on the suspicion of being in some undiscovered way connected with a crime with which all England was ringing. He was remanded day after day for the production of evidence which was never forthcoming, and day after day we protested against the injustice of which it was sought to make him a victim. The slender threads in our possession we held fast, as we have said, until at length we were rewarded with a gratifying success, until at length we brought the guilt home to the guilty parties. We ourselves were misled by the specious statements of one of the miscreants, a woman, we regret to say, who was one of the two principal actors in a plot which was very nearly successful, and which, indeed, did for a certain time succeed. We are in a similar position with respect to the 'Mystery of M. Felix.' The information already in our possession leads us to a point of great interest, and there strangely breaks off. But we pledge ourselves to pursue the story to an end, and to unearth what is at present hidden in darkness. Our agents are at work in this country and elsewhere, and we are satisfied that they will succeed in removing the veil from a mystery which is a common topic of conversation and discussion in all classes of society."

CHAPTER VII.

AN EXAMINATION OF CERTAIN DISCREPANCIES IN THE STATEMENTS OF THE THREE PRINCIPAL WITNESSES.

"The night of the 16th of January will be long remembered. For three weeks the snow had fallen, intermittently, it is true, but for hours together. The roads were almost blockaded, and traffic was carried on under exceptional difficulties. The season, which in the early part of December had promised to be unusually mild, suddenly vindicated its reputation, and we were treated to an old-fashioned, bitter winter of great severity. On the evening of the 15th of January the frost was most severe, its intensity lasting until some time after daybreak, the thermometer showing at eight o'clock A.M. close upon sixteen degrees of frost. When it began to snow again people, congratulated themselves that a thaw was setting in. They were mistaken. Had it been possible the snow would have frozen as soon as it reached the ground, but it fell in too great quantities for such a result. In the evening a piercing wind raged through the thoroughfares, and the snow continued to fall more heavily than during the day. In some places there was a drift almost, if not quite, man high, and our columns on the morning of the 17th recorded the discovery of three lifeless persons, one man and two women, who had been frozen to death during the night. With these unfortunates we have nothing to do; what concerns us and our story is that on the night of the 16th, Mrs. Middlemore, a housekeeper in one of the old houses in Gerard Street, Soho, very imprudently went out just before midnight to fetch her supper-beer. Even the raging storm did not prevent her from indulging in her usual habit, the temptation of beer being too strong for her, and the prospect of going to bed without it being too appalling to risk. She saw that the street door was secure when she left the house, and was surprised, upon her return, to find it open. These, and many other particulars which will be duly recorded, are statements which have already appeared in public print, and we are not responsible for them. At the moment of her reaching the street door the circumstance of its being open was impressed upon her by the appearance of a man hurriedly leaving the house. He did not stop to address her, and she had no opportunity of asking his business there, because he flew by her 'like a flash of lightning,' she says. Naturally alarmed, she raised her voice and cried, 'Police!' One, Constable Wigg, happened to be not far distant, and he responded to her summons. Having heard what Mrs. Middlemore had to say, he saw that there were two things to attend to--one, to ascertain whether anything had occurred within the house; the other, to follow the man who had escaped from it with such celerity. As he could not fulfil these two duties at one and the same time, he in his turn summoned to his assistance a brother constable of the name of Nightingale. This officer pursued the man, and Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore entered the house.

"Now, with the exception of Mrs. Middlemore, there was only one regular tenant in the house, M. Felix, who had lived there for nearly two years, and concerning whom, up to the night of January 16th, very little appears to have been known, except that he was a retired gentleman, living on his means, fond of pleasure, and of a generous disposition to those who served him well. Mrs. Middlemore speaks in the highest terms of him, but she judges only from one point of view, that of a landlady who has a liberal lodger. Otherwise, she has no knowledge of him, and cannot say where he came from, whether he was married or single (the circumstance of his living a bachelor life would not definitely decide this question), or whether he has any relations in any part of the world. There are many gentlemen of the description of M. Felix pursuing their mysterious careers in this great city, a goodly number of them under false names.

"M. Felix was a very peculiar gentleman. He paid for the entire house, although he occupied only three rooms, a sitting-room, a dining-room, and a bedroom. His stipulation when he first entered into possession was that under no circumstances should any other tenant but himself be allowed to occupy a room, and he went so far as to refuse permission to Mrs. Middlemore for any friends of hers to sleep in the building. Her duties consisted in attending to him and to his rooms, which she entered and set in order only when he directed her, and for these slight services she was extravagantly paid. Such a tenant was a treasure, and she appreciated him accordingly, not venturing to disobey him in the slightest particular. He had taken the greatest pains to impress upon her that she was never, under any circumstances whatever, to come to his rooms unless she was summoned, and from what we have gathered of his character, M. Felix was a gentleman who could be stern as well as pleasant, and was not a person who would allow his orders to be disobeyed without making the delinquent suffer for it. These imperative instructions rendered Constable Wigg's course difficult. Mrs. Middlemore had left M. Felix in the house when she went to fetch her supper-beer, and it was in the highest degree improbable that he should have quitted it during her absence. He was not a young man, he was fond of his ease, and the storm was raging furiously. Nothing less than a matter of life or death would tempt a man of M. Felix's disposition from his cosy fireside on such a night. Constable Wigg suggested that he should go up-stairs to M. Felix's rooms, and ascertain whether he was in and safe, but Mrs. Middlemore would not listen to the suggestion, and of course without her consent Constable Wigg could not carry his proposition into effect. In a casual examination of those parts of the premises which Mrs. Middlemore allowed him to enter he saw nothing to excite his suspicions, and he decided to wait for the return of Constable Nightingale before he proceeded further.

"We break off here for a moment for the purpose of making brief mention of one or two peculiar features in this singular affair, leaving Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore standing in the passage or the kitchen--(they say the passage, we presume to say the kitchen, where doubtless a cheerful fire was blazing; policemen are human)--at half-past twelve or a quarter to one in the middle of the night, waiting for Constable Nightingale to report progress. Curiously enough, the time cannot be exactly fixed, because the kitchen clock had stopped, because Constable Nightingale's watch had stopped also, and because Constable Wigg did not wear one. In an affair of this description it is as well not to lose sight of the smallest details. We arrive at the time, half-past twelve or a quarter to one, approximately. Even in such a storm as was then raging through the streets, Big Ben of Westminster made itself heard, and it transpires, from a statement volunteered by Constable Wigg, that the great bell was proclaiming the hour of midnight when, tramping half-frozen on his beat, he heard a cry for help. Three times was this cry sent forth into the night, and, faithful guardian as he was, according to his own averment, he endeavored to ascertain the direction from which the appeal proceeded. It may well be believed that, with the wind blowing seemingly from all points of the compass at once, he failed to make the necessary discovery; but it strikes us as singular that when he was talking matters over with Mrs. Middlemore it did not occur to him that the cry for help may have proceeded from the very house in which he was standing. We make no comment upon this singular lapse of memory. It strikes us also as by no means unimportant that in the statements of Mrs. Middlemore and the two constables there is something very like contradiction and confusion. Mrs. Middlemore gives an answer to a question as to her movements in connection with those of the constables, and presently, being pressed to be definite, says something which throws doubt upon her first answer. She excuses herself by saying that she was upset and worried, but to us this explanation is not satisfactory, if only for the reason that her subsequent correction throws doubt upon certain answers given by the two constables to certain questions put to them. However, in the present aspect of the matter, these contradictions may simply point to some dereliction of duty on the part of the constables which they may wish should not be known, and perhaps to some agreement on the part of these three witnesses to an invented story which, believed, would exculpate the constables from any such dereliction. This is mere supposition, and we present it for what it is worth.

"It is difficult to ascertain the precise time at which Constable Nightingale returned to the house in Gerard Street after his fruitless search for the man who had alarmed Mrs. Middlemore by his sudden rush from the premises. Truly he must have had the greatest difficulty in making his way through the streets. In explanation of our remark that in the statements of Mrs. Middlemore and the two constables there is something very like contradiction and confusion, we append their answers to a few of the questions put to them. We will deal with Constable Nightingale first:

"'When you left the house in Gerard Street in pursuit of the man what direction did you take?'

"'I went in the direction of Oxford Street.'

"'That is, you went to the right?'

"'Yes.'

"'Why not to the left?'

"'That would have led me to Leicester Square and Charing Cross.'

"'Did you choose the Oxford Street route at haphazard?'

"'No.'

"'What induced you to take it?'

"'I was told by Constable Wigg that the man went that way.'

"'Did you meet any person on the road?'

"'No one.'

"'Absolutely no one?'

"'Absolutely no one.'

"'How long were you engaged upon your search for the man?'

"'I can't exactly fix it.'

"'May we say an hour?'

"'That would be near the length of time.'

"We will now deal with Constable Wigg. He was asked--

"'How did you summon Constable Nightingale to your assistance?'

"'I blew my police whistle.'

"'Many times?'

"'Not many. He must have been very near.'

"'But he did not make his appearance immediately?'

"'No; not immediately.'

"'Shall we say that two or three minutes elapsed before he joined you?'

"'About that.'

"'You explained to him what had occurred?'

"'Yes, with the assistance of Mrs. Middlemore.'

"'You both explained it together?'

"'Well, first one spoke, then the other.'

"'Did you tell Nightingale that the man had fled in the direction of Oxford Street?'

"'No.'

"'In point of fact, you did not see the man come out of the house?'

"'No.'

"'And? therefore, could not have given Nightingale the direction?'

"'No, of course I could not.'

"Now for Mrs. Middlemore:

"'When the man rushed by you from the house, you screamed loudly for the police?'

"'As loud as I could.'

"'How many times did you call?'

"'I kep' on calling till Constable Wigg came up.'

"'He did not come the moment you raised your voice?'

"'No, not immediate. Per'aps in two or three minutes.'

"'If we say two minutes we shall be within the mark?'

"'Yes.'

"'Did you inform Constable Nightingale that the man ran away in the direction of Oxford Street?'

"'No; I was so flustered that I didn't see which way he run.'

"These are all the extracts we need give for the purpose of our illustration, merely asking the reader to bear in mind that each witness was examined without the others being present. Is it quite unreasonable to infer that, had they been examined in each other's presence, their answers would not have been exactly as they are reported in the public prints?

"Constable Nightingale has since given an explanation of this discrepancy by the admission that he must have made a mistake in supposing that he received from Constable Wigg the information of the route the man took when he scurried off; but we submit that this explanation is not entirely satisfactory.

"Another thing. Constable Nightingale states that he was engaged in the search for an hour, and that during the whole of that time he did not meet a single person on the road. How is that statement to be received? He was hunting in some of the busiest thoroughfares in London, and it bears the form of an accusation that he did not for a whole hour observe one policeman on his beat. He was on his, he declares, at the time he heard Constable Wigg's whistle. Constable Wigg was on his beat, according to his own declaration, when he blew it. Were they the only two constables in a thronged locality who were faithfully performing their duty? Doubtless the other constables on duty would indignantly repudiate the allegation, but Constable Nightingale distinctly implies as much. We do not wish to be hard on this officer, who bears a good character in the force. His movements and proceedings between the hours of twelve and two on the night of the 16th may have been innocent enough, or, if not quite blameless, excusable enough on such a tempestuous night, but we unhesitatingly say that his evidence is suspicious, and that we are not inclined to accept it as veracious.

"Still another thing. We have ascertained from persons acquainted with Constable Nightingale, that he was very proud of his silver watch, which he was lucky enough to win in a raffle, and that he was in the habit of boasting that it never stopped, and never lost or gained a minute. It is singular, therefore, that on this eventful night it should have stopped for the first time, and at a time when it might be most important to fix the occurrence of events to a minute. Perhaps Constable Nightingale's watch stopped in sympathy with the stoppage of Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen clock.

"We are anxious to do justice to the parties, and we hasten to say that at our request they have allowed a competent watchmaker to examine Constable Nightingale's watch and Mrs. Middlemore's clock; but this watchmaker reports that they are in perfect order, and that he can find no reason why they should both have stopped almost at the same moment.

"If any of our readers consider that we are straining too hard on trifles, we reply that the importance of so-called trifles cannot be over-estimated. The world's greatest poet has said, 'Trifles light as air are in their confirmation strong as proofs of Holy Writ.'"

CHAPTER VIII.

A STARTLING PHASE IN THE MYSTERY.

"We hark back now to the point at which we left Constable Nightingale. He had returned to Gerard Street without having found the man. During his absence nothing further had occurred to alarm the housekeeper and the constable who kept her company, and they were in doubt as to what was best to be done. There was no evidence that the man had entered the house with the intention of robbing it, but he might have done so, and being disturbed before he effected his purpose, thought it expedient to make his escape as quickly as possible. They were debating this view when they were startled by what they declare was an 'apparition.' It was the apparition of a half-starved cat, which in some way must have found an entrance into the house before Mrs. Middlemore came back with her supper-beer. The cat did not belong to the house, for M. Felix had a horror of such creatures, and would not allow one to be kept on the premises. It was not the cat that startled them, but the color of the cat, which seemed to have been rolling itself in blood. They saw it only for an instant, and then it disappeared, and has not since been seen again; but it left its marks behind it. On the oil-cloth were marks of blood, made by the cat's paws. These signs decided their course of action, and they proceeded upstairs to the apartments occupied by M. Felix. They knocked and called out loudly to him, but received no answer. By an ingenious arrangement, devised presumably by M. Felix himself, the keyhole of the door by which they stood was masked by a brass plate, the secret of which was known only to M. Felix. The silence strengthened their apprehensions of foul play, and they determined to force the door open. To effect this it was necessary to obtain the assistance of a locksmith, and Constable Nightingale issued forth once more, and brought back with him not only a locksmith, but a doctor in the neighborhood, Dr. Lamb, who was coming home late from a professional visit. With some difficulty the door was forced open, and the first thing that met their eyes was a pool of blood on the floor of the sitting-room. They describe it as such, although subsequent examination proved that there was a decided exaggeration in calling it a pool, the quantity of blood which had fallen not being very serious. M. Felix was not in this room, but when they entered the bedroom adjoining they discovered him in an arm-chair, bearing the appearance of a man who had fallen asleep. He was not asleep, however; he was dead. The natural presumption was that he had been murdered, and that the blood on the floor was his, but Dr. Lamb very soon declared that this was not the case. M. Felix was dead, certainly, but his death was produced by natural causes, heart disease. In this conclusion Dr. Lamb was supported by other medical evidence which was sought on the following day, and this being supposed to be sufficiently established, the necessity of a post-mortem was not immediately recognized. The body was lifted on the bed, and there lay, dressed, as it had fallen into the arm-chair.

"Accounts of these strange occurrences did not appear in the morning newspapers of January 17th, and the first intimation the public received of them was through the evening papers of that date. Even in this initial stage we scented a mystery, and we despatched our reporters to Mrs. Middlemore to obtain such information as would prove interesting to our readers. Our reporters, however, were not able to see Mrs. Middlemore; neither were they able to get access to the house; some absurd orders on the part of the police were being carried out, which converted the house into a kind of safe. But such ridiculous methods are not difficult to circumvent, and we determined that the public should not be robbed of their privileges. On January 18th, that is, some thirty-four hours after the death of M. Felix, we inserted the following advertisement in the first edition of the Evening Moon, and repeated it in all our subsequent editions. We printed it in such bold type, and placed it in such a prominent position, that it could not fail to reach the eyes of persons who were interested in the case:

"'The Strange Death of M. Felix in Gerard Street, Soho. Persons who had private or other interviews with M. Felix between the hours of eight in the morning and twelve at night on January 16th, or who are in possession of information which will throw light upon the circumstances surrounding his death, are urgently requested to call at the office of the Evening Moon at any time after the appearance of this advertisement. Liberal rewards will be paid to all who give such information, and the best legal assistance is offered by the proprietors of this journal, entirely at their own expense, to all who may desire it and who are in any way interested in M. Felix's death.'

"Meanwhile, so far as the police were concerned, matters remained in abeyance. They seemed to do nothing, and certainly discovered nothing. One of our contemporaries, in a leading article, has suggested that the insertion of this advertisement in our columns was an attempt to tamper with justice, or, if not to tamper, to defeat its ends. We can afford to smile at such an insinuation. There was no case before the public courts, and no person was accused of anything whatever in connection with the strange affair. The action we took was taken in the cause of justice, to arouse it to action and assist it. In the lighted torch of publicity there is an irresistible moral force. It would be well if material light were thrown upon the black spaces in this mighty city--upon the black spaces in which crimes are committed, the perpetrators of which are enabled to escape because of the convenient darkness in which they carry their horrible plans to a successful issue. If old-time officialism refuses to stir out of the old routine of useless and pernicious methods, forces which are not amenable to red tapeism must take the reins, must take into their own hands the plain duties of lawful authority, duties which they neglect and evade to the injury of society at large. We do not preach socialism, we preach justice--and light.

"Thus far in our narrative we have brought matters up to the night of January 18th. The house in Gerard Street is dark and silent; the body of M. Felix is lying on the bed to which it was lifted from the arm-chair in which it was discovered.

"The night was unusually dark. The snow-storm had ceased on the previous day, and the reflected light of white thoroughfares no longer helped to dispel the pervading gloom.

"The morning newspapers of the 19th contained no items of particular interest in connection with the death of M. Felix. We were the first to announce an extraordinary and apparently inexplicable move in the mystery. In order to do this we published our first edition two hours earlier than usual.

"At nine o'clock on this morning one of our reporters, in the exercise of his duty, was outside the house in Gerard Street, looking up at the window of the sitting-room which M. Felix had occupied. He had exchanged a few words with a policeman in the street.

"'I am on the staff of the Evening Moon,' he said to the policeman. 'Is there anything new concerning M. Felix?'

"'Nothing,' replied the policeman, quite civilly, and passed on.

"Our reporter remained outside the house. Patient and persevering, he hoped to pick up some item of interest which he might be able to weave into a paragraph.

"Suddenly the street door was opened from within, and Mrs. Middlemore appeared. Her face was flushed, and in her eyes was a wandering look as she turned them this way and that. The moment our reporter observed these symptoms of distress he came to the conclusion that there was some interesting item of which he could avail himself. He stepped up to Mrs. Middlemore.

"'What is the matter?' he asked.

"'He's gone!' gasped Mrs. Middlemore, wringing her hands. 'He's vanished!'

"'Who has gone? Who has vanished?' inquired our reporter.

"'M. Felix,' said Mrs. Middlemore, in a faint tone.

"'My good creature,' said our reporter, 'you must be dreaming.'

"'I'm not dreaming,' said Mrs. Middlemore. 'He's vanished. If you don't believe me, go up and look for yourself. Where are the police. Oh, where are the police?'

"'Don't make a disturbance,' said our reporter, soothingly. 'Let us see if you're not mistaken.'

"Gladly availing himself of the invitation to go up and look for himself, our reporter entered the house, and ascended the stairs, followed by Mrs. Middlemore, moaning in a helpless, distracted fashion.

"The door of the sitting-room was open, and also the inner door, leading to the bedroom. There was no person, living or dead, in either of the rooms.

"'Where was he?' asked our reporter.

"'There, on the bed,' moaned Mrs. Middlemore. 'He was there last night before I locked the door; and when I looked in a minute ago he was gone.'

"It was undeniably true. The bed bore the impression of a human form, but that was all. The body of M. Felix had, indeed, disappeared!"

CHAPTER IX.

INTRODUCES SOPHY.

"Our reporter gazed at the bed in astonishment, while Mrs. Middlemore continued to move her hands and eyes helplessly around, and moan for the police. Our reporter is a man of resource, quick-witted, ready-minded, and ever ready to take advantage of an opportunity. He took advantage of this.

"'My good creature,' he said, 'what is the use of crying for the police? Have they assisted you in any way in this mysterious affair?'

"'No, they 'aven't,' replied Mrs. Middlemore, adding inconsequentially, 'but where are they--Oh! where are they?'

"'What have they done already for you?' continued our reporter. 'Brought you into trouble with the newspapers because of their evidence contradicting yours; and whatever other people may say, I am sure you spoke the truth.' Our reporter observed something frightened in the look she cast at him as he made this assertion. 'The best thing for you is to confide in a friend who is really anxious to serve you, and whose purpose is to get at the truth of the matter.'

"'That's all I want. But where's the friend?'

"'Here. I am on the staff of the Evening Moon, which is ready to spend any amount of money in clearing the innocent and bringing the guilty to justice. They haven't any interested motives to serve; they didn't know the dead man, who some people say was murdered, and some people say wasn't. If you are an innocent woman you would jump at the chance I offer you; if you're guilty, it's a different pair of shoes, and I wash my hands of you.'

"The threat cowed Mrs. Middlemore.

"'I'm innocent, you know I am,' she gasped.

"'Of course I know you are, and I should like the opportunity to silence the wretches who speak of you in a suspicious way.'

"'What 'ave they said of me? What 'ave they dared to say?'

"'What you wouldn't like to hear; but never mind them just now. We'll soon take the sting out of their tails. Besides, while you are working in the cause of innocence your time will not be wasted. You will be well paid for the information you give.'

"This appeal to her cupidity settled the point.

"'I'll do it,' she said, 'whatever it is. I'm a innocent woman, and I want the world to know it.'

"'The world shall know it,' said our reporter, with inward satisfaction at the success of his arguments; 'and when the whole thing is made clear through you you'll be looked upon as a heroine, and everybody will be running to shake hands with you. People will say, "There, that's the woman that brought to light the truth about M. Felix. If it hadn't been for her we should never have known it. She's a real true woman; no nonsense about her." Why, I shouldn't wonder if they got up a subscription for you.'

("We have no doubt, when this meets the eyes of our contemporaries, that some of them will be ready to take us severely to task for the tactics adopted by our reporter. Let them. We are thoroughly satisfied with the means he employed, and we offer him our sincere thanks. There is not a move we make in this mystery which is not made in the interests of justice, and that we are not ashamed of our methods is proved by the absolutely frank manner in which we place before our readers every word that passes.)

"'What is it you want me to do?' asked Mrs. Middlemore.

"'Merely,' replied our reporter, to answer a few simple questions. I have my reasons for believing that the police have advised you to say nothing to anyone but themselves.'

"'They 'ave, sir, they 'ave.'

"'What better are you off for it? Here are people ready to say anything against you, while you are advised to sit in a corner without uttering a single word in your own defence. It's monstrous. Upon my word, my dear Mrs. Middlemore, it's nothing less than monstrous.'

"'So it is,' said Mrs. Middlemore, all of whose scruples seemed to have vanished. 'I'll answer anything you put to me.'

"I shall ask you nothing improper. You say that you locked the door before you went to bed last night. Which door? There are two, one leading to the first floor landing, one communicating between the bedroom and sitting-room. Which of these doors did you lock? Or did you lock both?'

"'I won't tell you a lie, sir. When I said I locked the door I thought you'd understand me. I mean that I fastened both of 'em. I couldn't lock 'em because the bedroom door key's been taken away, and the door on the landing's been cut into.'

"'That was done by the locksmith. Who took away the key of the bedroom?'

"'I don't know. Perhaps the police.'

"'Without your knowledge?'

"'I didn't know nothing of it.'

"'How badly they are behaving to you! Anyway, the two doors were closed?'

"'Yes, I saw to that myself. I ain't in the house without company, don't you think that. I wouldn't stop in it alone if you was to offer me Queen Victoria's golden crown. My niece is downstairs abed, and once she gets between the sheets she's that difficult to rouse that it's as much as a regiment of soldiers can do to wake 'er.' (This, our reporter thought, was comic, implying that Mrs. Middlemore had engaged the services of a regiment of soldiers to get her niece out of bed every morning.) 'Come up-stairs by myself in the dark,' continued Mrs. Middlemore, 'is more than I dare do. In the daylight I venture if I'm forced to, as I did a minute or two ago, because, though I shook Sophy till I almost shook 'er to pieces, and lifted 'er up in bed and let 'er fall back again, it had no more effect on 'er than water on a duck's back. All she did was to turn round, and bring 'er knees up to 'er chin, and keep 'old of the bedclothes as if she was a vice. She's that aggravating there's 'ardly any bearing with 'er. So as I couldn't get 'er out of bed, I come up 'ere without 'er. And that's 'ow I found out Mr. Felix was gone.'

"'You were speaking of what took place last night?' said our reporter. 'Your niece, Sophy, came up with you, I understand?'

"'Yes, she did, though she had 'old of me that tight I could 'ardly shake myself free.'

"'Did she come into this room with you?'

"'No, she didn't; she wouldn't put her foot inside it. I left her in the passage while I peeped in. She ain't got the courage of a mouse.'

"'Then she cannot corroborate your statement that the body of M. Felix was here before you went to bed?'

"'Ain't my word enough?'

"'For me it is, but it's different with the police and the public. It is a good job you've put yourself in our hands; there's no telling what trouble you might have got into if you hadn't.'

"'I'll do anything you want me to, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, in great distress. 'It's a providence you come up when I opened the street door.'

"'It is. You are positive the body was on the bed?'

"'If it was the last word I ever had to speak I'd swear to it.'

"'I believe you without swearing,' said our reporter, opening a cupboard door.

"'What are you looking in there for?' asked Mrs. Middlemore. 'Do you think a dead man 'd be able to get up and put 'isself on one of the shelves?'

"'No,' said our reporter, with a smile, 'but let us make sure the body is not in either of the rooms.'

"He looked thoroughly through the apartments, under the bed and the couches, and in every cupboard. Mrs. Middlemore followed his movements with her eyes almost starting out of her head.

"'Even up the chimneys,' he said genially, and he thrust the poker up, and then lit some paper in the stoves to see that the smoke ascended freely and that there was no obstruction.

"'The thoughts you put in one's 'ead,' remarked Mrs. Middlemore, in a terrified voice, is enough to congeal one's blood.'

"'My dear madam,' said our reporter, 'I am only doing what prudence dictates, so that there may be no possible chance of your getting into trouble. Suppose the body should be found in any other part of the house----'

"'But 'ow could it get there?' interrupted Mrs. Middlemore, excitedly.

"'That is more than either you or I can say, any more than we can say how it got out of this room; but out of it it has got, hasn't it?'

"'Nobody can't say nothing different,' assented Mrs. Middlemore.

"'This is altogether such a mysterious affair,' proceeded our reporter, 'that there's no telling what it will lead to. I don't remember a case like it ever occurring in London before. Where was I when you interrupted me? Oh, I was saying, suppose the body should be found in any other part of the house, what would the police say? Why, that for some reason or other--and you may be sure they would put it down to a bad reason--you had removed it for the purpose of concealing it.'

"'Me!' gasped Mrs. Middlemore. What would I do that for?'

"'You wouldn't do it at all, but that's the construction the police would put on it, and after that you wouldn't have a moment's peace. My dear madam, we'll not give them a chance to take away your character; not a stone shall be left unturned. There are rooms above these?'

"'Yes, a lot.'

"'We will have a look through them, and, indeed, through the whole house. It's what the police would do, with the idea that you were a party to some vile plot; it's what I will do, knowing you to be perfectly innocent.'

"He put his design into execution. Accompanied by Mrs. Middlemore, who always kept in the rear, he made a thorough examination of the entire house, from attic to basement, but, as he anticipated, discovered nothing. The last rooms he examined were at the bottom of the house, and it was there he made acquaintance with Mrs. Middlemore's niece Sophy.

"'Is that you, aunt?' the girl called out, from a room adjoining the kitchen.

"'Yes, it's me,' answered Mrs. Middlemore, irascibly. You're a nice lazy slut, you are, to be 'ulking in bed this time of the morning.'

"'I ain't abed, aunt,' said Sophy, making her appearance, 'I'm up; but oh, I'm so sleepy!'

"She came into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, and presenting a general appearance of untidiness which did not speak well for her social training. Her short hair was uncombed, her face unwashed, her frock open at the back, and she had no boots on. She stared hard at our reporter, but was not at all abashed at his presence.

"'I'm a friend of aunt's,' said our reporter. 'You had better finish dressing, light the fire, and give yourself a good wash, and then get breakfast ready. You needn't come upstairs till you're called.'

"He beckoned Mrs. Middlemore out of the room, and they proceeded upstairs to the apartments on the first floor.

"'It will be as well to say nothing before Sophy,' he said. 'Now, if you please, we will go on. It is plain that the body of M. Felix is not in the house; but it must be somewhere. The question is--Where, and how it got there? These rooms were fairly secure before you went to bed last night. Is there a chain on the street door?'

"'Yes.'

"'Did you put it up before you went down to your bedroom?'

"'I puts it up regularly every night.'

"'And you did so last night?'

"'Yes.'

"'And turned the key?'

"'Yes.'

"'Was the door locked and the chain up the first thing this morning?'

"'Yes--no!'

"'What do you mean by that?'

"'I mean I can't remember. I must be sure, mustn't I, sir?'

"'You must be sure, there must not be the possibility of a mistake; this putting up of the chain is one of the points upon which a great deal may hang. Do you mean to tell me that you have any doubt on the subject?'

"'I can't say for certain. I was that upset and bewildered when I found M. Felix gone that I don't remember nothing till you came up to me at the street door. 'Ow I opened it, or 'ow I got it open, I don't remember no more than the dead.'

"'Think a little; it is not longer than half-an-hour since I saw you. Your memory cannot have deserted you in so short a time.'

"'I've got no more memory about it than the babe unborn.'

"'But you must try to have. It is a fact that the chain either was or was not up, that the door either was or was not locked. Sit down and think about it for a minute or two; I will keep quiet while you think.'

"But though the woman obeyed our reporter, and sat down and thought of the matter, or said she did, she declared she could make nothing of it, and had to give it up in despair.

"'It is awkward,' said our reporter, 'to say the least of it. There is no telling what construction may be put upon your loss of memory.'

"'I'm a honest woman, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, looking imploringly at our reporter; 'you'll put in a good word for me?'

"'You may depend upon that, for I am convinced you are honest and innocent, but it is unfortunate. If you should happen to remember, you had best let me know before you tell anyone else.'

"'Yes, sir, I'll promise that. I don't know what I should do without you.'

"'Get yourself into serious trouble, for a certainty, Mrs. Middlemore. You go out for your supper-beer every night?'

"'Yes, every night; I can't do without it.'

"'Beer is a wholesome beverage, if taken in moderation, which I know is the case with you. Did you go out for it last night?'

"'Yes, I did.'

"'Before or after you paid your last visit to these rooms?'

"'Before, sir, before. You think of everything.'

"'It shows that I am doing the best I can for you. Before you came up to these rooms, you had your supper?'

"'Yes.'

"'Sophy had some with you?'

"'Yes. She's got a twist on her has Sophy.'

"'A twist?'

"'An appetite. She eats as much as a Grenadier.'

"'All growing girls do. How old is Sophy?'

"'Fourteen.'

"'Then, when you went downstairs, you and Sophy went to bed?'

"'Yes.'

"'You both sleep in the same room?'

"'Yes.'

"'In the same bed, most likely?'

"'Yes, we do; and the way that girl pulls the clothes off you is a caution.'

"'Did you both go to bed at the same time?'

"'No, I sent 'er before me, and when I went in she was as sound as a top.'

"'Are you a sound sleeper yourself?'

"'I was before this dreadful thing 'appened, but now I pass the most fearful nights.'

"'Dreams?'

"'Awful.'

"'How about last light? Don't answer hastily. This is another important point.'

"Thus admonished, Mrs. Middlemore took time to consider; and no doubt it was with a certain regret that she felt constrained to say, 'I think I must 'ave slept better than ordinary. I was that tired that my legs was fit to drop off me.'

"'You slept very soundly?'

"'I must 'ave done, mustn't I, sir?'

"'That is for you to say. You see, Mrs. Middlemore, the body of M. Felix could not have been removed without a certain noise. Now, if you were awake you must have heard it.'

"'I didn't 'ear nothing. I'll take my Bible oath of it.'

"'At what hour did you wake this morning?'

"'At 'alf-past eight, and I got up at once.'

"'Isn't that rather late for you?'

"'It is, sir, but I've got no one to attend to now.'

"'You were not in any way disturbed in the night?'

"'No, sir.'

"'You positively heard nothing?'

"'Nothing at all.'

"'Did Sophy?'

"'Love your 'eart, sir! Sophy wouldn't wake up if cannon-balls was firing all round her!'

"'As a matter of fact, has she told you she heard nothing last night?'

"'I won't say that. I ain't 'ad time to arks her.'

"'I'll ask her myself if you've no objection. Stop here for me; I shall not be gone long.'

"'I can't stop 'ere alone, sir. I'll come down, and keep in the passage while you speak to Sophy.'

"They went down together, and Mrs. Middlemore remained outside while our reporter entered the kitchen.

"His entrance aroused Sophy, who had been sitting in a chair, apparently asleep, in the same state of untidiness as he had left her. She fell on her knees with a guilty air, and began to rake out the stove, making a great rattle with the poker.

"'Fire not lit yet, Sophy?' said our reporter, much amused.

"She looked up with a sly look, and seeing that he was not going to scold her, rubbed her nose with the poker and smiled boldly at him.

"'Not yet, old 'un,' she replied, making no attempt to continue her work.

"To be addressed as 'old 'un' must have been especially humiliating to our reporter, who is a good-looking fellow of eight-and-twenty, but he did not resent it.

"'Wood won't catch, I suppose,' he said. 'Too damp, eh?'

"'Soppin',' said Sophy, though as a matter of fact there was no wood before her.

"'What are you looking so hard at me for?' asked our reporter. 'You'll make me blush presently.'

"'You blush!' laughed Sophy. 'I like that, I do. Look 'ere, old 'un. When you wants to blush, you'd better 'ire somebody to do it for you. I'll do it for tuppence a time.'

"'You would have to wash your face first,' said our reporter, entering into the humor of the situation.

"'I wouldn't mind doing that,' said Sophy, staring harder than ever at him, 'if you'd make it wuth my while. As for lookin' at you, a cat may look at a king.'

"'I'm not a king,' observed our reporter, 'and you're not a cat.'

"'Call me one, and you'll feel my clors. I'm reckonin' of you up, that's what I'm doing of.'

"'And what do you make of me, Sophy?'

"'I sha'n't tell if you're going to act mean. 'Ansom is that 'ansom does.'

"Our reporter took the hint, and gave the girl a sixpenny-piece.

"'I say,' cried Sophy, greatly excited, as she tried the coin with her teeth. 'Stow larks, you know. Is it a good 'un?'

"'Upon my honor,' said our reporter, placing his hand on his heart, with a mock heroic air.

"'Say upon your soul.'

"'Upon my soul, if you prefer it.'

"'Change it for me, then. I'd sooner 'ave coppers.'

"Our reporter had some in his pocket, and he counted out six into Sophy's grimy palm. A seventh, by accident, fell to the floor. Sophy instantly picked it up.

"'Findin's keepin's,' she said.

"'I'm agreeable. And now what do you make of me?'

"'Wait a bit,' said Sophy. Unblushingly she lifted her frock, and tied the coppers in her ragged petticoat, tightening the knots with her teeth, which were as white as snow. 'That's my money-box, and I've got some more in it. What do I make of you? Oh, I knows what you are. You can't gammon me.'

"'What am I?'

"'You belong to the Perlice Noos, that's what you do. You've come to make pickchers. Pickcher of the 'ouse where the body was found. Pickcher of the room where the body was laid. Pickcher of the body's bed. Pickcher of the body's slippers. Pickcher of Mrs. Middlemore, the body's 'ousekeeper. Oh, I say, make a pickcher of me, will you? I'll buy a copy.'

"'Perhaps, if you're good. But you must answer a question or two first.'

"'All serene. Fire away!'

"'You went upstairs last night with your aunt after you had your supper?'

"'Yes, I did.'

"'You did not go into the rooms?'

"'No, I didn't.'

"'Because you were frightened?'

"'Gammon! It'd take more than that to frighten Sophy.' She added, with a sly look, 'Aunty's easily kidded, she is.'

"'Ah,' said reporter, somewhat mystified, 'then you came down and went to bed?'

"'Yes, I did, and precious glad to get there.'

"'You like your bed, Sophy?'

"'Rather.'

"'And you sleep well?'

"'You bet!'

"'Did you sleep better or worse than usual last night?'

"'No better, and no wus.'

"'Did you wake up in the night?'

"'Not me!'

"'Then you heard no noise?'

"'Where?'

"'Anywhere.'

"'I didn't 'ear nothink. 'Ow could I?'

"'Thank you, Sophy. That is all for the present.'

"'I say,' cried Sophy, as our reporter was about to leave the kitchen, 'you'll take my pickcher, won't you?'

"'I'll think about it. I'll see you another time, Sophy; and look here,' added our reporter, who is never known to throw a chance away, 'here's my card; take care of it, and if you find out anything that you think I'd like to know about M. Felix, come and tell me, and you shall be well paid for it. You'll not forget?'

"'No, I won't forgit. Anythink about M. Felix, do you mean?'

"'Yes, anything.'

"'All right, old 'un. I'll choo it over.' Here Sophy dropped her voice, and asked, 'Is Aunt outside?'

"'Yes. Can you keep a secret?'

"'Try me,' said Sophy, holding out the little finger of her left hand.

"'What am I to do with this?'

"'Pinch my nail as 'ard as you can. Never mind 'urting me. As 'ard as ever you can.

"Our reporter complied, and Sophy went audibly through the entire alphabet, from A to Y Z.

"'There,' said Sophy, 'did I scream when I came to O?'

"'You did not,' said our reporter, remembering the child's game. 'You bore it like a brick.'

"'Don't that show I can keep a secret?'

"'It does. Well, then, don't tell your aunt that I gave you my card, or asked you to come and see me.'

"'I'm fly.'

"Giving him a friendly wink, Sophy went on her knees, and made a pretence of being very hard at work cleaning the grate. The last words he heard were:

"'Pickcher of Sophy wearin' 'erself to skin and bone. Ain't I busy?'"

CHAPTER X.

OUR REPORTER GIVES MRS. MIDDLEMORE SOME SENSIBLE ADVICE.

"Rejoining Mrs. Middlemore, our reporter informed her that he was satisfied that Sophy had heard nothing in the night.

"'Of course she didn't,' said Mrs. Middlemore. 'Once she's in bed she lays like a log.'

"'She's a sharp little thing,' observed our reporter.

"'Sharp ain't the word, sir. What's going to be the end of her is more than I can fathom.'

"'Has she a mother?'

"'No.'

"'Father?'

"'If he can be called one. Drunk half his time, in trouble the other half.'

"'So that poor Sophy has to look after herself?'

"'Pretty well. She does odd jobs, and picks up a bit 'ere and a bit there. When M. Felix first come to live 'ere I'd made up my mind to 'ave 'er altogether with me, though she'd 'ave worrited the life out of me, I know she would; but he wouldn't let me 'ave nobody in the house but 'im, and wouldn't let nobody sleep in it a single night, so I 'ad to disappoint the child. I did take 'er in once or twice when she came round to me almost black and bloo with the way 'er brute of a father had served 'er, but I 'ad to be careful that M. Felix shouldn't see 'er--smuggling 'er into the kitchen when he was away, and letting 'er out very early in the morning--or I should never 'ave 'eard the last of it.'

"'You are the only friend the girl has, it seems?'

"'She ain't got many more.'

"'Mind what I tell you, Mrs. Middlemore,' said our reporter, with the kindest intentions, 'there's capital stuff in Sophy. Now that M. Felix is gone it would be a charity to adopt her, if you haven't any of your own.'

"'I ain't got none of my own,' said Mrs. Middlemore, shaking her head dubiously, 'but since I arksed 'er whether she'd like to live with me, and she said she would, she's got into ways that I don't think I could abide. You see, sir, she wasn't so old then, and I might 'ave moulded her. I don't know as I could do it now.'

"'What ways do you refer to?'

"'Well, sir, I've seen her selling papers in the streets----'

"'That's not a crime,' interposed our reporter; 'especially if she does it for food.'

"'If you won't mind my saying so,' said Mrs. Middlemore, with considerable dignity, 'I consider it low; but that's not so bad as selling matches, which is next door to begging.'

"'But she doesn't beg?'

"'No, I don't think she goes as low as that.'

"'Nor steal?'

"'No,' replied Mrs. Middlemore, with spirit, 'she'll take anything that's give to her, but's as honest as the sun, I'll say that of her.'

"'All that you've told me of Sophy, Mrs. Middlemore, is in her favor, and I have already a sneaking regard for her.'

"'Lord, sir!' exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, misconstruing the sentiment, 'and you the gentleman that you are!'

"'Yes,' repeated our reporter, complacently, 'a sneaking regard for her. Hawking papers and matches is not the loftiest occupation, but it is a form of commerce; and commerce, my dear madam, has made England what it is.'

"It was not entirely without a selfish motive, although he was favorably disposed toward the poor waif, that our reporter wandered for a few moments from the engrossing subject of M. Felix's disappearance to the less eventful consideration of Sophy's welfare. By one of those processes of intuition which come to observant men by inspiration, as it were, he was impressed with the idea that Sophy might be useful to him and to us in the elucidation of the mystery concerning M. Felix. We will not weaken the interest of what is to follow by divulging whether this idea was or was not justified by results; our readers will be able to judge for themselves later on. His views regarding Sophy had their weight with Mrs. Middlemore.

"'I mean to keep Sophy with me,' said that lady, 'for a little while at all events, and if she'll only keep away from the theaytres I'll do what I can for 'er.'

"'Does she frequent theatres?'

"'Does she?' exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, and immediately answered herself after a favorite fashion with certain of her class. 'Doesn't she? Why she saves every copper she can get to go to the galleries, and when she ain't got no money she hangs round the stage doors to see the actors and actresses go in and out. I don't believe she could stay away if it was to save her life.'

"'Persons in a much higher social position than ourselves,' said our reporter, turning every point to Sophy's advantage, 'are in the habit of hanging round stage doors. The stage is a great institution, Mrs. Middlemore, greater than ever it was before, and is courted--yes, my dear madam, courted--by the highest as well as the lowest in the land, from the Prince of Wales at the top to poor little Sophy at the bottom. Every fresh thing you tell me of Sophy makes me think better of her. But let us return to M. Felix. He would not allow you to have any person in the house, you say. What was his motive?'

"'I can't say, sir, except that he wanted to keep 'isself to 'isself.'

"'Did you expostulate with him?'

"'Did I what, sir?'

"'Did you tell him you would feel lonely without a companion occasionally?'

"'Not me, sir. M. Felix wasn't the kind of gentleman you could cross. He 'ad a way of speaking, when he was giving orders you couldn't mistake. His word was lore, and he meant it to be. You ain't forgetting, sir, that he was master 'ere?'

"'No, I'm not forgetting that. His orders, then, were to be obeyed without question?'

"'They was, sir. He said to me, "When people don't do as I tell 'em, Mrs. Middlemore, I get rid of 'em."'

"'A very dictatorial gentleman.'

"'Only when he was saying, "This is to be," or, "That is to be." At other times he was as smooth as marble, and always passed a pleasant word.'

"'He had visitors occasionally, I suppose?'

"'Oh, yes, sir, but I scarcely ever sor them. Nearly always he let 'em in and out 'isself.'

"'In a manner of speaking, then, he led a secret life?'

"'Some might call it so. Gentlemen living in chambers do all sorts of things.'

"'So I believe,' said our reporter, dryly.

"'And it ain't for the likes of us to question 'em. We've got our living to make, and if it pays us to be mum, mum we must be.'

"'I understand that. From what I can gather, Mrs. Middlemore, M. Felix had no family?'

"'Not that I know of, sir.'

"'As to his visitors, now, were they mostly ladies or gentlemen?'

"'Mostly ladies, sir.'

"'Have any of them been here to see his body?'

"'Not one, sir.'

"'That is strange. He might almost as well have died on a desert island.'

"'Yes, sir. That's the reason why we've been all at sea what to do. There was nobody to give directions.'

"'It is certainly a perplexing situation, unprecedented in my experience. Should you happen to meet any of the persons who were in the habit of visiting him, would you be able to identify them?'

"'I don't think I should, sir.'

"'Supposing that he came by his death in a violent way--I don't say it is so, because the medical evidence does not favor that conclusion--but supposing that this evidence was misleading, and was proved to be so, there is nobody to take up the matter authoritatively, to take measures, I mean, to bring the guilty party to justice?'

"'Nobody, sir.'

"'Only the police?'

"'Yes, sir, only the police?'

"'And all they have succeeded in doing is to make things uncomfortable for you?'

"'Yes, sir,' sighed Mrs. Middlemore, 'that's all they've done. I said to Mr. Nightingale, "A nice friend you've been," I said. I couldn't 'elp saying it after all I've gone through.'

"'Is it Constable Nightingale you are speaking of?'

"'Yes, it is.'

"'Is he an old friend of yours?'

"'He was on the beat 'ere before Mr. Wigg.'

"'Ah; and that is how you got to know him?'

"'Yes.'

"'He knew M. Felix, probably?'

"'Mr. Felix made a point of being always friendly with the policemen on the beat.'

"'Sensible man. Tipped them, I daresay?'

"'They'd best answer that theirselves. He never give me nothing to give 'em.'

"'What did Constable Nightingale say when you made that remark to him?'

"'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Middlemore, with sudden reserve.

"'Surely he must have made some remark, to the effect that he was your friend, or words bearing the same meaning?'

"'He didn't say nothing.'

"Our reporter gave up the point; it was his cue to keep Mrs. Middlemore in a good humor.

"'I'll have one more look in the bedroom,' he said.

"At first his scrutiny was not rewarded by any discovery, but, passing his hand over the pillows on the bed, he felt something hard beneath them, and upon lifting them up he saw a six-chambered revolver, loaded in every barrel.

"'Lord save us!' cried Mrs. Middlemore, starting back.

"'Did you not know it was here?'

"'No, sir, this is the first time I ever saw it. I never knew he kep' one.'

"'Do the police know?'

"'They didn't mention it, sir.'

"'Well, we will leave it where it is. Don't touch it, Mrs. Middlemore; it's loaded.'

"Before he replaced it, however, he made the following note in his pocket-book: 'A Colt's double-action revolver, nickel plated, six shots, No. 819.' And, unseen by Mrs. Middlemore, he scratched on the metal with his penknife the initial F. Then he looked at his watch, and said--

"'It is nearly ten o'clock. My advice now is that you go and give the alarm to the police that the body of M. Felix has vanished.'

"'You'll go along with me, sir?'

"'No, for your sake I had better not be seen. Give me two minutes to get away, and then go for the police at once. I will come and see you again, and help you in every way I can.'

"Shaking her hand, and leaving half a sovereign in it, our reporter, accompanied by Mrs. Middlemore, went to the street door, and left her standing there."

CHAPTER XI.

THE "EVENING MOON" IS INUNDATED WITH CORRESPONDENCE CONCERNING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY OF M. FELIX.

"As was to be expected, the news of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix caused the greatest excitement. In small villages trifling incidents are sufficient to create an interest; in great cities events of magnitude are required to stir the pulses of the people; and in both village and city, to arouse the public from their normal condition of apathy, it is necessary that the incidents must have local color. Soho was sufficiently central, and, it may be added, sufficiently mixed and mysterious in the character of its population, to fulfil this imperative condition of popularity. Every resident in London knows the locality, and is to some extent familiar with it; it is contiguous to the most fashionable thoroughfares; it is within a stone's throw of theatres of magnificent proportions; it gives shelter to foreign princes deposed for a time from their high estate, and to foreign votaries of vice of both sexes who, being outlaws, cannot pursue their infamous courses in their native lands. If we were asked which part of London contains the most varied material for the weaving of modern romance we should unhesitatingly point to the region of Soho. A careless stroller through those thoroughfares little dreams of the strange and wondrous life which beats beneath the apparently placid, the undeniably squalid, aspect of this pregnant locality. The elderly woman, poorly clad and closely veiled, who glides past him is a prominent member of a Royal family who for a long period held the reins of power in one of the greatest European nations; she lives now in a garret upon dry bread and German sausage, and makes her own bed and fire. Yesterday she wore a crown of diamonds, to-day she wears a crown of sorrow. The attenuated man, whose worn-out garments hang loosely upon his spare body, and who is now studying carte du jour in the window of a low French restaurant, nervously fumbling at the same moment the few loose coins in his pocket, was, in years gone by, one of the greatest financiers in the world; yesterday he dealt in millions, had scores of carriages and hundreds of servants, paid fabulous prices for rare gems and pictures, and provided funds for mighty wars; to-day he is debating whether he can afford an eighteen-penny dinner. The man with an overhanging forehead, who strides onward with teeth closely set, and the fingers of whose hands are continually clinching and unclinching, is the head of a secret society whose members number hundreds of thousands, and whose deed of blood shall next week convulse the world with horror. We could dwell long upon this fascinating theme, but our business is with M. Felix, and we must not wander from him.

"As we have already stated, we were the first to give the public the intelligence of his strange disappearance, and so intense was the interest the news excited that our printing-machines could not supply one-fourth of the demand for the various editions of our journal. The letters we received upon the subject would form a curious chapter in a new 'Curiosities of Literature.'

"'Dear sir' (wrote one correspondent), 'you speak of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix as an unparalleled incident. Allow me to correct you, and from my own experience to furnish your readers with an identical case. It is now ten years ago since I formed the acquaintance of a gentleman of great attainments and peculiar habits, and whose nationality was always a matter of curiosity with me. Once or twice I delicately approached the subject, but he skilfully evaded it, and I did not feel warranted in pressing it. He was a wonderful chess-player, an accomplished linguist, and his knowledge of the niceties of every new discovery in science was simply marvellous. He had only one failing--he drank and smoked too much. In those days I also was a free liver. We were both single men, I certainly, he presumably; there are topics upon which it is good breeding to preserve a friendly delicacy. We met frequently, and dined together at least twice a week, at my expense. He was a good judge of wine and liquor, and very choice in his food. Being much superior to me in this respect, I invariably left it to him to decide where to dine and to arrange the courses. Perhaps occasionally we took half a bottle of wine too much, but that is neither here nor there. It was no one's business but our own. He took a peculiar interest in all new inventions, and was in the habit of throwing out hints of an extraordinary invention of his own which one day was to revolutionize the world. He told me very little of his discovery of which anyone could make use, but he was so jealous of his secret that he bound me down to solemn secrecy on the point; and I trust I am too much of a gentleman to violate the confidence he reposed in me. I may, however, without scruple, reveal that his invention related to combustion. One evening, when we had arranged to dine as usual together at the Royal, in Regent Street, he confided to me that he was in temporary want of funds, and I lent him all the money I had about me, some fifteen or sixteen pounds. Then we dined, and he paid for the dinner. Over the meal he talked more frequently than he was in the habit of doing of his invention. "It is near completion," he said, "and before I go to bed I intend to make some experiments which I am in hopes will put the finishing touch to it." Then he looked at me searchingly and thoughtfully, and said I might accompany him home if I liked, and assist in the experiments. Burning with curiosity, and delighted at this mark of his confidence, I gladly consented, and we issued forth and proceeded to his rooms, which, singularly enough, were in Glasshouse Street, at no very great distance from the house in which M. Felix lived. On our way he purchased two bottles of brandy, remarking that even when the soul was in its highest state of exaltation the body required nourishment and sustaining. I acquiesced. He lived on the second floor, in two rooms, one his bedroom, the other the room in which he conducted his experiments. There was no evidences of the nature of these experiments visible, and he explained this to me by stating that, distrusting his housekeeper, he kept them in his cupboard. The first thing he did was to light a large fire; then he brought forth a brass frying-pan, upon which he emptied a packet of powder. "You must not be frightened at what I am about to do," he said. "There is no very great danger in it, but it needs courage." Being already primed with the wine we had at dinner, and with three glasses of the brandy he had purchased, I told him I was prepared for anything. Then he informed me that his experiments must be made without light from candle or lamp; so that, with the exception of the fire, we were in darkness. Then he put the brass frying-pan on the fire, and a blue vapor floated through the room. I felt a little nervous, but I would not confess it, and I helped myself to another glass of brandy, and puffed away at a very large and very strong cigar with which he presented me. He bade me sit in a particular chair by a little table (upon which he considerately placed the two bottles of brandy, one by this time half empty), and he drew around me upon the floor, which was destitute of carpet, a circle with a piece of billiard chalk, and said that as long as I did not move outside that charmed circle I should be safe. "Help yourself to some more brandy," he said, "and do not be frightened." I obeyed him as to the brandy, but I must confess I was in great trepidation, more especially as the dim objects in the room appeared to be going round and round. He threw some more powder into the brass frying-pan, and this time the vapor was green. He then asked me if I had anything in the shape of metal upon my person, and I answered yes, of course; upon which he stated that I might be in danger unless I divested myself of them, as he was about to do. At a little distance from me, between me and the fire, he drew upon the floor a smaller circle with his piece of billiard chalk, and within it placed a trinket or two of his own. I handed him my gold watch and chain, my diamond ring, my pearl and ruby pin, and a valuable charm of gold which I kept in my pocket for luck. These he placed with his own trinkets within the smaller circle, and said that now no harm could befall me. The objects in the room went round more and more as he muttered some cabalistic words, and to prevent myself from being overcome by terror I took some more brandy. Then he threw about half a dozen little packets of powder into the fire, one after another, and all sorts of colors appeared, and filled the room with a peculiar smell, which so affected me that I helped myself to brandy. I must not forget to mention that he had locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "If what I am doing alarms you," he said, "you may close your eyes. You have great courage, and to prove my friendship for you I shall present you with half the profits of my invention." I tried to thank him, but to my surprise my words were not very clearly spoken. Presently my eyes began to close, and I fell asleep. When I awoke the room was in darkness. I called to my friend, but he did not answer me. Fearful lest he himself should have fallen a victim to his hazardous experiments, I rose unsteadily to my feet and felt around till my hands reached the door, which, of course, was locked. Luckily I had in my pocket a box of matches, and striking one I lit the candle. My friend was gone; I was alone in the room; but upon the floor was a small heap of ashes. Not only was my poor friend gone, but all his trinkets as well as my own were also gone. But there upon the floor was the fatal heap of ashes. I could arrive at but one conclusion, namely, that the combustion which was the kernel of his great invention had reduced him to ashes and destroyed him. There could be no other explanation of the extraordinary occurrence, because the door was still locked. Fearful lest I might be accused of his death, I forced the door open and fled, and from that day to this the affair has remained wrapped in mystery. This is the first time I have mentioned it, and I do so now in the interests of justice, lest some unfortunate person should be accused, as I might have been in the case of my friend, of spiriting M. Felix away. May not his disappearance be set down to combustion? Are there any charred marks upon the floor of the room where his body lay? Were any ashes left? Was he given to dangerous experiments? My own experiences may lead you, sir, to the proper solution of the mystery which hangs around his fate. I shall follow the further developments of the case of M. Felix with interest, and am, Yours, etc.'

"Another correspondent wrote:

"'Sir--I am a Spiritualist, and I possess the power of summoning from the Caverns of the Unseen and Unknown the spirits of any individual upon whom I may call. There is but one way of arriving at the truth of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix, and I offer to you the exclusive privilege of revealing this truth to an anxious and eager public. My fee will be five guineas. Upon your remitting to me this sum I undertake to summon the spirit of M. Felix, and to ascertain from his own lips what has become of his body. The power I possess is worth considerably more than the sum I name, and you, with this exclusive information in your possession, will obtain an advertisement for your valued newspaper which you could not otherwise obtain for five hundred times the amount. I enclose you my name and address, which you may or may not publish as you please, and upon the receipt of the five guineas I will set to work at once. If you decline my offer the disappearance of this particular body will forever remain a mystery. I urge you, in your own interests, not to neglect this opportunity.

"Another correspondent wrote:

"'Honored Sir--I have been reading all about M. Felix, and now comes the cruel news of his disappearance. Just as I was going to see his body and identify it! Just as I was going to realize a life-long dream! Will you allow me to explain, and will you render an inestimable service to a poor widow? I feel that you will, for you have a heart. Thirty-two years ago my husband left me suddenly. We were having tea, and in the middle of it he got up and said, "I'm off, and you'll never see me again." We had had a dispute about something (I beg you not ask me what; it was a private matter), when he acted thus. He was a most overbearing man, and I had enough to do to bear with him. He left the house there and then, and I have never set eyes on him since. His name was not Felix, but are you sure that was M. Felix's proper name. I advertised for him, and said all would be forgiven and forgotten, but he didn't turn up. I heard he had gone to Australia, and no doubt he made his fortune there, and came home to England to enjoy it; and as he was a man who never forgot and never forgave, he took the name? of Felix, and lived the lonely life he did. It was only yesterday the idea flashed across me that he was my long lost husband, and that, if he did not make a will disinheriting me, his lawful wife, his fortune belongs to me by every legal and moral right. I would put two or three questions to you, sir, to you who are always ready to help the oppressed. Did the supposed M. Felix make a will? If he did, where is it? Is there any portrait of him extant? I have a portrait of my poor husband--alas! much faded--but it stands to reason that it must differ considerably from the late portraits taken of the deceased. Show me M. Felix's portrait and I am ready to swear to my husband. I put only one more question. In the absence of any evidence whatever, and failing the discovery of the deceased's mortal remains, is it not competent for me to make oath that he was my husband, and thus establish my claim to any property he may have left behind him. In deep grief, I am, honored sir, your obliged and obedient servant, A LONELY WIDOW.'

"We could fill pages with letters of this description, but the three we have given are a sufficient indication of the interest excited by the incident. Among all these letters there was only one which offered any suggestion likely to be of practical value, and that was the letter we have printed, signed 'A LONELY WIDOW.' Her interesting hypothesis that M. Felix was her long lost husband was, of course, ridiculous, but she made mention of two subjects worthy of consideration. The first was did M. Felix make a will; the second, was there any portrait of him extant. If a will were in existence, it would probably be in the care of a firm of lawyers who could have no good reason for keeping it in the background. We set to work at once upon this trail, but it led to nothing. No lawyers were found in possession of such a document, and it was not forthcoming from other quarters. Nor were we more successful with respect to a portrait of M. Felix. Mrs. Middlemore had never seen one, and a private search through his rooms was futile. Indeed, it is a further proof of the strange secrecy in which M. Felix's life was conducted that not a document or written paper of any description was discovered in his apartments, not even a letter. Some important statements upon this head will be presented further on.

"In pursuance of the advice our reporter gave Mrs. Middlemore, she communicated to the police the fact of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix. There the matter rested, and would have been likely to rest but for the initiatory steps we had already taken to throw a light upon the mystery. It is all very well to say that nobody's business is everybody's business; it is not the case. People talked and wrote letters, but we acted. It must be admitted that the police were not in a position to move actively in the affair. No definite charge had been offered for their investigation; no person was accused of a crime; it had not even been proved that a crime had been committed. Conjecture was theirs, and that was all. The law cannot move, cannot act upon conjecture; facts of a crime, or even of a supposed crime, are necessary before the administration of justice can be called upon to adjudicate. Suggestions were thrown out as to the advisability of offering a reward for the discovery of the body, but who was to offer it? Even in the case of a deliberate and ascertained murder where the criminal is at large, the Government is notoriously slow in issuing such a proclamation, and the full weight of public opinion has frequently failed in inducing the authorities to offer a reward. It was not, therefore, to be expected that they would do so in this instance. Meanwhile there was one feature in the case which we desire to emphasize, and of which we never lost sight. Between the hours of twelve and one o'clock on the night of the 16th-17th January a man with a red scarf round his neck was seen to issue from the house in Gerard Street, in which M. Felix resided. The man still remained undiscovered. It matters not who saw him, whether Mrs. Middlemore, or Constables Wigg or Nightingale, or all three together. The fact seemed to be established that he had been in the house for some purpose, and had been seen to issue from it.

"Where was that man, and what motive had he for not coming forward?"

CHAPTER XII.

THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" MAKES A DISCOVERY.

"On the evening of the 19th our reporter paid a visit to Mrs. Middlemore. Sophy opened the street door for him.

"'Hallo, old 'un,' said the girl, 'it's you, is it?'

"'Yes, Sophy,' said our reporter, 'here I am again.'

"'As large as life,' remarked Sophy, vivaciously, 'and twice as--no, I won't say that; you ain't arf a bad sort. What's yer little game this time, old 'un?'

"'Is Mrs. Middlemore in?' asked our reporter.

"'Yes, aunt's at 'ome. Do you want to see 'er?'

"'That's what I've come for, Sophy.'

"'Who's that, Sophy?' cried Mrs. Middlemore, from the bottom of the basement stairs.

"'It's the old 'un, aunt,' screamed Sophy.

"'Don't be absurd,' said our reporter, pinching Sophy's cheek. 'It is I, Mrs. Middlemore, the reporter from the Evening Moon.'

"'Come down, sir,' cried Mrs. Middlemore, 'if come you must. Don't stop talking to that 'uzzy.'

"Sophy put her tongue in her cheek, and whispering, 'Ain't she a treat?' preceded our reporter to the kitchen.

"'Good-evening, Mrs. Middlemore,' said our reporter.

"'Good-evening, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, 'Sophy, 'ave you shut the street door tight?'

"'As tight as a drum,' replied Sophy.

"'Mrs. Middlemore sank into a chair with a heavy sigh, and our reporter took a seat opposite her. There was a jug of beer on the table.

"'Will you 'ave a glass, sir?' asked Mrs. Middlemore, hospitably.

"'No, thank you; I have just dined, and I thought I would come and have a chat with you in a general way.'

"'Thank 'eaven it's about nothing particular,' said Mrs. Middlemore, in a tone of manifest relief.

"'It may lead to something particular,' observed our reporter, genially. 'We're only on the threshold as yet.'

"'Stop a bit, sir, please. Sophy!'

"'Yes, aunty dear,' responded the girl, in a tone of simulated sweetness.

"'If I let you go out for a walk, will you come back in arf an hour?'

"Sophy hesitated. Between her longing for a run in the streets and her longing to hear what our reporter had to say, she felt herself in a difficulty.

"'Well, now,' exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, sharply.

"'Oh, aunty dear,' said Sophy, pressing the bosom of her frock, and pretending to be greatly startled at her aunt's sharp voice, you send my 'eart into my mouth.'

"'Will you promise not to stop out longer than an hour?'

"Mrs. Middlemore's anxiety to get rid of her decided the girl. For once she would forego the temptations of the streets.

"'Don't want to go out,' she said, shortly.

"'But you've got to go,' said Mrs. Middlemore, resenting this opposition to her authority, 'or I'll bundle you out for good, neck and crop. Promise, like a good girl.'

"'Shan't promise,' said Sophy, rebelliously.

"'Oh, dear, oh, dear,' moaned Mrs. Middlemore. 'What am I to do with her? And after all the nice things you said of her this morning, sir?'

"'Did you say nice things of me?' asked Sophy, of our reporter.

"'I did, Sophy,' he replied, 'and I'm sure you will do as your aunt tells you.'

"'That settles it. I'll go. 'Ow long for, aunty?'

"'An hour. Not a minute more.'

"'I say'--to our reporter--'you might lend us yer watch. Then I shouldn't make any mistake.'

"'Get along with you,' said our reporter, laughing. 'The shops are full of clocks.'

"'Thank yer for nothing,' said Sophy, proceeding to array herself. Spitting on the palm of her hand, she made a pretence of smoothing her hair. Then she looked at herself in a piece of looking-glass that was hanging on the wall, and turned her head this way and that, smirking most comically. Then she shook out her skirts, and looked over her shoulder to see that they hung becomingly. Then she tied a piece of string round one yawning boot. Then she put on her head something in straw that once might have been called a hat, but which had long since forfeited all claims to respectability. Then she fished out a poor little scarf, about six inches square, and pinned it round her shoulders with a coquettishness not devoid of grace. Her toilette completed, she asked--

"'Will I do?'

"'Very nicely, Sophy,' said our reporter. But although he spoke gayly he was stirred by a certain pity for this little waif, who was so conspicuously animated by a spirit to make the best of things--a spirit which might with advantage be emulated by her betters--and who made a joke even of her poverty and rags.

"'Much obliged,' said Sophy. 'Give us a kiss, aunty. Now I'm off.'

"And off she was, but not without saluting our reporter with an elaborate courtesy.

"Mrs. Middlemore waited till she heard the street-door slam, and then said,

"'Did you ever see the likes of her?'

"'I declare to you, my dear madam,' said our reporter, 'that the more I see of Sophy the more I like her. What have the police done? Anything?'

"'Nothing, sir. I went and told 'em what 'ad 'appened, and two policemen came and looked at the bed, looked under it, looked in every room as you said they would, looked at me, and went away.'

"'And they have not been here again?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Mrs. Middlemore, may I have another peep in M. Felix's rooms?'

"'Certainly, sir.'

"They went up together, Mrs. Middlemore breathing heavily, perfuming the air with a flavor of beer. There was an escritoire in the sitting-room, and our reporter examined it.

"'I'll tell you what I'm looking for,' he said. 'I see pens, ink, and paper, denoting that M. Felix was occasionally in the habit of using them, but there is not a scrap of paper about with his writing on it. There is not even a monogram on the note paper. If we could find something, it might furnish a clue. He received letters, I suppose?'

"'Oh, yes, sir.'

"'And the presumption is that he answered them. Did you ever post any of his letters?'

"'Never once, sir.'

"'Here is a waste-paper basket; there must have been in it, at odd times, scraps of the letters he received and spoilt sheets of his own. Has your dust bin been emptied this week?'

"'No, sir, but you wouldn't find anything of Mr. Felix's in it. It was one of his orders that whatever was in the waste-paper basket should be burnt here in his own fireplace. I used to sweep this room in the morning when he was in bed, and he always said I did my work so quietly that he was never disturbed by any noise.'

"'Look round the room, Mrs. Middlemore, and see if you miss anything. You would be pretty well acquainted with everything in it. What is the meaning of that gasp? You do miss something?'

"'There was another desk, sir, and I don't see it.'

"'What kind of desk?'

"'A small one, sir, that used to smell quite nice.'

"'Ah, made of cedar wood, no doubt. Did M. Felix keep his papers in this desk?'

"'Some of his papers, sir.'

"'How do you know that?'

"'I've come into the room when he's rung for me, and saw the desk open.'

"'Ocular proof, Mrs. Middlemore.'

"'What sort's that, sir?'

"'Visible to the eye--your eye, my dear madam.'

"'Yes, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, dubiously.

"'Now, Mrs. Middlemore, can you inform me whether those papers you saw in the missing desk were private papers?'

"'It ain't possible for me to say, sir.'

"'Neither can you say, I suppose, whether M. Felix set any particular store upon them?'

"'Well, sir, now you bring me to it, things come to my mind.'

"'Exactly.'

"'Whenever I come into the room,' said Mrs. Middlemore, 'and the desk was open, Mr. Felix used to shut it up quick.'

"'Lest you should see them too closely?'

"'I'm sure I shouldn't 'ave made no use of 'em; least of all, bad use.'

"'That is not the point. He closed the desk quickly when another person was by, with an evident wish to keep all possible knowledge of them to himself.'

"'It looks like that. You do push a thing close.'

"Our reporter accepted this as a compliment, and continued:

"'That appears to establish the fact that this desk--which probably was brought from India, Mrs. Middlemore--contained M. Felix's private papers?'

"'It do, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, admiringly.

"'And, therefore, papers of importance. The desk was inlaid with silver, Mrs. Middlemore.'

"'Lor', sir!' exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, doubtless regarding our reporter as a man who dealt in enchantments. 'How did you find out that?'

"'It was, was it not?'

"'Yes, sir, it was.'

"'When M. Felix had visitors, was this desk ever allowed to lie carelessly about?'

"'No, sir. At them times he used to keep it in 'is bedroom, on a little table by the side of 'is bed.'

"'Let us look through the bedroom, and see if it is there.'

"They searched the bedroom thoroughly, without finding it.

"'It is undoubtedly gone,' said our reporter.

"'It do look like it, sir.'

"'Mrs. Middlemore, when M. Felix was found dead in his chair, was this desk in either of the rooms?'

"'I didn't see it, sir.'

"'You could not swear it was not here?'

"'I shouldn't like to, sir.'

"'The probability, however, is that it had gone when the door was forced open?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'The police could scarcely take it away without your knowledge?'

"'They'd 'ave been clever to do it.'

"'Had they done so, they would certainly have been exceeding their duties. Now, do not answer the questions I put to you too quickly. Were you in these rooms on the day before M. Felix's death?'

"'I were, sir.'

"'Was the desk here then?'

"'It were; I can swear to that.'

"'You saw it with your own eyes?'

"'I couldn't see it with no others,' replied Mrs. Middlemore, smirking, in approval of her small wit.

"'Of course, you could not. Is there any particular reason why you are so positive of this?'

"'Well, sir, Mr. Felix wanted something, and rung for me; and when I come into the room he was sitting at this table with the desk open before him, and all the papers scattered about.'

"'That fixes it. Did he seem to be searching for, or examining with more than usual interest, any special document?'

"'He seemed flustered and excited, sir. I can't say no more than that.'

"'He was not generally of an excitable temperament?'

"'Not at all. He was easy going, and always with a pleasant word.'

"'A model man. I observe that you call him Mr. and not Monsieur?'

"'I can't bring myself to foreign languages, sir. My tongue gits into a knot.'

"'He was a foreigner, I suppose?'

"'I suppose so, sir. I ain't the best of judges.'

"'A Frenchman?'

"'So I thought, sir.'

"'Or an Italian?'

"'Perhaps, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, wavering.

"'Or a Spaniard?'

"'Perhaps, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, growing more undecided.

"'Or a Russian?'

"'How can I say, sir?' said Mrs. Middlemore, now quite at sea as to M. Felix's nationality.

"'He spoke the English language well?'

"'As well as me, sir.'

"'So that, after all, he might have been an Englishman?'

"'He might,' said Mrs. Middlemore, declining to commit herself, 'and he mightn't.'

"Our reporter did not press the point, as to which Mrs. Middlemore had evidently disclosed all she knew.

"'If we could find the missing desk, Mrs. Middlemore, it might throw a light upon the mystery.'

"Again did Mrs. Middlemore decline to commit herself; again did she answer, 'It might, and it mightn't, sir.'

"'I presume there was nothing in the desk that attracted your attention besides the papers?'

"'Only one thing, sir--a curious sort of knife.'

"'A paper knife, most likely.'

"'It was more like a dagger,' said Mrs. Middlemore. 'It 'ad a 'andle like a twisted snake, with a' open mouth and a colored stone in its eye. It 'ad a sharp pint, too?'

"'How did you become aware of that? Did you ever try it?'

"'Not me, sir; but once I come in when Mr. Felix 'ad it in 'is 'and, playing with it, and all at once he dropped it like a 'ot pertater. He pricked 'isself with it, and there was blood on 'is 'and.'

"'You have furnished me with a valuable piece of evidence, Mrs. Middlemore. Papers are easily burnt, and a desk broken up and destroyed. It would not be so easy to get rid of that knife, which, from your description, must be a foreign dagger, and the identification of which would be a simple matter. For instance, you could swear to it, and so could I, who have never seen it.'

"'Anybody could swear to it, sir; it couldn't be mistook.'

"'Did M. Felix keep this dagger always in his desk?'

"'I should say he did, sir. I never saw it laying about loose, and never saw it at all unless the desk was open.'

"'Did you see it on the last occasion you saw the desk open, a few hours before M. Felix's death?'

"'Yes, sir, it was among 'is papers.'

"'Have you any suspicion, Mrs. Middlemore, who at this present moment has possession of the desk and the dagger?'

"'Not the least, sir. 'Ave you?'

"'I have. A suspicion amounting to a certainty. Have you forgotten the man with a red handkerchief round his neck who escaped from the house on the night of the eventful discovery?'

"'I'm not likely to forget 'im,' said Mrs. Middlemore, and then added, in an excited tone, 'do you think it was 'im as took it?'

"'Him, and no other. Now we arrive at the motive of his visit; it was robbery. Not a vulgar robbery such as an ordinary thief would have committed, but one of a particular nature, and committed with a knowledge that M. Felix's Indian desk contained a secret or secrets of value, which no doubt he could turn to good account. We are getting on, Mrs. Middlemore, we are getting on,' said our reporter, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. 'In these affairs there is nothing like patience.'

"'You're as good as a detective, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, 'and you've got the patience of Job. You won't mind my saying that I've thought lots of your questions foolish, and only put for the sake of saying something. I don't think so now, sir.'

"'Thank you for the compliment. I assure you I have not asked you one idle question. Recall to mind whether the man with the red handkerchief round his neck carried anything away with him that looked like a desk as he escaped from the house.'

"'I don't believe, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, with evident reluctance, 'as that will ever be known.'

"'Oh, yes, it will. Answer my question.'

"'I didn't notice nothing,' replied Mrs. Middlemore.

"We pause a moment here to observe that it was these reserved replies, when any question relating to this man was asked, as well as the conflicting testimony of the constables Wigg and Nightingale, that led us to the conclusion, already recorded, that the precise truth was not revealed as to which one of the three witnesses actually saw the man. Having committed themselves to a certain statement for the purpose of exonerating the constables from official blame, they could not afterward contradict themselves, because such a contradiction would have thrown grave doubt upon the whole of their evidence.

"'He could not,' said our reporter, 'very well have carried away an article of this description without its being noticed by any one who saw him.'

"'Ain't it excusable, sir,' observed Mrs. Middlemore, nervously, 'when you think of the storm and the confusion we was in?'

"'Well, perhaps, but it is a pity we cannot obtain definite information on the point. Isn't that a knock at the street door?'

"'Yes, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, making no attempt to move from the room.

"'You had better go down and see who it is. I will remain here. There is really nothing to be frightened at. It might be Sophy come back.'

"At this suggestion Mrs. Middlemore left the room, and went to the street door. Being alone, our reporter looked about him, and almost immediately made an important discovery. Against the wall, on the right hand side of the door as he entered, stood a massive sideboard, a very handsome piece of furniture. The lower part of this sideboard was close against the waistcoat, above which there was a space between the back of the sideboard and the wall of about an inch in width. Happening to glance at the back of the sideboard, the light of the candle which our reporter held in his hand fell upon something bright. Stooping, he drew the object out, and was excited to find it was the identical dagger about which he and Mrs. Middlemore had been conversing. There could not be the possibility of a mistake. Its handle, as Mrs. Middlemore had described, resembled a twisted snake; the mouth was open, and in its head was a ruby to represent an eye. A dangerous instrument, with a very sharp point, the metal of which it was composed being bright steel. But it was not the peculiar shape of the handle, nor the bright steel of the blade, nor the ruby eye, which excited our reporter. It was the fact that there was rust upon the blade, and that this rust was caused by blood, of which there were light stains plainly visible on the handle of the dagger."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" GIVES SOPHY A TREAT.

"In the elucidation of a mystery there are facts which have to be slowly and laboriously built up; there are others which need no such process but establish themselves instantly in the analytical and well-balanced mind. Our reporter is gifted with such a mind, and certain facts connected with the case of M. Felix took instant form and order. We will set these facts before our readers briefly and concisely:

"It is necessary to premise--

"First, that M. Felix kept a loaded revolver beneath the pillows of his bed.

"Second, that when Constables Wigg and Nightingale, Mrs. Middlemore, and Dr. Lamb entered M. Felix's sitting-room after the door was forced open, the window was open.

"We now proceed to the sequence of events.

"Shortly before his death M. Felix, being alone in the house in Gerard Street, received a visitor. Whether expected or unexpected, whether welcome or unwelcome, we are not prepared to state; nor are we prepared to state how this visitor obtained entrance to the house. Obtain entrance by some means he undoubtedly did, and mounting the stairs, he knocked at the door of M. Felix's sitting-room. At the moment M. Felix heard the knock he had his Indian desk open before him, and it was in connection with a secret which this desk contained, or to which a document in the desk could afford a clue, that the visit was made. M. Felix, supposing that it was his housekeeper who knocked, opened the door and admitted the intruder. A stormy scene ensued, and M. Felix, throwing open his window, screamed for help. The appeal was sent forth into the wild night more from the fear that he was about to be robbed of this secret than from the fear that his life was in danger. The hypothesis is strengthened by the fact that there were no marks of personal violence on the body of M. Felix. The visitor laid hands upon the desk, and as he did so M. Felix turned from the window, snatched up the dagger, and hurled it with all his force at the robber. The sharp point struck into the flesh of the intruder, and it was his blood which was discovered on the floor of the room. The agitation produced by the scene brought on the attack of heart disease which caused M. Felix's death. The blind and momentary delirium which ensued did not prevent M. Felix from thinking of the revolver beneath his pillows; he staggered into his bedroom, but before he reached his bed he fell lifeless in a chair. While this was going on the robber had seized the desk, and, conscious that to carry away with him the evidence of a dagger dripping with blood might lead to his detection, he threw it swiftly from him behind the sideboard. He threw it with his right hand, his back being toward the door, which accounts for the place and position in which our reporter found the weapon. Then, with the desk in his possession, he escaped from the house--ignorant of the tragedy that had occurred, ignorant that M. Felix was lying dead within a few feet of him. He left the door open, but the fierce wind through the window blew it shut. It was while it was open that the cat which alarmed Mrs. Middlemore and the two constables crept into the room, became besmeared with blood, and crept out.

"The departure of the thief was like the falling of the curtain upon a pregnant act in an exciting drama. Imagination follows the man as he flies with his stolen treasure through the deserted streets; imagination wanders to the dead form of M. Felix lying in the chair by the bedside. When the curtain rises again, what will be disclosed?

"These thoughts came to the mind of our reporter with lightning rapidity. Mrs. Middlemore had opened the street door, had closed it again, and was now ascending the stairs. What should he do with the dagger?

"To retain it would be an unwarranted act, and might be construed into a theft. To take Mrs. Middlemore into his confidence might thwart his operations in the future. He put his hand behind the sideboard, and let the dagger fall. It was now safely hidden from sight, and its presence behind the sideboard could only be discovered, by any other person than himself, by the shifting of that piece of furniture.

"Mrs. Middlemore re-entered the room.

"'It was a runaway knock,' she said, 'The boys and girls take a pleasure in it. If I could ketch one of 'em I'd bang their head agin the wall.'

"'Did you see no one at all?' asked our reporter.

"'Only some people staring up at the winders,' replied Mrs. Middlemore. 'The 'ouse 'as become a regular show since that dreadful night. What do they expect to see?'

"'Perhaps the ghost of M. Felix,' suggested our reporter, with, it must be confessed, a rather feeble attempt at humor.

"'Don't mention sech a thing, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, piteously. 'It makes my flesh creep.'

"'I only said it in joke; there are no such things as ghosts and spirits.'

"'Some people believe otherwise sir.'

"'The more fools they. Well, Mrs. Middlemore, there is nothing more I wish to ask you just now; I must get back to my duties. But I must not waste your time for nothing.'

"He pressed into her willing palm another half-sovereign, making the second he had given her.

"'I'm sure you're very kind, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, after furtively glancing at the coin, to see that it was not a sixpence. 'Shall I see you agin?'

"'Yes. Good-night, Mrs. Middlemore.'

"'Good-night, sir,' she responded, as they went down-stairs. 'I 'ope Sophy won't be gone long.'

"'She'll be back soon, I daresay.' He paused in the passage. 'Mrs. Middlemore, are you satisfied that I am your friend?'

"'Yes, sir, I am.'

"'Then, if anything new occurs, you will let me know at once.'

"'I will, sir.'

"'And if it should happen,' said our reporter, 'that you remember anything you have forgotten to tell me, you will come and let me know it?'

"'I'll be sure to, sir.'

"Wishing her good-night again, he left the house, and heard her close the street door behind him with a bang.

"It was not without a motive that our reporter had addressed his last words to her. He had an idea that she had not been quite frank with him respecting M. Felix's visitors feeling assured that she could not be so entirely in the dark regarding them as she professed to be. His visit had not been fruitless; he had become acquainted with the loss of the desk, and he had discovered the dagger with its curiously shaped handle. Two steps advanced in the mystery, which might lead to something of importance.

"He walked slowly on, revolving these matters in his mind, and debating whether he could make any present use of them when his coat was plucked by a small hand. Looking down, he saw Sophy.

"'Ah, Sophy,' he said, 'what do you want?'

"'I've been waiting for yer,' said Sophy. 'I've got somethink to tell.'

"'Good. Where shall we talk?'

"Sophy's reply was a strange one. 'I know,' she said, where they sells fried fish and fried 'taters.' She smacked her lips.

"'You would like some?'

"'Wouldn't I? Jest?'

"'Lead the way, Sophy.'

"'You're a brick, old 'un, that's what you are.'

"She walked close to him, rubbing against him after the fashion of a friendly cat, and conducted him toward the purlieus of Drury Lane.

"'You're going to stand treat, ain't yer?'

"'Yes, Sophy, to as many fried potatoes and as much fried fish as you can comfortably tuck away.'

"'No gammon, yer know?'

"'I mean what I say, Sophy.'

"'Then there's stooed eels?'

"'All right; you shall have some.'

"'Don't say afterwards as I took you in. My inside's made of injer rubber. The more I puts in it the more it stretches.'

"'I don't mind, Sophy.'

"'You're somethink like a gent. I say, was aunty riled at the runaway knock?'

"'Oh, it was you, was it?'

"'Yes, it was me; I was gitting tired of waiting for yer. She's close, ain't she?'

"'Who? Your aunt?'

"'Yes; but I'm closer, I am. I could tell 'er somethink as 'd make 'er 'air stand on end.'

"'And you are going to tell it to me?'

"'Per'aps. If yer make it wuth my while.'

"'You shall have no reason to complain, Sophy. Is it about M. Felix?'

"'You wait till I've 'ad my tuck out.'

"Burning as he was with curiosity, our reporter wisely restrained his impatience. They had now arrived at the fried-potato shop, and Sophy stood before the open window with eager eyes. The potatoes were frizzling in the pan, and were being served out hot by a greasy Italian. His customers were of the very poorest sort, and most of them received the smoking hot potatoes in the street, and went away to eat them. You could purchase a half-penny's worth or a penny's worth the paper bags in which they were delivered being of different sizes. On the open slab in the window were pieces of fried plaice, tails, heads, and middles, the price varying according to the size. A few aristocratic customers were inside the shop, sitting upon narrow wooden benches, and eating away with an air of great enjoyment.

"'Don't they smell prime?' whispered Sophy.

"Our reporter assented, although the odor of fat which floated from the pan left, to the fastidious taste, something to be desired.

"'Will you eat your supper outside or in, Sophy?'

"Inside, old 'un,' said Sophy.

"They went into the shop and took their seats. There were no plates or knives or forks, but there was a plentiful supply of salt and pepper.

"'Can you manage without a plate?' asked our reporter.

"With her superior knowledge of the ways of this free-and-easy restaurant, Sophy replied, 'Plates be blowed!'

"'But you will certainly want a knife.'

"'No I shan't,' said Sophy, 'fingers was made before knives.'

"With two large middle slices of fried fish and a penny's worth of fried potatoes spread upon a piece of newspaper before her, Sophy fell to with a voracious appetite. In his position of host our reporter was compelled to make a sacrifice, and he therefore toyed with a small heap of fried potatoes, and put a piece occasionally into his mouth. His critical report is that they were not at all bad food; it was the overpowering smell of fat that discouraged this martyr to duty.

"'I say,' said Sophy, 'ain't yer going to 'ave some fried fish? Do 'ave some! You don't know 'ow good it is.'

"'I am eating only out of politeness, Sophy,' said our reporter, watching the child with wonder; she had disposed of her first batch and was now busy upon a second supply. 'I have not long had my dinner.'

"'Ain't we proud?' observed the happy girl. 'I like my dinner--when I can git it, old 'un--in the middle of the day, not in the middle of the night.'

"'You eat as if you were hungry, Sophy.'

"'I'm allus 'ungry. You try and ketch me when I ain't!'

"'Doesn't your aunt give you enough?'

"'She 'lowances me, and ses I mustn't over-eat myself. As if I could! I ses to 'er sometimes, "Give me a chance, aunt!" I ses; and she ups and ses she knows wot's good for me better than I do myself, and all the while she's eating and drinking till she's fit to bust. She's fond of her innards, is aunt. Never mind, it'll be my turn one day, you see if it won't. There, I'm done. Oh, don't you stare! I could eat a lot more, but there's stooed eels to come, I do like stooed eels, I do!'

"Our reporter had no reason to complain of Sophy's extravagance; though she had disposed of four slices of fried fish and two helpings of fried potatoes, his disbursement amounted to no more than tenpence half-penny. Upon leaving the shop Sophy again assumed the command, and conducted our reporter to the stewed-eel establishment, where she disposed of three portions, which the proprietor ladled out in very thick basins. The host of this magnificent entertainment was somewhat comforted to find that although fingers were made before knives (and presumably, therefore, before spoons), Sophy was provided with a very substantial iron spoon to eat her succulent food with. As in the fried-potato establishment there was a plentiful supply of salt and pepper, so here there was a plentiful supply of pepper and vinegar, of which Sophy liberally availed herself. At the end of her third basin Sophy raised her eyes heavenward and sighed ecstatically.

"'Have you had enough?' asked our reporter.

"'Enough for once,' replied Sophy, with a prudent eye to the future. 'I wouldn't call the Queen my aunt.'

"Our reporter did not ask why, Sophy's tone convincing him that the observation was intended to express a state of infinite content, and had no reference whatever to Mrs. Middlemore.

"'Now, Sophy,' he said, 'are you ready to tell me all you know?'

"'I'll tell yer a lot,' said Sophy, and if you ain't sapparized--well, there!'

"Another colloquialism, which our reporter perfectly understood.

"'What will your aunt say?' he asked--they had left the shop, and were walking side by side--'to your coming home late?'

"'Wot she likes,' replied Sophy, with a disdainful disregard of consequences. 'If she don't like it she may lump it. Don't frighten yerself; she's used to it by this time. Where are you going to take me?'

"Our reporter had settled this in his mind. 'To my rooms, where we can talk without interruption.'

"'Oh, but I say,' exclaimed Sophy, 'won't they stare!'

"'There will be no one to do that, Sophy, and you will be quite safe.'

"Sophy nodded, and kept step with him as well as she could. It was not easy, by reason of her boots being odd, and not only too large for her feet, but in a woful state of dilapidation. In one of the narrow streets through which they passed, a second-hand clothing shop was open, in the window of which were displayed some half-dozen pairs of children's boots. A good idea occurred to him.

"'Your boots are worn out, Sophy.'

"'There's 'ardly any sole to 'em,' remarked Sophy.

"'Would a pair of those fit you?'

"'Oh, come along. I don't want to be made game of.'

"'I am not doing so, Sophy,' said our reporter, slipping three half-crowns into her hand. 'Go in, and buy the nicest pair you can; and mind they fit you properly.'

"Sophy raised her eyes to his face, and our reporter observed, without making any remark thereon, that they were quite pretty eyes, large, and of a beautiful shade of brown, and now with a soft light in them. She went into the shop silently, and returned, radiant and grateful, shod as a human being ought to be.

"'Do yer like 'em?' she asked, putting one foot on the ledge of the shop window.

"'They look very nice,' he said. 'I hope they're a good fit?'

"'They're proper. 'Ere's yer change, and I'm ever so much obliged to yer.'

"The words were commonplace, but her voice was not. There was in it a note of tearful gratefulness which was abundant payment for an act of simple kindness. Utilitarians and political economists may smile at our statement that we owe the poor a great deal, and that but for them we should not enjoy some of the sweetest emotions by which the human heart can be stirred."

CHAPTER XIV.

SOPHY IMPARTS STRANGE NEWS TO THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON."

"The chambers occupied by our reporter are situated at the extreme river end of one of the streets leading from the Strand to the Embankment. They are at the top of the house, on the third floor, and a capacious bow-window in his sitting-room affords a good view of the river and the Embankment gardens. He describes his chambers as an ideal residence, and declares he would not exchange it for a palace. In daytime the view from his bow-window is varied and animated, in night-time the lights and shadows on the Thames are replete with suggestion. From this window he has drawn the inspiration for many admirable articles which have appeared in our columns, in which his play of fancy illumines his depiction of a busy city's life.

"He let himself in with his latch-key, and Sophy followed close on his heels up the silent stairs. On the third floor another latch-key admitted them to the privacy of his chambers.

"'It will be dark for a moment, Sophy,' he said; 'you are not frightened, I hope?'

"'Not a bit,' replied Sophy.

"It may not be unworthy of remark that she never again addressed him as 'old 'un, which he ascribed to the little incident of the purchase of the pair of boots. It had raised him to an altitude which rendered so familiar an appellation out of place.

"In less than a minute he had lit the gas in his sitting-room, and Sophy stood gazing around in wonder and delight. Our reporter is a gentleman of taste, no mere grub working from hand to mouth. He entered the ranks of journalism from choice, and possesses a private income which renders him independent of it; thus he is enabled to surround himself with luxuries which are out of the reach of the ordinary rank and file of his brother workers, who one and all have a good word for him because of the kindnesses they have on numerous occasions received at his hands.

"Sophy looked round on the books and pictures and valuable objects with which the room was literally packed, and her appreciation--little as she understood them--was expressed in her eyes.

"'This is my den, Sophy,' said our reporter. 'What do you think of it?'

"As he spoke he applied a lighted match to a couple of bachelor's wheels in the stove, and in an instant a cheerful fire was glowing.

"'Well, I never!' exclaimed Sophy. 'It's magic.'

"'No, Sophy, sober fact. Single life nowadays is filled with innumerable conveniences to keep a fellow from the path of matrimony. This little bachelor's wheel'--holding one up--'is a formidable foe to anxious mammas with marriageable daughters. But I am talking above you, Sophy; pardon the flight. Go to the window there; you will see the river from it.'

"He stood by her side while she gazed upon the wonderful sight, too little appreciated by those who are familiar with it. The moon was shining brightly, and the heavens were dotted with stars; long lines of lights were shining in the water, animated as it were with a mysterious spiritual life by the shifting currents of the river. It was at this moment that Sophy gave expression to a remarkable effort at grammar.

"'I say, 'ow 'igh the Thames are!'

"Our reporter was amused, and did not correct her. 'Yes, Sophy, the river has reached an unusual height. And now, little one, as time is flying, let us proceed to business.'

"Sophy, brought down to earth, retired from the window, and stood by the table, at which our reporter seated himself. He could not prevail upon her to take a chair.

"'I can talk better standing,' she said. 'Before I tell what I got to tell, I'd like to know wot aunt said of me when you and 'er was up in Mr. Felix's rooms this morning. You know. When I'd jest got out of bed.'

"'Nothing very particular, Sophy,' said our reporter, 'except that you were a sound sleeper.'

"'You arksed 'er that?' said Sophy, shrewdly.

"'Yes, You see, Sophy, I was naturally anxious to learn all I could of the strange disappearance of M. Felix's body. It was there last night when you and your aunt went to bed; it was not there this morning when you got up.'

"'Aunt couldn't tell yer much.'

"'She could tell me nothing. She went to bed, and though she has passed bad nights this week----'

"'Oh, she sed that, did she?'

"'Yes.'

"'Meaning that she don't sleep much?'

"'Yes, that undoubtedly was her meaning.'

"'Well, go on, please,' said Sophy.

"'Though she has passed bad nights lately, it was a fact that last night she slept very soundly. Then the idea occurred to me to come down and ask you whether you had heard anything in the night--because, you know, Sophy, that M. Felix's body could not have disappeared from the house without some sound being made. We do not live in an age of miracles. The body could not have flown up the chimney, or made its way through thick walls. There is only one way it could have been got out, and that was through the street door.'

"'Right you are,' said Sophy.

"'Now, Sophy, I am sure you are a sensible little girl, and that I can open my mind freely to you.'

"'You can that. I ain't much to look at, but I ain't quite a fool neither.'

"'I am certain you are not. I cannot tell you how deeply I am interested in this mysterious affair, and how much I desire to get at the bottom of it. Whoever assists me to do this will not repent it, and somehow or other I have an idea that you can help me. If you can, I will be a real good friend to you.'

"You've been that already, the best I ever sor. I took you in once this morning, and I ain't going to do it agin.'

"'How did you take me in, Sophy?'

"'I told yer I didn't wake up last night, didn't I?'

"'You did, Sophy.'

"'And that I didn't 'ear no noise?'

"'Yes.'

"'They was crammers. I did wake up in the middle of the night, and I did 'ear a noise.'

"'Sophy,' said our reporter, repressing his excitement as well as he could, 'I feel that you are going to do me a good turn.'

"'Aunt's a awful liar,' said Sophy.

"'Is she?'

"'She ses she sleeps light, and I sleep sound. It's all the other way. She goes to bed and drops off like the snuff of a candle, and she snores like a pig. I sleep on and off like. I don't let aunt know it, 'cause I don't want to be rushed out of bed till I've a mind to git up, so I pretend to be fast asleep, and I let her shake me as much as she likes. I do not lay snuggled up; and I was laying like that last night all the while aunt was snoring fit to shake the 'ouse down, when I 'eerd wot sounded like somethink movin' upstairs. I wasn't scared--yer don't know Sophy if yer think that. "I'll see what it is," thinks I, "if I die for it." So I creeps out of bed, and stands quiet a bit in the dark, without moving.'

"'You are a brave little girl, Sophy, and I am proud of you.'

"'I stands listening and wondering, and the sound of somethink moving upstairs goes on. Moving quite soft, sir, jest as if it didn't want to be 'eerd. "Blowed if I don't go up," thinks I, "and find out wot it's all about." I wouldn't light a candle, 'cause that might wake aunt, and I wanted to 'ave it all to myself. Well, sir, I creeps to the door in my bare feet and opens it, and goes into the passage. Sure enough, I ain't deceived; there is somethink on the stairs. Up I creeps, as soft as a cat, feeling my way by the bannisters, till I git to the passage that leads to the street-door. Then somethink 'appens to me that upsets the applecart. I ketches my toe agin a nail, and I screams out. But that's nothink to what follers. A 'and claps itself on my mouth, and somebody ses, "If yer move or speak out loud I'll kill yer!" If I sed I wasn't frightened at that I'd be telling yer the biggest crammer of the lot, but I pulls myself together, and I whispers under my breath, "Wot is it? Burgulers?" "Yes," ses the voice, "burgulers, as'll 'ave yer blood if yer don't do as yer told." "I'll do everythink yer want," I ses, "if yer don't 'urt me. My blood won't do yer a bit o' good; it ain't much good to me as I knows on. Is there more than one of yer?" "There's a band of us," ses the voice. "Who's downstairs?" "Only aunt," I ses. "Ain't there nobody else in the 'ouse?" arsks the voice. "Not a blessed soul," ses I, "excep' the corpse on the fust floor." "Take yer oath on it," ses the voice. "I 'ope I may never move from this spot alive," ses I, "if it ain't the truth I'm telling of yer!"

"Now jest listen to me," ses the voice. "You do as yer told, or you'll be chopped into ten thousan' little bits. Set down on the stairs there, and shut yer eyes, and don't move or speak till you 'ear a whistle; it won't be a loud 'un, but loud enough for you to 'ear. Then you git up, and shut the street-door softly--you'll find it open--and lock it and put up the chain. Then go downstairs without speaking a word, and if yer aunt's awake and arsks yer wot's the matter, say nothink; if she's asleep, don't wake her. When she gits up in the morning don't say nothink to 'er, and don't answer no questions about us. You understand all that?" "Every word on it," I ses. "And yer'll do as yer ordered?" ses the voice. "Yes, I will," I ses. "Mind yer do," ses the voice, "or somethink orful 'll 'appen to yer. You'll be watched the 'ole day long, and if yer let on, look out for yerself. Now set yerself down on the stairs." I did, sir, and though I was froze almost to a stone, I never moved or spoke. It was that dark that I couldn't see a inch before my nose, even when I opened my eyes slyly, but I couldn't 'elp 'earing wot was going on. There was a creeping, and a bumping, and the sound of the street-door being unlocked and the chain being took down. Then everythink was quiet agin inside, and all I 'eerd was a policeman in the street outside, trying the doors as he passed on. When he'd got well out of the street, as near as I could tell, the street-door was opened without as much as a creak, and in another minute I 'eerd a low whistle. Then I got up; it was all a job, sir, 'cause I was cramped, but I managed it, and I crep' to the street-door, and shut it, and locked it, and put the chain up. I was glad enough to do it, I can tell yer, and I felt my way downstairs and got into bed. Aunt 'adn't as much as moved, and nobody knew nothink but me and the burgulers. That's all I know about last night.'

"It was enough, in all conscience; a strange story indeed, and related by such a common little waif as Sophy. Our reporter had not interrupted her once, but allowed her to proceed, in her own quaint and original way, to the end.

"'And you have told nobody but me, Sophy?' asked our reporter.

"'It ain't crossed my lips till this minute,' replied Sophy. 'I don't know wot I might 'ave done if I 'adn't seed you this morning. You spoke civil and nice to me, and I took to yer in a minute. Yer might 'ave knocked me down with a feather when I 'eered arter you'd gone wot the burgulers' little game was, and it come to me in a jiffy that you'd like to know wot 'ad become of Mr. Felix's body. "I'll wait till I see 'im agin," ses I to myself, "and then I'll tell 'im all about it." If you 'adn't come to aunt's to-night I should 'ave come to you.'

"'I am infinitely obliged to you,' said our reporter, 'We'll keep the matter to ourselves at present, and if there's any reward offered for the recovery of the body, or for any information that may lead to its recovery, it shall be yours, Sophy, every farthing of it.'

"Sophy's eyes glistened as she said, 'If they arsks me, then, why I adn't spoke before, I'll tell 'em I was too frightened by wot the burguler sed he'd do to me if I sed anythink about it.'

"'That excuse will do nicely. Did you hear the sound of many feet?'

"'I think it was only one man as was moving about,' replied Sophy, after a little consideration.

"'How do we account, then, for there being more than one man concerned in this singular robbery?'

"'Per'aps there wasn't more than one,' suggested Sophy quickly, 'and in course he 'ad to carry the body. It couldn't walk of itself, being dead.'

"'Quite so, my young logician--a compliment Sophy. Before you put up the chain, did you look out into the street?'

"'I didn't dare to.'

"'Then you don't know if there was a cab or a cart waiting at the door?'

"'I don't, sir.'

"'Did you hear the sound of wheels moving away after the door was secured?'

"'No, I didn't. Everythink was as still as still can be, inside and out.'

"'There must have been a vehicle of some sort, however, stationed near. A man couldn't carry a dead body through the streets very far without being caught. Perhaps he would not allow it to stand too near your aunt's house for fear of suspicion being excited. The natural conclusion is that a growler was engaged, and that it walked slowly to and fro in a given direction till he came up to it.'

"'That must 'ave been it, sir.'

"'If I give you five shillings, Sophy, can you take care of it?'

"'Rather! But you've done enough for me to-night, sir.'

"'Not half enough, my girl. Here's the money.'

"From the expression on Sophy's face she would have liked to resist the temptation, but it was too strong for her, so she took the two half-crowns, saying gleefully as she tied them in her money-box, I shall soon 'ave enough to buy wot I want.'

"'What is it you desire so particularly, Sophy? A new frock?'

"'No,' she replied. 'I want a pair of tights.'

"'In heaven's name, what for?'

"'To see 'ow I look in 'em.' Sophy glanced down at her legs, then stood straight up and walked a few steps this way and a few steps that, in glowing anticipation of the delights in store for her.

"'You would like to be an actress, Sophy?'

"'Wouldn't I? Jest! I can do a lot of steps, sir. Would you like to see me dance?'

"'Not to-night, Sophy,' said our reporter, thinking of the proprieties; 'I haven't time, and you had best get back as quick as you can to your aunt. I'll see you part of the way. I don't know what excuse you will give her for being absent so long.'

"'Let me alone for that. It ain't the fust time, and won't be the last.'

"'Well, come along, my girl.'

"They left the house without being observed, and our reporter saw Sophy as far as St. Martin's Lane, and then bade her good night. Before returning to his chambers he walked in the direction of the Embankment with the intention of taking a stroll there. It was a favorite promenade of his on fine nights, and on this night in particular he desired it, in order that he might think in the quietude of that grand avenue of the information he had gained. Elated as he was at the progress he was making in the elucidation of the mystery, he could not but be conscious that every new discovery he had made seemed to add to its difficulty. What he wanted now was a tangible clew, however slight, which he could follow up in a practical way. Little did he dream that everything was working in his favor, and that time and circumstance were leading him to the clew he was so anxious to possess.

"There was one thing in the story related to him by Sophy which greatly perplexed him. The child could not have assisted him to a satisfactory solution, for he was satisfied that she had disclosed all she knew of the events of the night, and he therefore had made no mention to her of the perplexing point. It was this. Sophy had told him that while she was sitting on the stairs with her eyes closed she heard the man unlock the street door and take the chain down. That being so, the question remained--how had he got into the house? Scarcely through the street door, for it was hardly likely that, having got in through it, he would have locked it and put the chain up, and thus created for himself a serious obstacle to his escape in the event of his being discovered before he had accomplished his work. Our reporter could think of no satisfactory answer to this question, and it had to take its place among other questions to which, in the present aspect of the case, no answers could be found.

"He had turned on to the Embankment by way of Westminster Bridge, and passing under the arch of the Charing Cross Railway bridge, was proceeding onward toward Waterloo when he saw something that caused him to quicken his steps in its direction. Fate or chance was about to place in his hands the link for which he was yearning--a link but for which the mystery of M. Felix might forever have remained unravelled."

CHAPTER XV.

A SINGULAR ADVENTURE ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT.

"He saw before him, at a distance of some thirty yards, as nearly as he could judge, the figure of a woman standing upon the stone ramparts of the Embankment, close to Cleopatra's Needle. The light of a lamp was shining upon her form, which was stooping forward in the direction of the river.

"It had already been mentioned that the tide on this night was unusually high, and our reporter was apprehensive, from the position of the woman, that she was contemplating suicide. If so she had chosen a favorable moment to put her sad design into execution, for there was no person near enough to prevent her had she been expeditious. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but down before her on the rolling river. Our reporter hastened his steps, in fear least he should be too late to arrest her purpose.

"Unseen by them another man was approaching the woman, but not so rapidly as our reporter. This was a policeman who had emerged from the shadows of the Waterloo steps on the opposite side, and as, when he started, he was nearer to her than our reporter, they both reached her at the same moment. Each becoming aware of the other's presence, they would have shown recognition of it had not their attention been diverted by a sufficiently startling proceeding on the part of the woman. Still unaware that there were witnesses of her movements, she leaned forward at a perilous angle, and with all her strength threw some heavy object into the water. The force she used destroyed her balance, and she would have fallen into the river had not the policeman and our reporter laid violent hands upon her, and dragged her from her dangerous position on the ramparts.

"'Just in time, thank God!' said our reporter.

"'Just too late,' retorted the policeman. 'A moment sooner, and we should have saved her baby.'

"'Her baby!' exclaimed our reporter.

"'Yes. Didn't you hear the poor thing give a scream?'

"'No.'

"'You must be hard of hearing. First a sob, then a scream. Now, then, own up!'

"He shook the woman roughly, but obtained no response from her. She was cowering to the flagstones, her face hidden in her hands.

"Our reporter is not the stamp of man to stand idly by while the life of a human being is in danger. He stripped off his coat and waistcoat with the speed of lightning.

"'That's your sort,' said the policeman. 'I can't swim; you can.'

"'Not a stroke,' said our reporter, and was about to plunge into the river when the woman sprang up and caught his arm.

"'For God's sake,' she said, trembling with agitation, 'do not risk your life for nothing.'

"'Your baby is drowning,' cried our reporter. 'Let me go!' He strove vainly to extricate himself from her clutch.

"'You shall not, you shall not!' said the woman. 'As Heaven is my judge, I have done no wrong. I have no baby; I came out alone. You are a gentleman. By all that is sacred I speak the truth!'

"'The policeman says he heard a scream.'

"'He is mistaken. I beg you to believe me. Oh, unhappy woman that I am? Have I not one friend in all the wide world?'

"It was not alone her words that carried conviction with them, it was her deep distress, and the evident sincerity with which she spoke. Moreover, now that our reporter had the opportunity of observing her closely, he saw that she was not of a common stamp. There was a refinement in her voice and manner which impressed him.

"'I believe you,' he said, and slowly put on his waistcoat and coat.

"'The chance is lost,' said the policeman, with a scornful smile; 'the poor thing is dead by this time. A put-up job, my man. I wasn't born yesterday.'

"He had noted the dialogue between the woman and our reporter, some portion of which had escaped him, and his suspicions were aroused. He was not entirely without justification. Seeing upon one side of her a policeman, and on the other side a gentleman, the woman, being undoubtedly of the better class, had gravitated naturally toward our reporter. Thus at once was established, without premeditation, a conflict of interests in the eyes of the policeman. He represented the Law, which is invariably more suspicious than sympathetic. Opposing him were two strangers who might be in collusion. Hunting in couples, one of either sex, was a common trick of the criminal classes, with which every policeman is familiar. The officer with whom we are dealing was not of an analytic turn; he jumped rather at conclusions than motives; therefore, he pronounced the verdict first and examined the evidence afterward, or left it to others to examine. All that he was honestly concerned in was the performance of his duty.

"'Did you not hear her say,' said our reporter, 'that she was alone, and no baby with her?'

"'I heard something of the sort,' replied the policeman, candidly, believing it is another matter. 'I believe in my own ears. Are you a confederate of hers?'

"Our reporter laughed, and his laugh strengthened the policeman's suspicions and excited his ire.

"'Perhaps you will both deny,' he said, 'that something was thrown into the river.'

"'I certainly heard a splash,' said our reporter, and he looked at the woman for confirmation, but she said nothing.

"'We'll fish it up, whatever it is,' said the policeman. 'If it isn't a baby--which I say it is, as I heard it cry--it's stolen property. Pretty nigh as bad.' So saying, he blew his whistle.

"The sound terrified the woman; she clung to our reporter.

"'What need is there to summon assistance?' asked our reporter.

"'I know what I'm up to,' replied the policeman. 'I'll trouble you to come to the police station.

"'I intend to do so. Are you going to charge this lady?'

"A grateful sob escaped the woman, produced by the reference to her as a lady no less than by the considerate tone in which it was made.

"'If you're particularly anxious to know,' said the policeman, 'I am going to charge you both.'

"Much amused, our reporter asked, 'What do you charge her with?'

"'First, with drowning her baby; next, with attempting to commit suicide.' He paused in the middle of the sentence to blow his whistle again.

"'And what is your charge against me?'

"'Aiding and abetting. Come,' he said to the woman, putting his hand under her chin and attempting to raise her face to the light, 'let me have a look at you. A hundred to one I've seen you before.'

"He was so rough that the woman cried out.

"'Be very careful,' said our reporter, in a warning tone. 'If you use violence it will go against you.'

"'It will go against you,' retorted the policeman, who was losing his discretion.

"'That is to be seen,' said our reporter, gravely, 'when we reach the police-station. Meanwhile, you are acting outside your right in compelling this lady to look you in the face.'

"'Very well,' said the policeman, surlily, beginning to be shaken by the temperate conduct of our reporter, 'I hear assistance coming; I'll wait.'

"The measured tread of another policeman was heard in the near distance. Our reporter stood still, perfectly calm and self-possessed.

"The woman, now sobbing bitterly, drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and a piece of paper, which she undesignedly and unwittingly drew forth with it, fluttered to the ground. Only the sharp eyes of our reporter saw it, and he stooped and picked it up. He glanced at it without attracting the attention of the policeman, and what he saw both greatly astonished him and influenced his future course with respect to the woman. He felt instinctively that he held in his hand a thread, however slight and slender, in the Mystery of Monsieur Felix.

"Our readers will remember that in certain editions of the Evening Moon we inserted an advertisement referring to the death of M. Felix, but lest the precise terms of that advertisement should be forgotten by them we reprint it here, to refresh their memory. The advertisement ran as follows:

"'The Strange Death of M. Felix, in Gerard Street, Soho. Persons who had private or other interviews with M. Felix between the hours of eight in the morning and twelve at night on the 16th of January, or who are in possession of information which will throw light upon the circumstances surrounding his death, are urgently requested to call at the office of the Evening Moon, at any time after the appearance of this advertisement. Liberal rewards will be paid to all who give such information, and the best legal assistance is offered by the proprietors of this journal, entirely at their own expense, to all, who may desire it and who are in any way interested in M. Felix's death.'

"Up to the present time the advertisement had been productive of no result of any value. A great many persons had called at our office respecting it, but they knew nothing that was likely to be of assistance to us; their aim was to obtain money without giving an equivalent for it. That the step we took, however, was not useless was proved by what our reporter now held in his hand. It was the advertisement, cut carefully from our journal, pasted upon a sheet of note-paper, and framed, as it were, in clear lines of red ink. Surely it was not without reason that the woman had been thus painstaking with this extract. Surely there must be some connecting link between her and M. Felix, whose death and subsequent disappearance were still enveloped in mystery. Thus thought our reporter the moment his eyes fell upon the advertisement.

"The approach of the second policeman afforded him an opportunity of speaking to her concerning it. While the two policemen were talking, the second asking for information, the first giving it, he exchanged a few words with the woman.

"'You have dropped something,' he said.

"She put her hand hastily in her pocket and discovered her loss.

"'I have it,' said our reporter.

"'It is only a piece of paper,' said the woman; 'give it back to me.'

"'You had better let me keep it,' he said. 'You will be charged and searched at the police-station----'

"She interrupted him, saying, in a pitiful voice, 'Will they not let me go--oh will they not let me go?'

"'They will not,' replied our reporter, 'and they are not to be blamed. They are merely doing their duty. You have acted in a way which throws suspicion upon you----'

"'I have done nothing wrong,' she said, interrupting him again; and that she regarded him as being well disposed toward her was proved by her speaking in a low tone, notwithstanding her anguish of mind, 'indeed, indeed I have not!'

"'I believe you; they will not. I will not ask you what you have done; if you confide in me it must be of your own free will; but you may truly believe that I am desirous and willing to be your friend, your sincere and earnest friend. Something more; I may be able to assist you in a manner you little dream of. The paper you have dropped is an advertisement from the Evening Moon, referring to the death of M. Felix.' She shivered at the name, raised her eyes, and dropped them again. This gave him an opportunity of observing that they were of a peculiar and beautiful tinge of blue, and the soft pathetic light they shed touched him deeply. 'Be patient a moment,' he continued; 'I must have a little private talk with you before we get to the police station, and I think I can manage it.' He had seen and recognized the face of the second policeman, who now, as he came forward, greeted him respectfully. 'Your comrade here,' said our reporter, jocosely, 'believes that I am engaged in some unlawful conspiracy. You know who I am. Set his mind at rest.'

"It happened fortunately that this second policeman and our reporter were old acquaintances, and had spent many an hour together in the still watches of the night. A few words whispered in the ear of the first policeman settled his doubts.

"'I beg your pardon, sir,' he said, apologetically, 'but mistakes will happen in the best regulated families.' A remark which denoted that the worthy and zealous officer was not deficient in a sense of humor.

"'A mistake has happened here,' said our reporter. 'I presume that you do not now intend to charge me with aiding and abetting.'

"'Not a bit of it, sir. It was only my joke.'

"'You have a queer way of airing your jokes, but I cannot reasonably complain; you had grounds for suspicion. And now about this lady.'

"'Don't ask me to neglect my duty, sir. I must take her to the station.'

"'She denies that she has done anything wrong.'

"'They all do that, sir.'

"'Do you persist in your charges against her?'

"'Well, sir, about the baby I won't be sure now; it's as likely as not I was mistaken in thinking I heard it scream; but we'll try to prove the rights of the thing. I don't give way, sir, in my belief that she attempted to commit suicide.'

"'I am a properly qualified solicitor,' said our reporter, 'and I shall appear for her, and shall also offer myself as an eye-witness of the affair. I shall support her in her statement that she had no intention of committing suicide.'

"'I can't help that, sir,' said the policeman, with respectful pertinacity, 'I can only report what I saw, and I must do my duty. She nearly fell into the river; I hope you won't deny that, sir.'

"'I will not deny it. You are speaking now quite fairly and temperately, and I hope to bring you round to my view.'

"'To let her off, sir?'

"'Yes.'

"'I can't do it, sir.'

"'But listen to reason. She accidentally lost her balance----'

"'And,' interposed the policeman, 'would have fallen in had it not been for us.'

"'That does not establish a charge of an attempt at suicide.'

"'It must be looked into, sir,' said the policeman, stiffly.

"'It seems to me,' said the second policeman, 'that it all depends upon what it was she threw into the river.'

"Without asking permission our reporter stepped aside with the woman, and spoke privately to her. She had listened to the conversation in an agonized state of mind, turning her eyes alternately to her accuser and her defender with the air of one who was being hunted down. Helpless, despairing innocence was depicted in her face, and the favorable impression she had produced upon our reporter was strengthened. Had she not in his belief been connected in a manner yet to be explained with the Mystery of M. Felix he would have been inclined to champion her cause, and because of this belief he would have ranked himself on her side even if he had supposed that the charges brought against her were true. Without a shade of doubt she was a lady; her attire, although it bore no indications of worldly prosperity, her manners, her speech, unmistakably proclaimed the fact. She was apparently a little over forty years of age, and there were traces of long-endured suffering on her features. In her youth she must have possessed remarkable beauty, which even now could not fail in attracting attention; her figure was slight and graceful, her movements gentle and refined. These signs rendered her appearance at such an hour and under such circumstances sufficiently perplexing, but our reporter was satisfied to trust to the future for a satisfactory explanation of what at present, to a vulgar mind, was full of suspicion.

"In stating that he was a properly qualified solicitor our reporter stated a simple fact. He had served articles in a solicitor's office, and had abandoned that profession for one which possessed greater attractions for him.

"It occurred to him to test her, and he addressed her in French. She replied to him in the same language, but with an accent which put his to the blush. We shall, however, give what passed between them in our native tongue, for the sake of perfect clearness, and in the interests of those of our readers who may not be familiar with any other language than their own.

"'You have not deceived me?' he asked.

"'Indeed, indeed, I have not,' she replied, earnestly. 'I have spoken the truth. You will not desert me?'

"'I will not. You may count upon me as a sincere friend; but you must confide in me implicitly. I will serve you honestly and faithfully. You have met with misfortunes?'

"'Great misfortunes. I am a most unhappy woman!'

"'Have you any other friends in London in whom you would confide in preference to me? If you have and will give me their names and addresses, I will bring them to you.'

"'I have no other friend in this city in whom I can confide.'

"'Not one who can assist you?'

"'Not one.'

"'Are you quite unknown here?'

"'Yes.'

"'But surely you are not entirely alone?'

"She made an effort to speak, but words failed her; she raised her imploring eyes to his face.

"'Strive to master your agitation,' he continued, 'and bend your mind upon the position in which you stand. You heard what the policeman said?'

"'Yes.'

"'Will you tell them what it was you threw into the river?'

"'I cannot tell them. It might injure--it might ruin me.'

"'Was it property of your own?'

"'It was.'

"'To which no person but yourself has a claim?'

"'It was my own; no person but myself has a claim to it.'

"'The loss or recovery of which would injure no one?'

"'No one but myself.'

"'Now, consider. You will be taken to the police station and charged.'

"'But they will let me go until to-morrow?'

"'They will not. If I, a stranger to you, offered bail, it would not be accepted. You will be locked up till the morning.'

"'My God!' cried the woman. 'What will become of her--oh, what will become of her?'

"'Of her? Then you are not entirely alone in this city?'

"'I have a daughter,' she said, in a low, despairing tone. 'She will be distracted if I do not return to her to-night.'

"'As I have explained to you, that is out of the question. If you are not unwilling, I will go to her and explain matters.'

"'No, no!' cried the woman. 'She must not know the truth! What have I done that this misfortune should fall upon me?'

"'I feel deeply for you. If I knew how I could inspire you with confidence in me I should be glad. Look at me and say whether you cannot trust implicitly in me.'

"They gazed at each other in silence for many moments. The policemen, standing apart, did not interrupt them, and as they spoke in French, could not have understood if they had heard what was passing. The woman put out her hand timidly.

"'I will trust you,' she said. 'It may be that the good Lord has sent me a friend when I most needed one. By the memory of all that is dearest to you, do not betray me!'

"'I swear solemnly that I will not.'

"The pressure of her hand seemed to instil faith in her. All the earnestness of her soul was expressed in the words she now spoke.

"'I give into your charge what is infinitely more precious than life--my honor, and my dear daughter's happiness. May Heaven so deal by you as you deal by me!'

"'I am content,' said our reporter.

"At this juncture the first policeman thought he had allowed sufficient time for a decision.

"'Time presses, sir,' he said.

"'Then we had better go to the station,' said our reporter, 'if you persist in your ridiculous charge.'

"'There is nothing else for me to do, sir,' said the policeman.

"'You have no objection to my walking by the side of this lady, keeping yourself out of hearing. I wish to receive instructions from her.'

"'Give me your word, sir, that there will be no attempt at escape.'

"'There shall not be.'

"'It's all right,' said the second policeman, 'you may take the gentleman's word for a good deal more than that. You won't want me.'

"He left them, and our reporter and the woman, preceded by the policeman, who occasionally looked over his shoulder to see that they were following him, walked to the Bow Street Police Station."

CHAPTER XVI.

AT THE BOW STREET POLICE STATION.

"'We have but little time for uninterrupted conversation,' said our reporter, still speaking in French, 'and must make the best of it. At the station we shall not be private, as we are now. An explanation is due from me first. I am, as you have heard, a properly qualified solicitor, and can therefore defend you legally, although at present I see little to defend. But the fact that I am your authorized legal adviser should strengthen your confidence in me, for whatever information of a secret nature I receive from you I am bound professionally to respect. You see, therefore, that your interests are safe in my hands.'

"'I am truly grateful to you,' said the woman.

"'Intended for the Law,' continued our reporter, 'I do not follow it as a profession. I am a journalist, engaged upon the Evening Moon. You start. The fact of my being so engaged should still further increase your confidence in me. Now, perhaps, you can understand why I am so much interested in the advertisement cut from our paper which you carry about with you. May I accept it that you have read what has been published in the Evening Moon concerning the death and strange disappearance of M. Felix?'

"'I have read all that has appeared in the paper,' said the woman, who was paying the closest attention to what he was saying,

"'Thank you for the frank admission. To my hands has been entrusted the task of clearing up this strange affair, and of bringing it forward to the full light of day. That is only a portion of my mission. I have taken it upon myself to so sift the matter to the bottom, that, if any innocent person has been wronged, his innocence shall be made clear, and also to punish the guilty. Where there is mystery there is generally crime, and where there is crime the presumption is that innocent beings have been brought to sorrow. Whether right Or wrong, I have the firmest conviction that there is some story of wrong-doing underlying this mystery, and if I am right--which time and good fortune can alone establish--this wrong-doing must have inflicted suffering upon innocent persons. In opening my mind to you upon these issues I may be, in your estimation, speaking at random of details of which you are ignorant, and indeed of details which exist only in my imagination, and have no foundation in fact; but I take the chance of that, believing that no harm can be done by a perfectly open confession of the motives which are urging me on in the elucidation of a mystery which has caused, and still is causing, a great deal of excitement. You will now understand why the discovery surprised me that you should have taken the trouble to so carefully preserve the advertisement which slipped from your pocket. It would scarcely have been done by one whom it did not in some way concern, and it remains to you to enlighten me upon this point. Let me assure you that the advertisement was inserted in good faith, and that its terms will be scrupulously observed. Legal assistance is offered, and will be given, and money will be spent if any good purpose can be served by it. That is all I have time to say in explanation of the interest, to you in all probability the singular interest, I have taken in our meeting to-night. The whole of this evening I have been engaged in following up a clew connected with the disappearance of the body of M. Felix, of which, as you read the Evening Moon, you are doubtless aware.'

"'Yes,' said the woman, 'I have read of it.'

"'I am on the track, and I venture to affirm that I shall eventually succeed in my purpose. I have already more than one ally. May I hope that I have gained another?'

"'I do not know,' said the woman, and though they were walking now through unlighted spaces and he could not see her face, our reporter divined from her broken tones that she was crying. 'I cannot say. All is dark before me; there is not a star in the future to light me on my way.'

"'Do not give up hope,' said our reporter. 'I am by your side to help you. You and your daughter, two women, alone in London as I understand, without a friend, can do very little, but an earnest, willing man, who has influence and means to back him up, may do much.'

"In his sincere sympathy our reporter pressed the woman's arm, and she uttered an exclamation of pain.

"Have I hurt you?' he asked, hurriedly.

"'My arm has been injured,' replied the woman, biting her lip so that she should not repeat the cry; 'it has been cut to the bone.'

"'I am very sorry. Is it your left arm?'

"'Yes.'

"'Was it recently done?--but I beg your pardon for questioning you so closely.'

"'You have the right to question me. It was done a few days ago.'

"'You are unfortunate in more ways than one.'

"'Truly, truly,' sighed the woman. 'Your voice, your words are kind, but I can think of nothing but my dear child. She is waiting for me, expecting me, listening for my footsteps on the stairs. If I could escape--if I could get away unseen!'

"'You must not dream of it; you would plunge yourself into deeper trouble; and my word is pledged.'

"'Yes, yes, I forgot; I am ungrateful.'

"'I will do all I can for you at the Police Station; if it is possible, you shall in a few minutes go to your daughter; but I must not disguise from you the chances are very small.'

"'But you will try--you will try?'

"'Yes, I will try; I will stand bail for you; I can do no more just now.'

"'You have done much, more than I can repay. If they are cruel enough to detain me, how long shall I have to wait?'

"'Till to-morrow morning. You will be brought up before a magistrate.'

"'It is a terrible disgrace, a terrible, terrible disgrace! But they cannot punish me if I have done nothing wrong?'

"'No, they cannot punish you unless they can prove something against you which will render you liable.'

"'Can they upon suspicion?'

"'Upon mere suspicion, no.'

"'When I appear before the magistrate, will you be there?'

"'You may rely upon me. I shall be there to represent you legally, as I am willing now to assist you privately. We are near the station. Have you nothing more to say to me?'

"'Did you tell me that I should be searched at the station, or is it only my fear?'

"'It is almost certain you will be searched.'

"'They must find nothing upon me; they must not know who I am, or my daughter's happiness is wrecked.'

"Hastily and stealthily she extracted from her pocket a key, a purse and a handkerchief, and slipped them into his hands. As hastily and stealthily he slipped them into his own pocket. The policeman had not observed the proceeding.

"'Will you not require you handkerchief?' asked our reporter.

"'I must do without it. My initials are worked upon it, and it might lead to my identification. They must not, they must not know!'

"This remark would have seriously disturbed our reporter if he had not made up his mind to believe thoroughly, for the time being, everything the woman told him, and to leave it to the future to decide whether she was or was not deceiving him.

"'Should I be detained,' said the woman, 'you will go to my daughter and assure her I am in no danger?'

"'I will go with pleasure.'

"'You will not wait till morning? You will go at once?'

"'I will go straight from the station.'

"'Heaven reward you! Believe a suffering, much-wronged woman, sir, your confidence is not misplaced.'

"They had not time to exchange another word; they were at the station door.

"The Inspector was within, taking the night charges, and our reporter saw with satisfaction that it was an officer with whom he was acquainted.

"'Good-evening, Mr. Jealous,' he said.

"Inspector Jealous looked up. 'Hallo,' he said, 'what brings you here?'

"'I come on behalf of this lady,' replied our reporter, 'against whom a policeman on duty on the Thames Embankment has a groundless charge to make.'

"The Inspector's eyes wandered from our reporter to the lady. The policeman came forward and laid his charge in a temperate manner. Inspector Jealous listened in silence.

"'I thought at first,' said the policeman, 'that it was a child she had thrown into the river, but the gentleman here thinks the other way, and he is as likely to be right as I am. Of her attempt at suicide I am certain.'

"'That is a distinct charge,' said Inspector Jealous, dipping his pen in the ink. 'The bundle, whatever it is, can, I dare say, be recovered.' He called a constable, and gave him some whispered instructions; after which the man left the office. 'You can join him presently on the Embankment. Do you know the woman?' Pinned to formula, Inspector Jealous ignored our reporter's reference to her as a lady.

"'Look up,' said our reporter to the woman; 'you have nothing to be ashamed of.'

"Thus assured and comforted the woman raised her face, so that everyone in the office could see it clearly. Tears were hanging on her eyelids, and there was a piteous expression upon the trembling mouth.

"'I don't know her,' said the policeman, honestly.

"The constables in the office craned their necks, then shook their heads.

"'She's no better than she ought to be! She's no better than I am! I'm as good as her any day of the week! Go to blazes, the lot of yer!'

"The interruption came from a tipsy woman sitting on a bench. Inspector Jealous made a slight motion with his head, and the tipsy creature was taken away. Then Inspector Jealous turned to our reporter.

"'I have nothing to say against the constable making the charge,' said our reporter; 'he has performed his duty conscientiously, only he is mistaken. I was an eyewitness of the affair, and I say that there was nothing thrown in the river that the lady had not a right to throw into it--the property being her own--and that she did not attempt to commit suicide. Under these circumstances I trust you will not subject her to the indignity of being locked up. She will appear in the morning; I will be her recognizance.'

"Inspector Jealous nodded his head, and began to dissect.

"'What was in the bundle?' he asked of our reporter.

"'I have told you,' replied our reporter, feeling himself immediately at a disadvantage; 'her own property.'

"'What was its nature?'

"Manifestly this was a question which our reporter could not answer.

"'You must excuse my asking,' said the Inspector, 'how you come to know it was her property?'

"'She told me as much.'

"This time, instead of nodding his head, Inspector Jealous shook it.

"'I am afraid I cannot accept that. What is her name?'

"Another question which our reporter could not answer.

"'Where does she live?' pursued the logical and inexorable Inspector.

"Our reporter felt the ground slipping from under him. These two or three simple questions were like sledge-hammer blows, and he was staggered.

"'Surely,' he said, lamely parrying, 'you do not question my honesty in the matter?'

"'Not for a moment,' said Inspector Jealous, with perfect good temper, 'but you must see yourself how it stands. Here is a direct charge made----'

"'And denied,' interposed our reporter.

"'Exactly,' assented Inspector Jealous; 'but it is usual, you know, to deny such charges, and the authority to decide which side is right is not vested in me. There is not only the charge of attempted suicide, but there is that bundle that was thrown into the river. I am very sorry, but----'

"He did not finish the sentence, but there was no misunderstanding his meaning.

"'You must submit,' said our reporter to the woman, and then turned to Inspector Jealous. 'I may have a few private words with her, I suppose, out of hearing of the officers present?'

"'Certainly,' replied Inspector Jealous, 'after I have entered the charge; and although I shall be compelled to detain her here, I promise to make her as comfortable as possible for the night.'

"'Thank you,' said our reporter; 'I was about to ask you to do so.'

"Only one charge was entered in the book, that of attempted suicide, the constable's suspicions as to the bundle the woman threw into the river being deemed of too vague a nature to frame an accusation upon.

"'Your name?' asked the Inspector of the woman.

"At this question she was seized with a sudden trembling; her white face grew whiter; her hands wandered feebly, aimlessly around, and had it not been for the support afforded her by our reporter, who held her up, she might have fallen insensible to the ground.

"'Do not give way,' he whispered, 'think of your daughter.'"

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

"These words strengthened her, and she drew herself up.

"'Your name?' again asked Inspector Jealous.

"'Mrs. Weston,' she replied, with a certain hesitation, and a sudden color in her face.

"'Christian name?'

"'Mary,' said the woman, with a similar exhibition of unreadiness and confusion.

"'Mary Weston,' said Inspector Jealous. The equivocal signs were not lost upon him, but he made no comment. 'Married?'

"'I decline to answer.'

"Inspector Jealous merely nodded, and entered her reply in the book.

"'Where do you live?'

"'I will not tell you. You cannot compel me.' No defiance was expressed in her tone; it was imploring and appealing.

"'No,' said Inspector Jealous, 'we cannot compel you.'

"Then she was taken away to be searched, the report being that she had no property of any kind upon her person; 'not even a handkerchief,' was the remark.

"'That is all,' said Inspector Jealous to our reporter. 'She will be brought up to-morrow morning. If you are going to appear for her, eleven o'clock will be early enough.'

"With his consent our reporter then took the woman aside.

"'Tell me now what I can do for you,' he asked.

"'You will find my address on a card in my purse,' she replied. 'It is a long distance, two or three miles, think----'

"'I don't mind that.'

"'You need not knock or ring at the street door; the key I gave you will open it. But the passage will be dark when you enter it.'

"'I have matches with me. I shall find my way all right.'

"'Our rooms are on the first floor. My daughter will be awake. Do not alarm her by knocking loudly on the door.'

"'I will tap very gently. Go on.'

"'I do not know what you will say to her at first. A stranger--and at this late hour of the night----'

"'Do not agitate yourself. I will use my best skill and all my kindness to assure her that I come as a friend.'

"'I am sure you will, I am sure you will,' said the woman, taking his hand and kissing it. 'Heaven has been good to me to send me such a friend!'

"'Look at it in that light. What shall I say to your daughter after her first surprise is over? Do you not think you had better give me a few lines to her?'

"'Can I write them here?'

"'I think so; I will ask the Inspector.'

"He had no difficulty in obtaining permission, and was supplied with a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. Then the woman wrote:

quot;'MY DARLING CHILD,--The gentleman who brings this is a friend, a true friend, and I send this note by his hand to allay your fears at my absence. I cannot explain now why I do not come home to-night, but I will do so to-morrow when I return. Do not expect me till the afternoon, and do not be in the least alarmed about me. All is well, and there is hope in the future. God bless you, my darling. With fondest love,

;"'Your Devoted Mother.'"

"She gave the note to our reporter to read, and then put it in the envelope. On the envelope she wrote simply the name, 'Constance.'

"'She will be certain to question me,' said our reporter.

"'You have only to tell her that I desired you to say nothing, and that I wished to have the pleasure myself of communicating good news to her upon my return to-morrow. That will satisfy her. She loves me, has faith in me. Good news! Alas, alas!'

"'Keep up your courage. They will treat you kindly here for my sake, and you will see me in the morning. The few hours will soon pass.'

"'It will seem an eternity.'

"Feeling that it would be useless to prolong the interview, and anxious to go upon his errand, our reporter bade her good-night with a friendly pressure of the hand, commended her to the care of the kind Inspector, and left the station. He walked a little way into the Strand before he stopped to look at the card in the woman's purse; had he done so in Bow Street, a policeman might have seen him and reported the action, as he had just left the police station. By the light of a street lamp he read the address, 21 Forston Street, Kentish Town. There was no name on the card, but as there was no other writing in the purse he knew that this must be the address to which he was to go. He hailed a cab, and bade the man drive quickly.

"His compulsory examination of the purse had led to a knowledge of its contents--a small key and two pounds four shillings in gold and silver, in addition to the card. He thought himself justified in looking at the handkerchief which the woman had given him. It was of fine cambric, and in one corner were the initials E. B. According to the woman's statement, these were the initials of her name which she wished to keep from the eyes of the policeman, so that they might not lead to her identification. Then the name she gave to Inspector Jealous was false; she was not Mary Weston.

"This discovery would have damped the ardor of a less sympathetic and enthusiastic man than our reporter, and would have instilled in him a feeling of distrust. But our reporter is made of exceptional stuff, and the discrepancy did not weaken his faith in her. She had been frank with him; she had told him that she desired to keep her name from the knowledge of the police; the hesitation with which she had given the false name in the police station proved that she was not an adept in duplicity; and in addition, his brief association with her had inspired him with so much pity and confidence that it would have needed stronger evidence to shake him. The longer he thought of her, the firmer was his conviction that she was a lady of gentle culture, who had by some strange means been thrown into a cruel position, in which she had suffered some deep wrong. This in itself might not have been powerful enough to induce him to champion her cause, but what wooed and fixed him irresistibly was the strong impression that there existed between her and M. Felix a link which, found, would lead to the clearing up of the mystery.

"As the cab drew up at 21 Forston Street, Kentish Town, our reporter looked at his watch. It was two o'clock." Paying the cabman and dismissing him, our reporter paused a moment to consider his position and its surroundings.

"The street was very quiet; not a soul was visible. The houses in it struck the mean between rich and poor; some were two, some were three stories in height, and the rents (our reporter is a judge in such matters) would vary between forty and sixty pounds a year. This was sufficiently respectable, and he was pleased that his errand had not landed him in a poorer locality.

"But two o'clock in the morning. A strange hour to present himself for the first time, and under such suspicious circumstances, to a young lady waiting in anxious suspense for the return of her mother. It must be done, however, and the sooner done the better. He took out the latch key, opened the street door, closed it behind him, and stood in the dark passage. He did not wait now; he knew that he must go straight on with his task. Therefore he lit a match, and by the aid of its light made his way to the first floor landing. There were two doors, one a side door which he supposed led to the smaller room, the other a larger door facing him, through the crevices in which he saw the gleam of a lamp or candle. He knocked gently, and waited, holding in his hand the purse, the latch key, the handkerchief, and the letter which the woman had given him.

"Expedition now did not rest with him; it rested with the occupant of the chamber to which he desired admittance. But his gentle tapping, repeated again and again, met with no response. What should he do? To continue tapping, or to knock aloud, would arouse other inmates, and would subject him to an awkward examination. There was nothing for it but to try the handle. It turned in his hand, and the door was open.

"Still he paused upon the threshold, and said in his softest tones, 'Miss Constance! Miss Constance!' He received no reply, but heard a gentle breathing. Boldly he entered the room, and pushed the door behind him, but did not quite close it.

"There was a lamp alight on the table, and before it a book, the pages of which were divided and held apart by a miniature in a gold frame. Leaning back in a chair, one arm hanging listlessly down, the other resting on the table, the fingers just touching the miniature, was a young girl, the beauty of whose face was positively startling. Rather dark than fair, with features cut in the Greek mould, and long eyelashes veiling the sleeping eyes, with lips slightly parted, the picture was one upon which an artist would have loved to dwell. Her loosened hair, which was of a rich brown, hung upon her shoulders, but did not hide the exquisitely shaped ears; her hands were small and white, and the foot in a worked slipper which peeped beneath her dress was as beautifully formed. In silence our reporter gazed and admired.

"Truly puzzled was he how to act in a dilemma so bewildering. It was a contingency for which he had not mentally provided. Here he stood, a stranger, at two o'clock in the morning, in the presence of a young and lovely girl whose eyes had never rested on his face. What on earth was he to do?

"Her age could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and her likeness to the woman he had left in the Bow Street Police Station, left no room to doubt that she was her daughter, the Constance he had come to see. He coughed, and shuffled his feet, and shifted a chair, but these movements did not arouse the sleeping beauty. She slept calmly on, her bosom gently rising and falling as she breathed.

"He ventured to approach close to the table. The book the young girl had been reading was Scott's 'Ivanhoe,' and the miniature lying on the page was that of a young man, presumably of the better class. There was something singular in the aspect of this young man's eyes; they were open, but there was a vacant expression in them which, upon examining them more closely, led our reporter to suppose that the possessor was blind.

"As his movements were ineffective in arousing the young girl to consciousness, our reporter, without any distinct idea as to how he should proceed with his task, laid the purse, the key, and the handkerchief on the table close to the girl's hand. He retained the letter.

"Every moment that passed increased the awkwardness of his position, and he now ventured to touch the sleeper's arm. She moved slightly in her chair, and shifted the hand that rested upon the table so that it reached the miniature. Her fingers closed upon it.

"Again our reporter touched her arm, and in a low tone he called her by her name. The arm that had been hanging down was raised, and clasped his hand. 'Mamma!' she murmured, and she held his fingers with a tender clasp.

"'Really,' thought our reporter, 'this is growing more and more perplexing.' Presently, to his relief, her fingers relaxed, and he drew his released hand away. By this time he felt that bolder measures were necessary. Retreating to the door he overturned a chair, and hastily stepped into the passage. The ruse was successful; the young girl started to her feet, and called out Mamma! Is that you?'

"The answer she received was a tap at the door. Timidly she approached and opened it, but flew back into the room at the appearance of a stranger.

"'Do not be alarmed,' said our reporter, standing on the threshold; 'I come as a messenger from your mother.'

"'As a messenger from my mother!' she stammered, gazing at him from a safe distance in evident distress, 'I do not understand you, sir. Do not come nearer to me, or I shall call for assistance.'

"'I assure you there is no occasion,' said our reporter. 'I will not move a step into the room without your permission. Let me assure you that I feel my presence here as awkward as you must yourself; but I come, as I have said, from your mother, who has given me a letter for you. I am her friend, and she would be annoyed if you called unnecessarily for assistance. I sincerely apologize for my intrusion, but there was no help for it. Strange as is my appearance here, I come only in your mother's interests and yours.'

"'Indeed it is strange,' said the young girl, 'and I cannot help feeling alarmed and distressed.'

"'It is natural you should,' said our reporter, speaking, as he had spoken all through in his most respectful tone, as a gentleman would speak to a lady; 'but read your mother's letter. See--I throw it as close to you as I can, and if you wish me to enter after you have read it, I will do so; not otherwise, upon my honor as a gentleman.'

"He threw the letter into the room, but it did not quite reach her. With timid steps, keeping her eyes fixed upon our reporter, the young girl reached the letter, and quickly retreated to the position she deemed safe, from which she read what her mother had written.

"'You may enter, sir,' she said, 'but do not close the door.'

"'I will leave it open,' said our reporter, and entered the room, but kept a little apart from the young girl, whom we will now call by her proper name, Constance.

"'I have been waiting up for my mother's return, sir,' she said, 'and I cannot even now understand her absence. Where did you leave her?'

"I may not answer your questions,' replied our reporter. 'It is at her own request I do not do so. She desired me to say that she wishes to communicate the good news to you herself when she returns to-morrow. You see my lips are sealed, and I cannot, as a gentleman, violate the confidence your mother reposed in me.'

"'You have nothing more to say, sir, and will leave me now, I hope.' Then she murmured softly, 'Good news? Oh, if I dared to hope it!'

"'I will leave you this instant,' said our reporter, and was about to do so when Constance's eyes fell upon the purse, and the key, and the handkerchief which he had deposited on the table.

"'A moment, sir, I beg,' she said. 'How came these here? They are my mother's.'

"'Yes, she gave them to me,' said our reporter, with pardonable duplicity, 'to hand them to you, in order that you might be satisfied I came from her, and that I am here only as a messenger.'

"'Yes, I understand that, sir, but how came they here?'

"'I must speak frankly,' said our reporter, smiling. 'After admitting myself into the house by means of the latchkey, I came upstairs and knocked at your door, but could not make myself heard. As I did not wish to arouse other people in the house I took the liberty of trying whether the door was locked. It was not, and I entered. Seeing you asleep I endeavored by some slight sounds to awake you, but did not succeed. Then I placed the articles on the table, and overturning this chair, retreated from the room, to lessen any alarm you might feel at my appearance. It is the truth, believe me.'

"'I do believe you, sir, and I thank you for your consideration, but it's all very strange and distressing to me.'

"'It would be stranger were it not. And now, having fulfilled my mission, I will take my leave.'

"'Only one more question, sir,' said Constance, imploringly. 'My mother is in no danger?'

"'She is not. You will see her to-morrow, and I hope myself to see you again, so that I may be justified in your eyes.'

"'You are justified already, sir, and I beg you to pardon me for my doubts. I must wait till the morning. My mother will come, will she not, in the morning?'

"'Does she not say in her letter that it will not be till the afternoon?'

"'Oh, yes, I forgot, but I am confused and troubled. Will you see her before then?'

"'Yes, I have an appointment with her.'

"'Where, sir?'

"'I must not tell you. Remember the injunction your mother laid upon me. I have no alternative but to respect it.'

"'You are right, sir. Pardon me.' She held out her hand, and our reporter advanced to take it; but she withdrew it before he touched it. Even now her doubts and fears were not dispelled. 'Good-night, sir.'

"'Good-night,' said our reporter, and turned to go.

"But now it was his turn to linger. Something, in the room which he had not before observed attracted him. It was a simple article enough, a red silk handkerchief which might be worn around the neck.

"'Good-night, sir,' repeated Constance.

"'Good-night,' he said. 'Excuse me.'

"Then he left the room. As he descended the stairs he heard the key turned in the door of Constance's room.

"He did not call a cab when he reached the street; he had subject for thought, and like most men he could reflect with greater freedom and ease when his limbs were in motion.

"A red silk handkerchief--merely that. Why should it have made so strong an impression upon him? The explanation might be far-fetched, but since he had pledged himself to the elucidation of the mystery of M. Felix, he had become microscopical in his observation of trifles which might by some remote possibility have a bearing upon it. On the night of the death of M. Felix a man was seen escaping from the house in Gerard Street in which M. Felix lived; and this man wore round his neck a red scarf. It was this coincidence which now occupied his thoughts. The possession of a red silk scarf was common enough; thousands of persons in London could produce such an article, and shop windows abounded with them; but this particular scarf, in connection with the exciting incidents of the night, and in its indirect relation to the advertisement from the Evening Moon, which Constance's mother had preserved with such care, suddenly assumed immense importance in the eyes of our reporter. His thoughts wandered to the scene on the Thames Embankment, and he felt himself becoming morbidly anxious to know what it was that Constance's mother had thrown into the river. That it had some connection with the mystery upon which he was engaged he had not the least doubt. Would its discovery, by throwing direct suspicion upon Constance's mother, assist or retard the progress of his mission? To-morrow would show, and he must await the event with patience. One reflection afforded him infinite satisfaction; his hand, and his alone, of all the millions of persons who had no absolute direct interest in it, was on the pulse of the mystery, and every step he took strengthened him in his resolution to run it to earth without the aid of the officials of Scotland Yard."

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW THE CHARGE WAS DISPOSED OF.

"On the following morning, at half-past ten, our reporter presented himself at the Bow Street Police Court, and was allowed a private interview with Constance's mother, whom we must for the present designate by the name she had assumed, Mrs. Weston. She looked worn and pale, but beneath these traces of physical fatigue our reporter observed in her an undefinable expression of moral strength which surprised him. He had yet to learn, as our readers have, that this woman's delicate frame was ennobled by those lofty attributes of endurance and fortitude and moral power which in human history have helped to make both heroes and martyrs.

"'You have passed a bad night,' said our reporter, commiseratingly.

"'In one sense I have,' said Mrs. Weston, 'but hope and prayer have sustained me, and the Inspector has been very kind to me. Tell me of my daughter.'

"He briefly related the particulars of his interview with Constance, but made no mention of the red silk scarf. She thanked him with great sweetness for the trouble he had taken, and said that she had been wonderfully comforted by the belief that she had providentially met with so true a friend.

"'Time will prove,' said our reporter, 'that you are not deceived in your belief, but the manifestation of this proof will depend greatly upon yourself. To speak more precisely, in your hands appears to me to rest the power of accelerating events and of setting wrong things right. I am speaking partly in the dark, from a kind of spiritual intuition as it were, but when I strike a trail I have something of the bloodhound in me; innocence will find in me a firm champion, guilt I will pursue till I track it to its threshold.'

"The words were grandiloquent, it is true, but it was scarcely possible to doubt their sincerity.

"'In resolving to confide thoroughly in you,' said Mrs. Weston, gazing earnestly at him, 'I am risking more than you can possibly imagine. I am like a shipwrecked woman to whom a prospect of deliverance has suddenly appeared. I ask for no professions; I will trust you.'

"'You will live to thank the chance which has thrown us together,' said our reporter. 'I do not hesitate to say that you have aroused in me a strange interest; I devote myself to your cause heartily, in the conviction that I am championing the cause of right and innocence.'

"Tears sprang in her eyes. 'Shall I be released today?'

"'I am confident of it. I want to say a word to the Inspector.'

"To Inspector Jealous, who was standing near, he expressed his thanks for the kindness he had shown Mrs. Weston.

"'Well, you see,' said the inspector, in the first place it was enough that she is a friend of yours; in the second place, it was enough that she is a lady. I can read signs; she does not belong to the classes we are in the habit of dealing with.'

"'She does not,' said our reporter. 'The whole affair is a mistake, excusable enough on the part of the policeman, but regrettable because of the distress it has caused an innocent lady. I shall make no complaint against the policeman, on the score of over-officiousness; he was within his rights, and on abstract grounds is perhaps to be commended for his mistaken zeal.'

"It was a wise and prudent speech, and the Inspector, already kindly disposed, conveyed it, before the case was called on, to the ears of the policeman who had made the charge. Assured that no attempt would be made by our reporter to bring him into disrepute, he toned down his evidence considerably, and himself assisted in the dismissal of the case, the brief particulars of which we extract from our police columns:

"Groundless Charge.--Mary Weston, a woman of respectable appearance, was charged with attempting to commit suicide. Constable 382 C said that he was on duty on the Thames Embankment last night, about twelve o'clock, when he saw the woman standing on the stone parapet close to Cleopatra's Needle. Drawing near to her he heard a splash in the water, and the woman was falling forward when he seized her and pulled her away. A gentleman in court laid hold of the woman at the same time, and assisted him in preventing her from carrying out her purpose. The gentleman referred to, Mr. Robert Agnold, one of the reporters upon the Evening Moon, and also a properly qualified solicitor, said he appeared for the accused, who distinctly denied that she had any intention of committing suicide. He was himself a witness of the occurrence, and was convinced that the constable, who had behaved very well throughout the affair, had acted under a mistaken impression. The magistrate asked the constable what caused the splash? The constable replied something the accused threw into the river. The magistrate: 'Did you see what it was?' The constable: 'No.' Mr. Agnold: 'I should state that the accused admits throwing something into the river, and that in the act of doing so she overbalanced herself and so aroused the constable's suspicions. Whatever it was that she threw away, it was her own property and presumably valueless, and, although her action was open to an eccentric construction, it could go no farther than that. She had a perfect right to do what she pleased with what belonged to her.' The constable said that search had been made for it, but it had not been found. The woman went quietly to the station, but refused to give her address. She was not known to the police, and there was no evidence of her having been charged before. The magistrate, to the accused: 'Have you any trouble that urged you to put an end to your life?' The accused, whose speech was distinguished by great modesty and refinement: 'I have troubles, as other people have, but none that could impel me to an act so sinful. Nothing was farther from my thoughts than the attempt with which I am charged. I have done no wrong.' Mr. Agnold: 'Apart from my position as her professional adviser, I will answer for her in every way.' The magistrate: 'She is discharged.'

"It was half-past twelve when Mrs. Weston and our reporter issued from the police court. They walked in silence toward Leicester Square, which, in contrast to the thronged thoroughfares immediately adjoining it, is at this time of the day comparatively quiet. Mrs. Weston looked around inquiringly.

"'Do you know where we are?' asked our reporter.

"'No,' she replied.

"'Then you are not well acquainted with London?'

"'Not very well.'

"'This is Leicester Square. We are not far from Gerard street, Soho, where M. Felix was found dead.' A tremor passed through her, and the hand which rested upon our reporter's arm pressed it convulsively. He did not pursue the subject, but said, 'All's well that ends well. Your daughter will see you earlier than she expects. You will go straight home, I suppose?'

"'Not straight. I am fearful of being followed. Heaven knows whether I shall be able to accomplish the task that lies before me, but whatever I do must be done without drawing notice upon myself. I will not disguise from you that I have innocently placed myself in a false position, and that I am in danger. I cannot explain my words at this moment; I am anxious to see my beloved child; but I must repeat what I have said to you before, that no sin or guilt lies at my door.'

"'I understand that, and I will bide your time. You are afraid that we are being watched. I see no one in sight that can be dogging us, but I can provide against the remotest possibility if you will allow me to accompany you part of the way.'

"She accepted his services gratefully, and he hailed a cab, the driver of which he directed to proceed in an opposite direction to Forston Street, Camden Town. When the cab had gone a couple of miles they alighted and walked the length of two or three streets, our reporter keeping a sharp lookout; then another cab was hailed, which drove them to Camden Town, about a quarter of a mile from Forston Street. They walked together to within fifty yards of No. 21, and then Mrs. Weston paused.

"'You wish me to leave you here,' said our reporter. 'Shall I see you again soon?'

"'This evening, at eight o'clock,' she replied, 'if you will call upon me.'

"'I will be punctual.'

"'I ought to tell you before you go,' she said, in a low tone, 'that the name I gave at the police station is not my own. I was justified in giving a false name; otherwise the knowledge of my--my disgrace might have reached my daughter.'

"'You use a wrong term,' said our reporter, 'no disgrace whatever attaches to you. Good-by till this evening.'

"He shook hands with her and walked briskly away. He had nothing of importance to attend to in the office of the Evening Moon, but he was expected to present himself there, and it was necessary that he should arrange to have the afternoon and evening free. This being settled, he turned toward Gerard Street, with the intention of calling upon Mrs. Middlemore, to ascertain whether anything fresh had transpired. He knocked vainly at the door, however, Mrs. Middlemore was not in the house. At the bottom of Gerard Street he encountered Sophy.

"'Ah, Sophy,' he said, 'I have just been to your house.'

"''Ave yer?' said Sophy, sidling up to him. 'Aunty ain't at 'ome.'

"'So I discovered. Where is she?'

"'At the perlice station,' answered the girl.

"'Anything wrong?'

"'I don't know.'

"'But what has she gone for?'

"'It's about Mr. Felix.'

"'About Mr. Felix!' he exclaimed.

"'So she ses.'

"'But what is the meaning of it, Sophy?'

"'I can't tell yer. All I know is I meets aunty with a face like pickled cabbage, running and blowing and 'olding 'er sides, and I arks 'er what she's in sech a 'urry about. 'It's about poor Mr. Felix,' she ses, as well as she could speak; she was that out of breath she could 'ardly git 'er words out. 'They've found out somethink, and they've sent for me to the perlice station. You go 'ome at once and wait till I come back.' 'Ow shall I get in?' I arks; aunty never gives me the door-key; ketch 'er doing that! 'Ow shall I get in?' 'There's a gent there,' ses aunty, as 'ill open the door for yer.' 'I goes and knocks, and as no gent comes and opens the door for me, I takes a walk.'

"'Is that all you know, Sophy?'

"'That's all. I don't keep nothink from you--not likely.'

"'Can you tell me the name of the police station?'

"'Oh, yes, I can tell yer that. Bow Street.'

"Our reporter did not wait to exchange any further words, but hastened as fast as he could to the Bow Street Police Court. He was close to it when a constable accosted him.

"'I was coming for you at the Evening Moon office, sir,' said the constable. 'The Inspector sent me.'

"'What does he want?' asked our reporter.

"'They've fished up something from the river. He thought you would like to see it.'

"'I should.'

"As he entered the doors his coat was plucked by Mrs. Middlemore.

"'Ah, Mrs. Middlemore,' he said, hastily, 'I will speak to you presently. Don't go away; I will be out in a minute or two.'"

CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE RIVER.

"The Inspector conducted our reporter to a small room adjoining the court, in which the previous day's charges were still being tried, and pointing to a bundle on the table, said:

"'This was found in the river, near Cleopatra's Needle. It has been opened and tied up again, in order that you might see it in its original form.'

"'In what way do you suppose it concerns me?' asked our reporter, with an assumption of indifference, but moving nevertheless to the table and proceeding to undo the knots in the bundle.

"'The presumption is,' replied the Inspector, 'that it was the bundle which Mrs. Weston, your client, threw into the river last night.'

"'Being found,' contested our reporter, 'close to the place of the adventure, the more probable conclusion is that it was deposited in the river some distance off, the direction of which might be calculated from the flow of the tide.'

"'Ordinarily, yes,' said the Inspector, 'but there are surroundings not favorable to such a conclusion. In the centre of the bundle you will find a large stone, which would prevent it from dragging far. Then again, it was discovered caught in a snag, and our men say it must have fallen plumb into its position.'

"Our reporter shrugged his shoulders, and remarked, 'Evidence of that kind is in my opinion absolutely valueless in getting at the truth of a criminal charge.'

"By this time he had untied the knots and the contents of the bundle lay exposed. They consisted of a large stone and a suit of man's clothes--trousers, coat, and waistcoat.

"'Well?' he said to the Inspector.

"'Well?' said the Inspector, in return.

"'Do you seriously ask me to believe that a lady would deliberately go to a lonely part of the Thames Embankment at a late hour of the night, for the purpose of throwing trumpery articles like these into the river?'

"'What else can you believe?'

"'Anything but that,' said our reporter. 'In the first place it has to be proved that the clothes are hers--an absurd idea, to say the least of it. In the second place, what motive could she have had in disposing of them in such a manner?'

"'You have hit a nail on the head,' said the Inspector. 'A motive she must have had, and a strong one, too. It is a singular affair, and I confess that I don't see my way through it. You see, the suit is new; being but a short time in the water, that is not hard to prove. It is of a rather good description of tweed, and must have cost thirty or thirty-five shillings. To my eyes it has been worn very little, not more than half a dozen times, perhaps not more than three or four, perhaps not more than once. Supposing it to have been worn once only, it must have been worn for a certain purpose, which being carried out rendered its possession dangerous. Therefore it must be got rid of. Now, why throw it into the river? Fifty shopkeepers in fifty neighborhoods would be ready to purchase it for six or seven shillings. Why not sell it, then? I answer, because it would not do for the suit to be still in existence; because the person who disposed of it might be traced. Then would come the question--"Why did you purchase a new suit of clothes for thirty shillings, and sell it immediately afterward for five?" But the clothes may still be traced to the original purchaser. It happens that the name of the firm of which it was purchased is stamped on the lining of each garment; we go to that firm and make inquiries. Unfortunately the firm does a very large business, and this will increase the difficulty of discovering the purchaser.'

"'Your theories are very interesting,' said our reporter, 'but I do not see what they will lead to. Is there anything in the pockets?'

"'Nothing; not so much as a scrap of paper, or a shred of tobacco, or a morsel of biscuit. I mention tobacco because whoever wore the clothes was not a smoker.'

"'Is it possible to fix that?'

"'Quite. Do you observe that the clothes are of a small size? They must have been worn, therefore, by a person of proportionate build. In these facts we have a starting-point.'

"'A starting-point, I presume, in some important investigation.'

"'There you have me,' said the Inspector, with a smile. 'I have been merely airing my views. I know of no case which can possibly be connected in any way with this suit of clothes, and we have too much to look after already without making much ado about nothing. If there were any grounds for supposing that it bore some relation to, say such a mystery as that of M. Felix, we should set to work at once, of course. No such luck, however. I sent for you really in the hope that you could throw a light upon the bundle of rubbish.'

"'And you see that I cannot. I refuse to believe for one moment that it was thrown into the river by the lady I appeared for this morning.'

"'Well,' said the inspector, 'there is no harm done.'

"'Not the least. By the way, you made mention of the case of M. Felix. Has any progress been made in it?'

"'We're not a step more forward than we were. Rather the other way, I should say, for in such cases every day in which an advance is not made marks a point backward. The strangest feature in M. Felix's case is what has become of the body. We have made every inquiry, and are still making them, all over the country, and can't find the slightest trace of it. Taking it altogether, it is about the strangest case in my experience.'

"'And in mine,' said our reporter.

"'Oh, yes,' said the inspector, with a keen look at our reporter, 'we know you have taken great interest in it, and I suppose have been about as successful as ourselves.'

"'Just about as successful.'

"'Your amateur detective,' observed the Inspector, with a certain scorn, 'considers himself a mighty clever gentleman, but he finds himself compelled in the end to take a back seat.'

"'As I shall have to do,' said our reporter, good humoredly, 'but, as you say, there is no harm done; and you must remember that I am working in the interests of a great newspaper. I had an object in asking you whether you had made any progress in the case of M. Felix. A person of my acquaintance informed me that there was something being done in it to-day.'

"'Whoever it was,' said the Inspector, 'must be dreaming.'

"'Nothing has been found out?'

"'Nothing.'

"'And there is no inquiry in the police court relating to it?'

"'None.'

"'Thanks. Good-morning.'"

CHAPTER XX.

MRS. MIDDLEMORE IS VICTIMIZED.

"Outside the court-house our reporter found Mrs. Middlemore still waiting. He took her by the arm, and led her unceremoniously away. Stopping on the opposite side of the road, he said to her:

"'Now, Mrs. Middlemore, what brought you here?'

"'I was sent for, sir,' she answered.

"'By whom?'

"'By the magerstate.'

"'Where is the paper?'

"'What paper, sir?'

"'The summons.'

"'I ain't got none. The perlice orficer comes to me and ses, "Mrs. Middlemore," he ses, "you must go immediate to the Bow Street Perlice Station, and wait outside till yer called." "But what about?" I arks. "About Mr. Felix," he answers; "somethink's been found out, and they can't git on without yer. Yer'll have to wait a longish time per'aps, but if yer move away till yer called it'll be worse for yer." "But what am I to do about the 'ouse?" I arks. "Sophy's out, and there's no one to mind it." "I'll mind it," ses the perlice orficer, "and when Sophy comes back I'll let her in. Off yer go, and don't tell nobody at Bow Street what yer've come about. It's a secret, and the Government won't stand it being talked of. Yer'll be paid for yer trouble." So off I starts, and 'ere 'ave I been waiting for nigh upon two hours, and nobody's made a move toward me.'

"'I've heard something of this,' said our reporter, pushing Mrs. Middle more into a cab, and giving the driver instructions to drive quickly to Gerard Street. It was not without difficulty he succeeded in this, for Mrs. Middlemore, with the fear of the 'Government' upon her, wanted to remain in Bow Street. 'I met Sophy before I came here, and she told me you had been sent for to the police Station. Now be quiet, will you? Have you not promised to be guided by me?'

"'But the Government, sir, the Government! I shall be clapped in prison!'

"'You'll be nothing of the sort. The Government and I are friends, and you are perfectly safe if you do as I tell you.'

"'I must, I serpose, sir. There's nothink else for it, but I'm being wore to a shadder. If this goes on much longer I sha'n't 'ave a ounce of flesh on my bones. Yer sor Sophy, sir, did yer? Yer've been at the 'ouse, then?'

"'Yes, I have been at your house, but it was not there that I saw your niece. I met her in the street, and she informed me that you were at Bow Street Police Station.'

"'What was the 'uzzy doing in the streets?'

"'I can't say, but in the streets she was forced to remain.'

"'Why, sir, the 'ouse was open to 'er. I met 'er and told 'er to go 'ome and wait till I come back.'

"'Exactly. And she did go, and knocked at the door, as I did, but she was as unsuccessful as I was. She did not get in.'

"''Ow can that be, sir? The perlice officer was there, waiting to open the door for 'er. The lazy slut! She's been telling yer a parcel of lies.'

"'How about myself, Mrs. Middlemore? Am I telling you a parcel of lies when I say that I knocked pretty loudly at your door, and that no one came to open it.'

"'I wouldn't dispute your word, sir, but I can't make it out.'

"'I can, and I will explain it to you presently, inside your house, if we can manage to get in. Here we are. Jump out.'

"The cab being discharged, Mrs. Middlemore knocked and rang, but knocked and rang in vain.

"'Allo, anty!' said Sophy, coming up. ''Ave they found Mr. Felix's body?'

"''Ush, you 'uzzy,' said Mrs. Middlemore, clapping her hand on the girl's mouth. 'What do yer mean by being outside instead of in?'

"'What do I mean?' retorted Sophy, with an air of great enjoyment. 'Why, 'cause I couldn't git in. I knocked and knocked, jest as you're doing of now, but nobody answered.'

"'I understood,' said our reporter to Mrs. Middlemore, 'that you generally carry your latchkey with you.'

"'So I do sir, but I didn't 'ave it in my pocket when the perlice officer come; it was downstairs on the kitchen table. I wanted to go down and fetch it, but he wouldn't let me wait a minute. "If yer ain't quick," he said, "yer'll git yerself in trouble;" and he bundled me out of the 'ouse. That's 'ow it was, sir.'

"'The question is,' said our reporter, 'how we are to get in. Is there a back way?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Then we must get in by the front door or window. The window will be the easiest. It is fastened inside in the usual way, I suppose?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'The easiest plan will be for me to break one of the panes in such a manner as to attract as little notice as possible, and then put my hand through and undo the fastening. Then we can lift the sash, and Sophy can get in and unlock the street door for us.'

"I'm game,' said Sophy, to whom any task of this kind was especially inviting.

"Our reporter was about to put his plan into execution when Mrs. Middlemore clutched his arm. He instantly withdrew it.

"'Of course, Mrs. Middlemore,' he said, coldly, 'it is your house, and I can't commit a trespass without your permission.'

"'It ain't that, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, piteously. 'Sophy's a plucky little thing, and though I do give 'er a 'ard word now and then, I mean well by 'er, I do indeed, sir.'

"'Yer a good sort, aunty,' said Sophy. 'I don't mind yer 'ard words, not a bit.'

"''Old yer saucy tongue, and let me speak to the gentleman. Yes, sir, I mean well by Sophy, and I should never 'ave another minute's peace if anythink was to appen to 'er.'

"'What do you think will happen to her if I do what I propose?'

"'There's been one sudding death in the 'ouse, sir----.'

"'Go on, Mrs. Middlemore. Don't stop in the middle of a sentence; finish what you have to say. Time is very precious just now.'

"There's been one sudding death in the 'ouse, and now there's a man in there as won't or can't answer.'

"'You fear he might be dead. If so, he cannot do Sophy any harm. Eh, Sophy?'

"'Not 'im. It'd take more nor one dead man to scare Sophy. Jest you open the winder, and I'll be in like a shot.'

"'Have I your permission now, Mrs. Middlemore?'

"'But if he shouldn't be dead, sor. If he was laying in wait with a crowbar to knock Sophy on the 'ead----'

"'Oh, you are beginning to think the man who called upon you was not a police officer, after all?'

"'I'm beginning to have my doubts, sir.'

"'I never had any. He is as much a police officer as you are. He told you a cock and bull story, and got rid of you. He was left in the house alone, and, more for your sake than my own, I want to find out what he has been up to. Decide quickly, please.'

"'Do what you like, sir. You've been right in everything; but things are getting more and more mysterious.'

"Without wasting more words our reporter pushed his elbow into a pane, and putting his hand through, undid the fastening and raised the sash. Sophy climbed in like a cat, and the next minute the street door was open. They entered and closed the door behind them.

"'We will proceed systematically,' said our reporter. 'The man spoke to you in the passage here.'

"'Yes, sir; and sed he'd wait.'

"'Did you tell him to wait in the kitchen, or the parlor, or in any particular room?'

"'No, sir; I left it to 'im.'

"'Doubtless he has been into every room in the house. We will go into the kitchen first.'

"Nothing had been disturbed there; the key of the street-door was on the kitchen table. Our reporter took it up and examined it closely.

"'As I imagined,' he said. 'He has taken an impression of the key in wax.'

"'What for, sir?' asked Mrs. Middlemore, in great trepidation.

"'To enable him to enter the house again secretly, if he wished. When I am gone send for a plumber and a locksmith. Let the plumber put in the pane of glass, and have another lock put on the street door. Your visitor must have been in a hurry, or he would have cleaned this key more carefully.'

"From the kitchen they went into the parlor, and apparently nothing had been disturbed there. Then they proceeded upstairs to the rooms occupied by M. Felix.

"'Look carefully round,' said our reporter, 'and tell me if anything has been taken away.'

"'Nothink, sir, that I can see.'

"'But there may have been papers, or money, or something of which he wishes to obtain possession, secreted somewhere, and it is quite likely he may have found them.'

"'I won't dispute you, sir. You see further than I do; but it don't seem as if anythink's been took.'

"'Or moved? The ornaments on the mantelshelf--are they all there?'

"'I don't miss one, sir.'

"'But they have been shifted. Here is this vase; observe the circle upon which it stood. The vase has been lifted and put down again, but not on the exact spot it occupied when he took it up. This proves the object for which he came; he has been searching for something, and has probably found it and taken it away. How could you have been so foolish as to leave him in the house alone?'

"Mrs. Middlemore sank helpless into a chair, and moaned. 'What else could I do, sir, what else could I do? It'll be the death of me, I know it will!'

"'Not at all. It only proves that we have cunning persons to work against. I am all the more determined to track this mystery down.' He opened the bedroom door, and exclaimed, 'Here is direct evidence. The fellow has not been so careful in this room. Chairs have been moved, the bedclothes are disturbed. Why, where is the revolver?'

"He referred to the revolver which he had found beneath the pillows, and which he had replaced. It had been abstracted. Inwardly he congratulated himself that he had not only taken a full note of the description of the weapon, but had also scratched the initial,'F.' on the metal. He took, out his pocketbook and turned to the page upon which he had made an entry.

"'Listen to this, Mrs. Middlemore, and be thankful that you have a friend like me on your side: "A Colt's double action revolver, nickel-plated, six shots, No. 819." I can swear to that revolver, and moreover can swear that it was loaded. Are you satisfied now that you have been imposed upon, and that the man who visited you came upon a bogus errand?'

"'Of course I am, sir, but what could 'ave been 'is objec'--'Oh, what could 'ave been 'is objec'?'

"'That has yet to be discovered, and discovered it shall be. The abstraction of this revolver may assist us. The fellow does not dream that I have its description here, and that it can be sworn to. Surely he was not dressed as a policeman?'

"'No, sir, he sed he was a private officer.'

"'And you believed him?'

"Again Mrs. Middlemore moaned, 'What else could I do, sir? what else could I do? He spoke that confident and easy that an angel would 'ave believed what he sed.'

"'Don't be taken in again. Be just a little more careful in your dealings with strangers.'

"'I will, sir, I will.'

"'I don't see that I can do any good by remaining here. I should like, though, to take down from your lips a description of the man. You can give it to me, I hope?'

"'I can, sir. A tall man, very thin, with a long thin face and thick black eyebrows.'

"'Is that all?'

"'All I can remember, sir.'

"Our reporter wrote the words in his pocketbook, and asked, 'Can you tell me how he was dressed?'

"'Only that he had dark clothes on.'

"'You would know him again if you saw him?'

"'I could swear to him, sir.'

"'Come, that is a satisfaction. You can swear to the man, and I can swear to the revolver. Two direct pieces of evidence, if we can lay hands upon them.'

"Sophy unexpectedly presented herself as an additional witness. 'I can swear to 'im too,' she said.

"'Ah, Sophy, you are invaluable,' said our reporter.

"'Didn't I say the slut was telling us a parcel of lies?' cried Mrs. Middlemore, making a movement as though she were about to fall upon the girl.

"'Easy, Mrs. Middlemore, easy,' said our reporter, holding the housekeeper back. 'Let us hear what Sophy has to say.'

"But Sophy, firing up, diverged a moment. 'Jest look 'ere, aunty,' she said, with spirit. 'Don't yer be so fast with yer sluts and yer 'uzzies. I'm gitting tired of it, I am. I ain't told one lie yet, and if yer don't mind what yer about I'll keep my mouth shut.'

"'No, Sophy, my girl,' said our reporter, 'you will do nothing of the sort. You will tell me all you know about this man.'

"'Jest you make 'er be civil, then,' said Sophy. 'She does nothink but bully me day and night. She don't pay me no wages, and I ain't going to stand it.'

"'Be reasonable Sophy,' said our reporter. 'Your aunt is worried, and you must make excuses for her.'

"'Ain't I flesh and blood the same as she is?' continued the irate girl. 'I've a good mind to run away from 'er, that I am, and never come back no more. I'll do it. Tata, aunty, and thank yer for nothink.'

"Had it not been for our reporter, she would have run out of the house. He laid his hand gently on her arm, and said:

"'Don't forget your promise to me, Sophy.'

"'I won't; I'll keep it, never fear. I'll wear myself to skin and bone for yer--yes, I will, if it'll do yer any good; but I won't be bullied by 'er no more.'

"Sophy's threat terrified Mrs. Middlemore; the prospect of being left in the house alone was appalling, and she straightway fell to on humble pie.

"'I'm sorry for what I sed, Sophy, and I beg yer parding, and I'll give yer sixpence a week. There, now, be a good gal. But yer did tell us yer couldn't git into the 'ouse.'

"'No more I could. I knocked and rattled and kicked the door, and nobody come. 'Ow should I know that a tall, thin man, with a long face and thick black eyebrows, was the feller as took yer in?'

"'You saw him, then?' said our reporter, observing that Mrs. Middlemore's apology and, the promise of sixpence a week had mollified the girl.

"'Yes, I sor 'im before I got to the 'ouse, but I didn't know he come out of it. He was jest what aunty sed he was, and what's more, he 'ad large flat feet.'

"'If you saw him again you could swear to him?'

"'I'd pick 'im out of a thousan.' He run agin me, he did, and I sed, "Who are yer pushing of?" He didn't say nothink, but walked off forty to the dozen.'

"'Looking as if he did not wish to attract notice?'

"'Yes, he did look like that.'

"'Was he carrying anything?'

"'Not that I sor. He 'ad 'is coat buttoned up.'

"'When he come to me,' said Mrs. Middlemore, 'it was unbuttoned.'

"'Proving that he took something away with him. Anything else Sophy?'

"'Nothink else.'

"'You and your aunt are friends now, are you not?'

"'Oh, I don't bear no malice.'

"Mrs. Middlemore kissed Sophy, and her anger was entirely dispelled. Once more our reporter, having made peace between them, attempted to leave, but Mrs. Middlemore said, imploringly:

"'Would yer mind looking all over the 'ouse fust? He might be 'iding in it to murder us in the night.'

"'Sophy saw him walking away,' said our reporter; 'but to satisfy you I will go into every room; and I'll do something more, if you are agreeable. Could you make me up a bed?'

"'Yes, sir, I could, in any room you like.'

"'M. Felix's bedroom will do for me. Don't look startled; I am almost as brave as Sophy. Put the bed straight, and I'll come some time between eleven and twelve o'clock, and pass the night here.'

"Mrs. Middlemore was profuse in her thanks, and our reporter searched the house from top to bottom. Assuring the housekeeper that she was quite safe, he succeeded in making his escape."

CHAPTER XXI.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

"He had taken mental note of the name of the firm at which the suit of clothes which had been found in the river was purchased, and he went direct to that establishment in Tottenham Court Road. It happened, fortunately, that business was slack at that time of the day, and as customers were few and far between he had little difficulty in obtaining an interview with the manager, who, when he heard that our reporter was engaged upon the Evening Moon, gave him his entire attention.

"'It's the smartest paper in London,' said the manager; 'I take it in regularly.'

"'I should like you to treat the matter I have come upon as private between you and me. We are interested in a certain case which may or may not be made public, and in which, perhaps, you can assist us in an indirect way. If it prove to be so your establishment will get an advertisement for nothing.'

"'We shall be glad to get it,' said the manager. 'A good word from you gentlemen of the press is always acceptable. I dare say you notice we advertise in your paper. Tell me what I can do for you.'

"'I wish to ascertain, confidentially, under what circumstances a certain suit of clothes was purchased in your establishment. All the clothing you sell is marked with your name, is it not?'

"'Yes, wherever we can get it in. There are some things that cannot be marked, but suits of clothes can; coats on the bands they are hung up by, waistcoats on the inner lining, trousers on the waistbands. What kind of a suit was it, and on what day was it purchased?'

"'I cannot name the day exactly, but say within the last two or three weeks. It was a suit of tweed.'

"'Can you identify the pattern?'

"'Yes, if you will let me see samples of your stock.'

"'I will show you what we have.'

"They looked through a wonderful assortment of men's clothing, but our reporter saw none exactly similar to the pattern he wished to identify.

"'Was it a suit for a large or a small man?' inquired the manager.

"'For a small man; almost what you would call a youth's suit.'

"'What you have seen is principally our new stock; we have some others which our salesmen endeavor to get rid of; we don't like to keep old stock too long on our hands.'

"They went through other departments, and at length, on one of the upper shelves, our reporter pointed to a pattern he thought he recognized.

"'That seems to be it. I shall know on a closer inspection.'

"The suit was taken down, and our reporter saw that he had reached the first stage of his inquiry.

"'This is the pattern,' he said.

"'It narrows the matter,' said the manager. 'There is only this one suit left of this particular pattern. Three weeks ago there were two, so that within that time one has been sold. The salesman in this department is a man with a good memory.'

"The salesman being called, our reporter explained what he wanted. The man considered a little, and said:

"'I remember something of it, because of a circumstance. I will look up my sale book and compare it with the day book, to fix the date.'

"He departed to make the investigation, and, returning, said:

"'I can tell you all about it now. I served the lady myself.'

"'The lady!' exclaimed our reporter.

"'Yes, it was a lady who made the purchase. I served her first with a suit which she paid for, and which she brought back later in the day, saying it was too large. I changed it for one of this pattern.'

"'Did she say for whom she required the clothes?'

"'For a young man of about her own size. I supposed they were for a son or for a brother much younger than herself.'

"'What should you judge her age to have been?'

"'Forty or so.'

"'I told you he had a good memory,' said the manager, with an approving smile at his salesman.

"'You speak of her as a lady,' said our reporter. 'Are you certain she was one?'

"'She spoke and conducted herself as one. She was not a workingman's wife, or she would have been more particular as to price, and might have haggled a bit, though all our clothes are marked in plain figures. I could see she wasn't used to purchasing men's clothing from the remarks she made. All that she was particular about was the fit.'

"'What did she pay for the suit?'

"'Fifty-five shillings. She handed me a five-pound note, and I gave her the change. Working women don't pay for their purchases in bank notes. Would you like the number of the note?'

"'Can you give it to me?'

"'Yes; we always take down the numbers.'

"Again he departed and returned, and gave our reporter the number of the note, written on a bill-head.

"'I am under a great obligation to you,' said our reporter. 'Is this suit you have left the only one of the same pattern you have in your establishment?'

"'The only one, sir, and we are not likely to have any more.'

"'I will take it with me.'

"The account was made out, settled, and receipted, and our reporter, thanking the manager, left the shop--which, in accordance with modern ideas, was called an 'Emporium'--with the suit of clothes under his arm. He had a distinct motive in making the purchase. The inspector might take it into his head to make inquiries at the establishment, and our reporter had removed the only evidence of direct identification it could furnish.

"It was now six o'clock. His appointment with Mrs. Weston in Forston Street was fixed for eight. He had an hour and a half to spare, sufficient time to take a chop and a pancake and to arrange his ideas. Selecting a quiet-looking restaurant, he took a seat at an unoccupied table, ordered his chop and pancake, and began to write in the convenient reporter's book which he always kept about him. He did this for clearness; he felt that he was approaching an important point in the mission he had taken upon himself, and that his interview with Mrs. Weston was destined to be pregnant in results. It would be of assistance to him to set things down in writing instead of trusting entirely to memory. The memoranda he made are now set forth:

"Heads of circumstantial evidence which lead me to the belief that Mrs. Mary Weston, otherwise E. B. (initials worked in lady's handkerchief), is directly connected with the incidents which happened in Mrs. Middlemore's house in Gerard Street, Soho, on the night of the death of M. Felix.

"First--On that night a man was seen making a hurried escape from the house at the moment (presumably) M. Felix was drawing his last breath. The only description, if description it can be called, that has been given of this man is that he wore round his neck a red scarf.

"Second--Last night, or rather early this morning, on the occasion of my visit to Mrs. Weston's lovely daughter, I observed, before I left the young lady, a red silk scarf. Query: Might not this red scarf be the same as that which the man who escaped from the house in Gerard Street wore round his neck?

"Third--There was blood on the floor of M. Felix's room. There was no wound on the body of M. Felix. The blood, therefore, proceeded from a wound inflicted on the person of M. Felix's visitor. My discovery in M. Felix's room of the dagger, with a handle resembling a twisted snake and a ruby in its head to represent an eye, led to the incontrovertible conclusion that it was the weapon with which this wound was inflicted. The blood stains on the blade prove it. M. Felix, snatching up the dagger, flung it at his visitor.

"Fourth--Mrs. Weston has on her left arm a wound which is not yet healed. When I inadvertently grasped her arm she cried from pain. Inquiring whether I had hurt her she replied that her arm had 'been cut to the bone.' Query: Might not this be the wound that was inflicted by M. Felix's dagger?

"Fifth--In that case Mrs. Weston must have paid a visit to M. Felix on the night of his death. Query: Might she not have paid this visit disguised in a man's clothes?

"Sixth--The circumstantial evidence upon which this assumption is based: In the first place, Mrs. Weston last night, believing herself to be unobserved, threw a bundle into the River Thames. She refused to state what this bundle contained. I asked her. 'Will you tell them' (the policemen) 'what it was you threw into the river?' She replied, 'I cannot tell them. It might injure--it might ruin me.' Deduction--that if it were proved that the suit of clothes found in the river this morning belonged to her she would be placed in a position of extreme danger. The second piece of circumstantial evidence in connection with this suit of man's clothing comes from the establishment in Tottenham Court Road at which it was purchased. The salesman says that the purchaser was a lady. Mrs. Weston is a lady. She paid for it with a bank note, the number of which can be traced. The suit would fit a person of her height and build. In the third place--She gave a false name. This circumstance, supposing that she has committed a wrongful act, would weigh heavily against her. In the fourth place--She carried about with her an advertisement relating to the death of M. Felix, in which the proprietors of the Evening Moon pledged themselves to give the best legal assistance to any person or persons who are in any way interested in the death of M. Felix. Reasonable deduction--That this lady, having taken the trouble to cut out and preserve the advertisement with such conspicuous care, must be interested in his death.

"There are other items which I will set down and consider later on. Meanwhile----

"Do I believe Mrs. Weston, otherwise E. B., to be guilty of any wrongful act in connection with M. Felix? I do not. I believe her to be a perfectly innocent woman. Upon what grounds? Upon the grounds of sympathy--which would not count with such weighty circumstantial evidence against her.

"Do I believe that she paid a visit to M. Felix on the night of his death, disguised in man's clothes? I do; and I believe that the visit was paid without the slightest intention of doing him a personal injury. She is delicate and fragile, destitute of the strength necessary to carry out a deed of violence. M. Felix must have possessed at least to some slight extent a man's strength, more than amply sufficient to successfully oppose any design of violence on the part of a lady of Mrs. Weston's feeble frame.

"For what object, then, was this visit paid? To right some wrong which Mrs. Weston was suffering at his hands. I declare myself to be her champion, and the champion of her lovely daughter.

"In conclusion: The most extraordinary feature in the case remains still without any light being thrown upon it. Where is his body, and for what reason was it stolen from the house in Gerard Street?

"At eight o'clock precisely our reporter arrived at No. 21 Forston Street, Camden Town, and was ushered into the room occupied by Mrs. Weston and her daughter Constance. Lovely as had been the young girl's appearance last night, she was even lovelier now. Then her face was darkened with anxiety, now it was free from care, and the most careless observer could not have failed to know that a perfect and most beautiful love existed between the mother and her child. The young lady blushed as our reporter entered, and rose and offered him her hand.

"'I beg you to forgive my rudeness last night,' she said. 'I did not know then.'

"'Your conduct was perfectly natural, he said, taking her hand, 'such as I should have approved of in a sister of my own.'

"She bowed gracefully, and retired to an inner room.

"'It is my wish,' explained the elder lady, 'that our interview should be private. What have you there?'

"He had brought the new suit of clothes with him, and he had placed the brown paper parcel on the table and was now untying it. Her face turned to a deadly whiteness when the suit was exposed.

"'You have nothing to fear,' said our reporter. 'I have brought this with me to convince you how necessary it is that you should have by you a friend as sincere as I.'

"He then related to her what had passed between him and the inspector with reference to the suit which had been found in the river, and also the particulars of his visit to the clothing establishment in Tottenham Court Road.

"In the interests of our readers we withhold a categorical account of the conversation which ensued. Sufficient for the present to state that the lady placed in this reliable gentleman the most implicit confidence. Our narrative now assumes another shape. A strange and pathetic drama is about to be unfolded. The veil which enshrouds the past will be uplifted, and we owe our reporter our grateful thanks for the manner in which he has chosen to narrate as touching a story as has ever been presented to the readers of fiction. It links the past with the present, and it is true to the life. For a little while our reporter and ourselves disappear from the scene. We may revert hereafter to our original plan--indeed we may be compelled to revert to it in this way because the matters of which we shall have to speak are public property. What follows is a literal copy of the manuscript supplied by our reporter; not an incident is exaggerated, not a passion disfigured. Step by step, with unswerving zeal and untiring devotion, the Mystery of M. Felix is being unravelled and brought to light."

BOOK SECOND.

A LIFE DRAMA: LINKS IN THE MYSTERY.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE HALF-BROTHERS.

"It is better to be born lucky than rich" is one of the few proverbs to which the lie cannot be given by a proverb in the opposite direction. If Gerald Paget had had the choice, and had he been blessed with wisdom, he would have chosen luck in the place of riches, but he could not be credited with either of these conditions. He was born to riches, and he was too amiable and easy-natured to ripen into wisdom. When he first met Emilia Braham he was twenty-four years of age; she was eighteen, and in a position of dependence; Gerald was wealthy, and to a certain extent his own master. His father had died three months before this meeting with the beautiful young girl, whose association was to bring into his life both happiness and woe. He had only one close relative, a half-brother, a few years older than himself, who was then absent in Australia; the name of this brother was Leonard, and it was he who was destined to hold in his hands the skeins of Gerald's fate.

Their father had been twice married, and Leonard was the son of his first wife. She brought him no fortune, and he himself had but little. Shortly after Leonard was born she died, and the widowed husband went with his child to Switzerland, where he met with the lady who was to replace the wife he had lost. She possessed a large fortune in her own right, of which with her husband's full approval, she kept control. Although they had met and were married in Switzerland, they were both English, and to England they returned, and set up their home there. One child blessed their union, Gerald, whom they idolized and did their best to spoil. They did not neglect their duty to Leonard; they performed it cheerfully and lovingly, but it was nevertheless the fact that Gerald was the magnet to which their hearts more constantly turned. The difference between the ages of the half-brothers was a bar to that close and sympathetic association of interests which frequently exists between children of equal age. The child of six and the child of fourteen have little in common; still less when one is twelve and the other twenty. But despite this disparity and these unfavorable conditions, Gerald adored his big brother, and bowed down before him as a being of a very superior order. Leonard's tastes was for travel, and as a young man he spent much of his time on the Continent, picking up foreign ways, and also foreign vices, which he kept very carefully concealed from the knowledge of his father and step-mother. When he came home from these Continental jaunts he always brought with him remembrances for little Gerald, whose affectionate, grateful heart magnified their value, and invested with rare qualities the spirit which animated the giver. Leonard was supplied with ample funds to indulge in his whims and pleasures, and he took life easily, accepting it as his right that his purse should be always well filled. Presently, however, a change came over the spirit of his dream, a change which caused the evil forces within him to spring into active life. His stepmother died, and left a will. Its terms were as follows:

To her stepson, Leonard, she left an income of four hundred pounds, and expressed a hope that he would adopt some profession or pursuit in which he might attain fortune and distinction. His father was empowered to further in a practical way any step in this direction. To her son Gerald she also left an income of four hundred pounds, but there was this difference between the bequests. Leonard's remained always the same--four hundred pounds, no more and no less; whereas Gerald's, when he reached the age of twenty-one, was increased to one thousand pounds. Moreover, upon the death of his father, all that Mrs. Paget devised to her husband was to revert to her son, whose income would then amount to nearly four thousand pounds. Leonard, studying the will, reckoned this up, and said, "I am the elder son, and I have exactly one-tenth of the younger son's fortune." There was another clause in the will. As upon the death of the father the income that was left to him was to fall to Gerald, so, should it happen that both Gerald and his father died before Leonard, the entire fortune would fall to the elder son. In the event of Gerald marrying this would not be the case; Gerald could devise to his wife and children, if he had any, all that he possessed, thus, as it were, disbarring Leonard. For the soured and disappointed young man there were, then, these chances: First, that his father should die. Second, that Gerald should die. Third, that he should die unmarried. These conditions fulfilled, Leonard would become the master of four thousand pounds a year. It occurred to Leonard that the sooner all this occurred the better, and the thought having obtained lodgement in his mind, remained there.

Safely hidden, safely concealed. He was not a man who wore his heart upon his sleeve. He was one who could present a smiling face while he was concocting the cunningest of schemes. He had but one view of life, the pursuit of pleasure. There was a certain similarity between him and Gerald; they were both easy-natured outwardly, but there was no guile in Gerald's disposition, while guile was the very essence of Leonard's.

"I can't very well live on four hundred a year," he said to his father, after the death of his step-mother. "You never led me to expect that I should have to do so."

"I will double it, Len," said the indulgent father; "but you are a man now, and understand things. The fortune which has enabled us to maintain our position was strictly my wife's and she had a right to do what she pleased with it. Had it not been for her money you and I would have been poor gentlemen."

"That is all very well," said Leonard, "but the reflection comes too late, father. To bring up a person in the expectation of fortune, and then to suddenly let him down to poverty, is not what I call just or fair. That is all I want--justice, and I have a right to it."

"Every person has a right to it."

"Then you agree with me that I am hardly treated."

"Eight hundred a year is not a bad income, Len."

"But, if you will forgive me for mentioning it, father--I am a man, as you say, and can't help thinking of things--that is only during your lifetime. Heaven forbid that anything should happen to you, but we are all mortal, and down I should drop to a miserable seven or eight pounds a week."

"Gerald has the sweetest disposition in the world," said Mr. Paget; "you can always depend upon him."

"Depend upon him, depend upon him!" repeated Leonard, fretfully. "Is it right, is it just, that the elder should depend upon the younger?"

Mr. Paget sighed; he was not strong in argument.

"I will make it a thousand," he said, "and you must look out for a profession which will treble it."

"I'll see what Gerald will do toward it," said Leonard; and he actually went to the lad, who ran to his father, and said that poor Len must have two hundred a year more; so that subtle Leonard managed to obtain an income of twelve hundred pounds, a very fair slice of the fortune left by Mrs. Paget. He did not trouble himself to look for a profession, but carried out his view of life with zeal and ability. He spent his money on himself, but he did not squander it. He generally managed to obtain his money's worth, and he was wise in his liberality. Nevertheless, pleasure ran ahead of him, and in racing after it he came to grief, and had to mortgage his own private income of four hundred pounds to such an extent that it presently passed out of his hands and became the property of the money-lenders. His father and half-brother never failed him; they were living quietly and modestly in England, and every appeal Leonard made to them was promptly and affectionately responded to. He was not thankful for the assistance; there gathers upon some natures a crust of selfishness so thick as to deaden the sentiment of gratitude for kindness rendered.

Thus matters went on till the father died. Leonard, as has been stated, was in Australia at the time. It was not a spirit of enterprise that took him there, nor any idea of business; he was enamoured of a pretty face, and he followed, or accompanied it, to the antipodes--it matters not which. When he received news of his father's death, the enchantment was over, and another chapter in his book of selfish pleasures was closed. He cabled home for money. Gerald cabled him back a thousand pounds. "By jove," thought Leonard; "he must be richer than I thought." It was so. Mr. Paget had saved half his income and had invested it well, so that, upon his death, Gerald found himself in possession of a handsome sum of money in addition to the income which now fell to his share. Leonard remained in Australia long enough to spend three-fourths of the thousand pounds--it did not take long--and then he took ship to England, with the firm resolve to milk his cow, his half-brother Gerald, who received him with open arms. But between the day of Mr. Paget's death and the day of Leonard's return to England, Gerald met Emilia Braham. That made all the difference.

CHAPTER XXIII.

TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE.

There is no position in the world more cruel than that of a young girl, born in a good condition of life and delicately brought up, who suddenly finds herself bereft of means, of home, of love. Into this position was Emilia Braham thrust on the day her father was carried dead to the house in which he and his only child had passed many happy years. A scaffolding, loosely constructed, had given way as he passed beneath it, and he lay under the ruins with the life crushed out of him.

It had been a home of love, and the anxieties of the father had not been shared by the gentle, beautiful girl whose presence brightened it, whose pure spirit sanctified it. For it was indeed a sanctuary to the loving father, whose only aim had been to provide for his daughter, so that she might be spared the pangs which poverty brings in its train. In this endeavor he would almost certainly have succeeded had he been spared; but the fatal accident nipped his hopes in the bud, and she was left penniless and alone. Mr. Braham had kept up his head, as the saying is, and none who knew him had any idea of the clever manœuvring he had practised to keep him and his daughter from falling out of the ranks in which they had moved all their lives. A rash speculation had brought him to this pass, and for years he had been struggling to extricate himself from its consequences. Another year and all would have been well; but death came too soon, and his daughter lived to reap what he had sown.

Even the home had to be sold to satisfy the creditors, and when this was done Emilia, a child of eighteen, faced the world with a shrinking heart. She had in her purse barely £5; the few trinkets she had possessed had been sold; she had set great store upon them, and was amazed to discover that their value was so small. For the last, last time she walked through the familiar rooms, and touched the walls, and knelt by her bed; and then she crept out of the house and proceeded to the two rooms she had taken in a street hard by. It would have quite broken her heart to go out of the neighborhood in which she and her dear father had lived.

Upon the first news of the dreadful loss she had sustained friends came and sympathized with her, but when it was known that her father died a ruined man, the sympathy expressed proved to be mere vaporing; those who had spoken so softly and kindly came no more. Emilia did not appeal to them; when they met her in the streets, and passed by with hasty nods, she did not stop and ask the reason why. Her heart was sorely wounded, but her pride also was touched. The offence and the slight were more against the dead than the living, and she suffered chiefly for the dear lost father's sake. She went to her lodgings, and looked around at the cold walls until she could look no more for the tears in her eyes.

She lived quietly and sadly for two weeks, at the end of which time she had but a guinea left of her £5. A terrible fear took possession of her. What would become of her when her purse was empty? She had not been entirely idle, but had made some efforts to obtain a situation as governess. She could speak French and German fluently; she could draw, she could paint, she was a good musician, she could dance, and her manners were refined. But with all these advantages she was unsuccessful. And now she had but a guinea to her fortune, and the future was before her. She took refuge in prayer; it comforted, but it was of no practical assistance to her. Sunrise and sunset, sunrise and sunset again, and again, and again; and now her purse was empty. But she was saved from absolute despair. At the supreme moment a visitor knocked at her door, and entered without waiting to be bidden.

Call her a lady if you will, our business with her will last but a brief space. Her name was Seaton.

"I hear, Miss Braham, that you require a situation," said Mrs. Seaton, unceremoniously.

"Yes, madam," said Emilia, her hand at her heart. This hard-featured, hard-voiced visitor had surely been sent from heaven to succor her. "Will you be seated?"

Mrs. Seaton took a chair without a word of thanks. "Have you been out before?"

"Out, madam?" says Emilia. Unused to worldly ways and idioms, she did not catch the meaning of the phrase.

"I suppose you have had other situations," explained Mrs. Seaton, with ungracious condescension.

"No, madam."

"That is not encouragement. You have no character, then."

"My character," faltered Emilia, "is well known. My dear father and I have lived in this neighborhood many years."

"I do not like evasions. You know the kind of character I mean. Fitness to teach young children, capacity, willingness, experience, cheerfulness, readiness to make yourself useful in any way."

"I would be willing to make myself useful, madam, to do all I was told. I think I could teach young children. Will you try me? I beg of you to do so. I am in a dreadful position; I have not a shilling in the world, and not a friend, I am afraid. Try me, madam. I will do everything you wish."

"Umph! Not a shilling in the world! And not a friend! Still more discouraging, because, Miss Braham, we generally get what we deserve."

"I think I deserve friends, madam," said Emilia, striving to keep back her tears, "but I have been unfortunate. I think you would be satisfied with me. I would try very, very hard."

She held out her trembling hands; to a tender hearted woman the affecting appeal would have been irresistible.

"A lady," said Mrs. Seaton, "has to be careful whom she takes into her home. I have six young children. What can you teach?"

In timid accents Emilia went through her accomplishments.

"I have only your word for it," said Mrs. Seaton.

"I am telling the truth, indeed, madam."

"People are so deceitful, and what is almost as bad, so, ungrateful. I'll take you on trial, Miss Braham, will you promise to teach my sweet children and do everything that is required of you?"

"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, eagerly, "everything; and you will find me very grateful--indeed, indeed you will."

"I will wait to convince myself of that. When can you come?"

"At once, madam. To-day, if you wish.

"Not to-day; to-morrow, early. Servants invariably come at night, which shows their unwillingness and the spirit in which they accept a situation. Here is my address. You understand? I take you on trial only."

"Yes, madam, I understand, and I thank you with all my heart."

"Of course, in these circumstances I can give you no wages for the first month. If we suit each other we will arrange terms afterward. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Quite agreeable, madam. I will come to-morrow morning."

"Very well; I shall expect you before twelve."

That night Emilia went to bed without food; but her week's rent was paid and she left her lodgings without disgrace.

Then commenced a life of torture. The children she had to teach were quarrelsome and vicious, and no taskmaster could have been harder than Mrs. Seaton was to the servants in her house. Two had left; two had given notice to leave. The consequence was that Emilia's mistress called upon her to do every kind of menial office, and willing as Emilia was, she found herself unequal to them. She sat up late at night, and rose early in the morning, played the part of nurse, schoolmistress, lady's maid, and housemaid, never receiving a word of thanks, until existence became unbearable. Driven to despair, without a home, without a friend, without money, she did not know which way to turn. Delicately nurtured, a lady by instinct and education, refined in her manners, and unused to menial work, no more deplorable position could be imagined. It was while she was in this sore strait that she made the acquaintance of Gerald Paget.

Twice in each week she had the privilege of walking out alone for an hour in the afternoon. Gerald, passing her, was attracted by the gentle beauty of her face, and blessed his good fortune when he met her for the second time. On this second occasion chance assisted him to an introduction. She was crossing the road, engrossed in sad thought, when warning shouts aroused her from her musings. There were cabs coming one way, carts another, and between them she was in danger of being run over. She slipped and fell, and Gerald, rushing forward, caught her up and bore her to the pavement. But fright and weakness had prostrated her, and she lay in his arms in a fainting condition. He carried her into a chemist's shop, where she revived. The words of kindness and sympathy which fell upon her ears when she opened her eyes, the tender consideration expressed in Gerald's voice, overpowered the suffering girl, and she burst into a passion of hysterical tears. With difficulty he soothed her, but every word he uttered rendered more profound the impression he had already produced upon the young girl. The unaccustomed notes of tenderness touched Emilia's heart, and that night as she lay in bed she recalled the words and the voice and dwelt with infinite gratitude upon the image of the young gentleman who had treated her with so much gentleness and consideration. But he did not leave her before he saw her safely to Mrs. Seaton's door; she would have had it otherwise, but he would not allow her to have her way, and on their road he heard from her lips the pitiful story of her misfortunes, He made inquiries, and learnt that her story was true, and this increased his pity for her. As she dwelt upon his image on that night, so did he on hers, and thus from their first meeting was established a spiritual connection between them. On the following day he called at Mrs. Seaton's house to inquire how Miss Paget was after her accident, and as this was the first time that lady had heard of it she was not in the most amiable of moods when she next spoke to the young lady she had engaged, and whom she was treating as a slave.

"I cannot," she said, "have young gentlemen calling at my house after my domestics."

But Emilia's spirit had been roused by the adventure. The consciousness that she was not entirely friendless gave her confidence and courage.

"It was not improper that he should call to inquire," she said. "He would have done so had I been living at home with my father."

"The cases are different," observed Mrs. Seaton, loftily. "Not entirely, madam," said Emilia, with a certain firmness. "Mr. Paget is a gentleman, and I am a lady."

"You! A lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, in great astonishment.

"Yes, madam. Poverty does not degrade one."

Upon this Mrs. Seaton commenced to storm and use bad language, and was so violent that Emilia was glad to escape from the room. From that day the unkind woman practised a system of oppression which almost drove Emilia mad. Had she possessed sufficient means to keep herself for even a week she would have fled from the house; but although she had now been in Mrs. Seaton's service for longer than the stipulated month not a word had been said about salary, nor had she received a shilling from her mistress. She remained because she was compelled to remain, and because she was powerless. Had Gerald been a lady instead of a gentleman she would have mustered courage to ask assistance from him, but as it was such a request was impossible. Mrs. Seaton's character, however, was well known to her neighbors, and from one with whom he had a slight acquaintance Gerald obtained information which made him unusually serious and grave. He had continued to call at the house, and had contrived to meet Emilia upon her afternoon walks; but Mrs. Seaton had received him with unbending stiffness, and he could not fail to observe Emilia's unhappiness. He loved the young girl, and it was not long before he made his sentiments known to her, but she, contrasting their positions, hardly dared to listen to him. For this he had partly to thank Mrs. Seaton, who, seeing that Gerald was strongly inclined to Emilia, treated the young girl to long and bitter dissertations upon the "infamy "--it was the word she used--of encouraging his attentions. She declared that such conduct was indelicate, unwomanly, disgraceful, and heaven knows what; there was no limit to her vituperation, and the unhappy girl, conscious that she loved Gerald and was not his equal, passed long nights in tears and sighs. When he commenced to speak upon the theme which was nearest his heart, she said, "I must not listen to you. I must not, I must not! If you have any respect for me, do not continue." Having more than a respect for her, having now a love as honest as it was profound, he obeyed her for a time; but still when he parted from her at the door he said, "Good-by, Emilia," as he pressed her hand, and she did not chide him for the familiarity. This gave him what he lacked, courage, and he did not lose hope. At length he resolved to put an end to this uncertainty, and as she begged him not to speak, he did the next best thing. He wrote, and entreated her to reply. But no reply came; and on the next occasion of her hour's holiday he did not see her at the accustomed place. What was the reason? Had he offended her? Had he been mistaken in believing that she loved him? Why did she not write to him? Why did she keep away from him? Lovers only who have gone through the stages of doubt and uncertainty can understand what he suffered.

But on the next occasion she did appear. He hastened to her side.

"Emilia!" he cried.

"Oh! hush," she sighed. "It is not right--it is not right!"

"It cannot be wrong," he said, tenderly, leading her to a sequestered spot. "You are unhappy, Emilia."

"Very very unhappy. And I am born to make others so."

"I will not hear you say that and be silent. You were born to make me happy, and can--if you only will, Amelia; if you only will!"

His ardor, his impetuosity, his sincerity, made her weak. She clung to him for support, and the next moment released herself and stood upright, inwardly reproaching herself, for being so foolish. Had she been the most artful of her sex she could not, all through, have acted more cunningly to fasten the chains which bound him to her; but she was only a weak and innocent girl, and when one such as she meets with a genuine, honest soul like Gerald, love is more powerful than cunning.

"Emilia, why did you not reply to my letter?"

"What letter?" she asked, in surprise.

"The letter I wrote to you. Five days I sent it, and I have counted the minutes. It is not like you, Emilia, to make me suffer so."

She turned her sweet face to him.

"I have received no letter, Mr. Paget."

"You have received no letter from me--and you will not call me Gerald!"

"I have received no letter," she repeated, "and I cannot call you--what you desire."

"Well," he said, with hot impatience, "let that rest awhile; we will speak of it again, and you will make me happy, I am sure, by doing such a very little thing as that. But my letter? I sent it to you--posted it with my own hands. Do you think I would entrust it to another?"

"How can I say? I do not even know what was in it. Five days ago! And why did you write to me? Oh, Mr. Paget, have you no regard for my helpless position?"

"Can you ask me such a question, Emilia?" he said, reproachfully. "Do you think there lives in the world a man who has a more sincere respect and esteem for you than I have?"

"No, no," she cried. "I did not intend to do you an injustice. I beg you to forgive me."

"Freely," he said, and spoke now with less impetuosity. "Whenever I have approached the subject of my love for you--do not stop me, Emilia; the words are spoken--whenever I have done that, you have begged me to desist. Well, I obeyed you; not for all the wide world, Emilia, would I cause you one moment's pain. But you did not tell me not to write, and so I wrote--what was in my heart, what is in it now, and I implored you to send me an answer soon. I am sure you would have done so had you received it."

"I do not know. The letter never reached me."

"I addressed it to the care of Mrs. Seaton."

"If it was delivered to her, she did not give it to me."

"It must have been delivered to her; it must have been left at her house, and to keep it from you is a crime. She shall be punished for it."

"Oh, Mr. Paget, do not make things harder for me than they are already!"

It was an involuntary confession, the first she had made to him, and it opened his eyes.

"You are not happy with her?" he asked.

She did not reply. To have admitted it would have been almost like asking protection from him. Her sensitive nature shrunk from such an indelicacy.

"I must go back now," she said, presently. "I have been away too long."

"I will go with you, Emilia."

"I entreat you not to do so. It will subject me to further indignity."

In this was conveyed a second involuntary confession; he noted it with burning indignation against Mrs. Seaton, but made no open comment upon it.

"I obey you," he said, "in this as in everything else. You are suffering, and I pity you from my heart of hearts. I am also suffering. Will you not give me a little pity?"

"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Paget; indeed, indeed I am. It would have been better for you had we never met."

"Can you utter such a heresy--you, the soul of truth and honesty? I bless the day on which I met you; it will live forever in my memory as the happiest in my life. Give me your hand. Why do you shrink? You would give it to the commonest friend, and I am at least that. Thank you. There! I merely press it, as an ordinary friend would do--only you must feel the pulses of my heart in my fingers. That is not my fault. I cannot help it beating, and beating for you, Emilia. May I walk with you a little way?"

"Not far. You will not come with me to the door?"

"No, if you insist. I will leave you before we reach it."

"Before we are in the street, Mr. Paget."

"Yes, before we are in the street. But I give you fair warning, Emilia. I must have an answer to my letter, and I must find out what has become of it. Is not that right?"

"I suppose it is."

"It is not a matter of supposing. It is or it is not. Be as frank with me as I am with you, Emilia."

"It is right that you should ascertain what has become of it."

"Of course. It is mine or yours. No one else's. We have something that is ours, in which no other person has any business to interfere. I shall think of that with satisfaction."

"A simple letter, Mr. Paget."

"A simple letter," he said, very gravely, "in which the happiness of an honest gentleman's life is enclosed. There! Do not tremble. I am not going to say anything more serious just now, but said it must be soon, Emilia, and then I shall know what the future will be for me. And even if I were dumb and that letter was never recovered, another can be written which shall reach its destination. Why do you stop? Oh, yes, you wish me to say good-by here. Well, good-by, Emilia!"

"Good-by, Mr. Paget."

"Will you not call me Gerald? Such a little word, Emilia!"

She fled; but not before she had given him a sweet and timid look which caused his heart to throb with hope, as it was already throbbing with love.

CHAPTER XXIV.

SLANDER.

Later in the day Mrs. Seaton was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see her. Entering the room she saw Gerald Paget. She received him as usual with a frown, of which he took no notice. By this time he was hardened to the coldness of her receptions of him. Besides, he had prepared himself for the interview, and knew pretty well what he intended to say to her.

"I thought, Mr. Paget," she said, "that I had made you understand it is not my wish to encourage your visits to any of my servants."

"I did not inquire for any of your servants," he said, very politely, "but for you."

"What have you to say to me?"

"Something to the point--presently. First, however, I must correct you in a misconception into which you appear to have fallen. My visits to this house have been quite open, and have not been made to a servant."

"Indeed! To whom, then?"

"To a lady who accepted the position of governess to your children. It is not usual to call these gentlewomen servants."

"I decline," said Mrs. Seaton, "to enter into any argument with you on the point. I know the exact position of persons in my employ and the proper titles to give them. You are a young man, and have much to learn."

"I am aware of it, Mrs. Seaton; you, also, have something to learn. But I would impress strongly upon you the fact that Miss Braham is a lady, and--your equal."

"By no means--but I shall not argue. Oblige me by coming at once to the purport of your visit to me."

"The purport is a grave one, Mrs. Seaton, and I shall be sorry if the result is not satisfactory to you. A few days ago I addressed a letter to Miss Braham, which has not reached her hands."

"What has that to do with me?" Mrs. Seaton asked this question without flinching. She had received the letter, read it, and if she had any fear of consequences she did not show it. Her manner was rather scornful than guilty.

"A great deal I should say," replied Gerald. "It is no light matter to purloin a letter addressed to another person."

"Purloin, sir!"

"That is the word I have used, and intended to use. I wish to know what you have done with that letter?"

"I have done nothing with it. No such letter was ever left at this house to my knowledge."

"What if I set afoot an inquiry which would prove that to be not the truth?"

Mrs. Seaton rang the bell. "I must request you to leave the house," she said.

"I will do so in a minute or two. I happen to know that your letter-box is kept locked, and that no one opens it but yourself. I regret to be compelled to say to a lady that it is a wicked and cowardly action to appropriate a letter not addressed to herself. Of such an action you have undoubtedly been guilty. May I inquire if the letter I refer to is still in existence?"

"You may inquire what you please, sir, but I shall make no reply to your insults. I presume you have obtained certain information from Miss Braham.

"Yes, she informed me that she had not received a letter I wrote to her."

"She informed you," said Mrs. Seaton, with a venomous look. "When?"

"This afternoon."

"I understand. You and she are in the habit of meeting in secret outside my house. Such conduct is infamous, and now that I have positive knowledge of such proceedings I shall know how to act. Mr. Paget, we are speaking here in private, with no listeners to report what is said. Let me advise you to be careful as to what you say or do about this imaginary letter of yours. The young person you refer to may have a good name to lose, and it will be foolish on your part to set a lady of my standing in society against her. Mud will stick, Mr. Paget, never mind, by whom it is thrown, but when it is thrown by a lady or gentleman of repute it will stick all the closer. I learn, too late, that you have used my house as an assignation house----"

"You are stating what is false," cried Gerald, indignantly.

"As an assignation house," repeated Mrs. Seaton, with a malicious smile. "Having discovered your baseness--for you are no gentleman, Mr. Paget, and the other person implicated is no lady--there is only one course open to me. That course I shall pursue. If you do not leave my presence instantly I shall send for the police to remove you."

With that, the venomous woman threw open the door, and Gerald Paget, dismayed and discomfited, took his departure.

"A nice mess I have made of it," he thought, as he walked ruefully from the house, without venturing to look back. "What on earth made me beard the lioness in her den? The lioness! Not at all. There is something of nobility in that breed, and Mrs. Seaton hasn't a particle of nobility about her. She is a serpent. Her fangs are poisonous. How will she act toward Emilia? Mud will stick, she says. But what does it matter if Emilia loves me?"

He allowed himself to be carried away by his enthusiasm. He was young, impulsive, honest, and straightforward. Grand weapons in honorable warfare, but when is war honorable? The world, with its hidden snares and pitfalls, lay before him and Emilia, in whose pure souls faith and love shone radiant. How would it fare with them when pitted against envy, greed, and malice? Here was Mrs. Seaton, ready to defame and blacken; and travelling swiftly toward them was the beggar and spendthrift, Leonard, the man of selfish pleasure.

CHAPTER XXV.

LOST, OR SAVED?

Some three hours after Gerald's departure from the house, Emilia was summoned into the presence of Mrs. Seaton. When she received the message she was preparing for bed; it was night, and a heavy rain was falling.

"I have sent for you," said Mrs. Seaton, gazing at the young girl with pitiless eyes, "for the purpose of putting an immediate end to a disgraceful state of affairs. On the day I consented to take you upon trial, I informed you that I could give you no wages until I was satisfied that you would suit me. Is that correct?"

"You said," replied Emilia, "that you could give me none for the first month, and that, if we suited each other, you would arrange terms afterward."

"You have been here nearly seven weeks, and no terms have been arranged."

"That is true, madam."

"The fact being that we do not suit each other."

"I fear it is so."

"In which case--the basis of any terms whatever being suitability--no wages are due to you up to this date. Legally you are entitled to nothing."

"You know best, madam."

"I have allowed you to remain in my house in the hope that certain doubts I entertained would be dispelled. I regret to say they are not dispelled. However, I shall not charge you for your board and lodging."

Emilia bowed her head. Utterly inexperienced as she was, she had not the least doubt that Mrs. Seaton was putting the case fairly, and that she could really be called upon to pay for the food and shelter she had received.

"Ordinarily," continued Mrs. Seaton, "one would expect gratitude for such kindness. I do not. Be kind enough to sign this paper."

Upon the table lay a written document which, with Emilia's signature to it, would free Mrs. Seaton from any possible liability. In the last sentence of the artfully-worded release, Emilia acknowledged that she left Mrs. Seaton's house and service of her own accord. The young girl took the pen which Mrs. Seaton held out to her, and was about to sign when the elder lady said,

"I wish you to read and understand what you are signing. I shall not put it in your power to say that I took advantage of your youth and inexperience--for that is the way you would put it, I expect."

Emilia's eyes were blurred with tears, and although she took the paper in her trembling hands, she could not read what was written thereon.

"It is perfectly correct, is it not?" asked Mrs. Seaton.

"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, faintly, glad of the opportunity of hiding her distress of mind, "if you say it is."

"Of course. You will observe that it places you in an unexpectedly favorable position. Leaving my service of your own accord will make it easier for you to obtain another situation, if such should be your desire. Wait a moment. I should like your signature to be witnessed."

She rang the bell, and a maid appeared, a new servant who had arrived only that evening.

"I rang for you, Jane, to witness Miss Braham's signature to this paper. You can write?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"Miss Braham has read the document, and perfectly understands its terms. That is the truth, is it not, Miss Braham?"

"Yes, madam," said the helpless girl.

"You hear, Jane? Now, Miss Braham, you can sign it if you wish."

Emilia wrote her name, and Jane wrote hers as witness, proud of the confidence reposed in her. Then Mrs. Seaton gave the new servant some whispered instructions, and she left the room.

Had Emilia's agitation allowed her, she could not have failed to notice that while Jane was in the room Mrs. Seaton's voice was kind and considerate, in striking contrast to the tone in which she spoke when they were alone.

"And now, Miss Braham," said Mrs. Seaton, folding up the paper and pocketing it with an air of triumph, "you will leave my house at once."

"At once, madam!" exclaimed the bewildered girl.

"This instant. I will not allow you to remain in it another hour. As the mother of a family I have a duty to perform. Your presence here is a contamination."

"I will not answer your insults, madam," faltered Emilia, "but it is night and rain is falling----"

"That is not my affair. You are well known, and can easily find lodgement with some of your friends----"

"I have none. You surely cannot be so cruel as to drive me away at such an hour."

"I am prepared for anything you may say. The paper you have signed fully protects me from any base statements you may make when you are no longer under my roof. You have no friends? Why, there is Mr. Paget. Do you think I have been blind to your goings on? Assignations, secret meetings, under my very eyes. Go to him. I have no doubt you know where to find him."

"Madam!"

"Oh, you may madam me as much as you like; it will not alter my determination. Ah, Jane"--to the new servant who entered the room--"have you locked the door of the room which Miss Braham occupied?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And brought her box down?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Give me the key of the room. That will do, my good girl; I do not require you any more. Go down-stairs and get your supper. Leave the door open." The merciless woman waited until Jane had reached the basement and was out of hearing; then she spoke again. "If you cannot take your box with you to-night, you can send for it in the morning, but once out of my house you do not enter it again. Go immediately, or I will send for the police."

She advanced toward Emilia, who retreated in affright; step by step she hounded the poor girl to the street door, which she threw open. The next moment Emilia was standing alone in the dark and gloomy night.

Dazed and horrified, she felt as if her senses were leaving her; she pressed her hands over her eyes, and cowered to the walls for protection. But a friend was near.

Restless with love's fever, Gerald, heedless of the rain--for what is so slight a thing to one who loves as he did?--was hovering about the house in which his darling lived. He looked up at the windows, and choosing one as the window of Emilia's room, gazed at it with fervor, making of it a very heaven--a heaven to be glorified by her presence. "To-morrow," he mused, as he paced slowly up and down on the opposite side, "I will ask her plainly to be my wife. She is unhappy--she told me so--and it must be because she is living with such a wicked woman. Yes, I will ask her to-morrow. She loves me, I am sure of it. It is only that she is poor and I am rich. What of that? It will make it all the better for us--a thousand times better than if she were rich and I were poor. Then we might never come together. Dear Emilia, sweet Emilia, the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful on earth! I love her, I love her, I love her!"

Thus ecstatically musing, he saw the street-door suddenly opened and as suddenly and violently shut, and a figure thrust forth, as if in anger. He had no idea that it was Emilia; the thought was too barbarous to be entertained; but out of curiosity he crossed the road and went up to it.

"Good God!" he cried; "Emilia!" and caught her up in his arms.

"Oh, Gerald, Gerald!" she sobbed, and lay there, helpless and almost heartbroken, and yet with a sweet sense of comfort stealing upon her great grief.

What mattered rain and darkness? She had called him Gerald, and he knew for a surety that he was loved. He kissed her, and she did not resist, but lay, sobbing more quietly now, within the sanctuary of his loving arms.

Ecstasy at being permitted to embrace her enthralled him for a time, but presently he begged her to explain the meaning of her being thrust at such an hour from Mrs. Seaton's house. Before she could render it the street-door was opened quietly and slowly, and a woman's face peered out--Mrs. Seaton's.

"I thought as much," cried the stony-hearted woman, with a laugh. "A pretty pair!" and then the door was closed again, and only the sound of the falling rain was heard.

With a feeling of burning indignation Gerald looked down upon the white face of his dear girl. Her eyes were closed; her arms hung loose at her side; she had fainted.

He was thankful that the street was deserted and that there were no witnesses near, for he had sense enough to know that Emilia's reputation was at stake.

"You fiend," he muttered, with a dark glance at Mrs. Seaton's house. "You abominable fiend!" And then he called softly, "Emilia, Emilia! Look up, my darling. We are safe now, and we will never part."

His voice, but not the words he spoke, reached her senses. She opened her eyes, and clung more closely to him, murmuring,

"For Heaven's sake, take me from this place."

"Come, then," he said, supporting her. It was not until they had traversed two or three streets that Gerald began to feel perplexed. Where should he take her? He had no lady friend to whom he could apply and who would be willing to receive Emilia. It would be dangerous to her character to go to an hotel. The hour, the circumstances, Emilia's agitated state, were all against them. She was too weak to speak for herself; upon him devolved the responsibility of providing for her, of protecting her, and he was conscious that anything he might say to strangers would do her more harm than good. There was already a danger that she was being compromised. Some persons had passed them in the streets, and dark as was the night, they could scarcely fail to see that his arm was round her waist and that she was clinging to him. Now and then sobs escaped from her overcharged heart. A few of the people they met turned and looked after them, and Gerald heard one laugh. It went through him like a sharp knife. If he could only get her safely housed before she was recognized! But he was by no means sure that this danger had been averted. Certainly two men who had passed them were men he knew.

As for Emilia, happily or unhappily for herself, she noticed nothing. This terrible crisis had completely prostrated her, and all that she was conscious of was that she was under the protection of an honorable man, and had escaped from the oppression of a vile woman.

Something must be done, and done soon. They could not walk the streets the whole night. Every moment added to the dangers of the position.

"Emilia, will you listen to me?"

"I am listening, Gerald."

It was as if she had called him so all her life; and, indeed, in the purest innocence, she had often murmured his name in secret to herself. He was thrilled with ineffable happiness.

"You understand what I am saying to you, Emilia?"

"Yes."

"It is very late."

With sudden terror she cried, "You will not leave me, Gerald? You will not desert me?"

"No, indeed. Do not be afraid. I am yours forever, in truth and honor. But we must be prudent."

"I will do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world but you."

In his honor and honesty lay her safety. Well was it for her that she had by her side a man like Gerald.

"Where did you live before you went to Mrs. Seaton?" She shuddered at the name, and answered, "In Grafton Street," and mentioned the number.

They were nearly a mile from the house, and in Emilia's weak state it took them more than half an hour to get there, but weak as she was she did not complain of fatigue. She was content so long as Gerald was with her. There was no cessation in the rain, which still fell steadily.

There was not a light to be seen in any of the windows of the house. Gerald knocked, but knocked in vain. In despair he turned away, and Emilia walked patiently with him.

Then it forced itself upon him that there was still the alternative of endeavoring to obtain a room for her in a respectable hotel. To conduct her to one of doubtful repute was not to be thought of. It was close on midnight when they reached the hotel he had in his mind. He did not venture to take her inside the building with him. Her swollen eyes, her death-white face, her dishevelled hair, her clothes soaked with rain, would have ensured failure. Besides, until he was sure of a shelter for her, he did not care to expose her to the prying eyes of strangers.

He explained to her what he was about to do, but he was doubtful whether she quite understood him. All she said was:

"I do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world but you."

She had spoken these words many times, and no appeal could have been more plaintive. The pity of it was that every time she uttered them her voice had grown fainter.

"Wait here for me, Emilia. I will not be gone long. If anyone speaks to you do not answer them."

"You will come back to me, Gerald?"

"Yes, surely, my darling."

He was fated not to succeed. His lame explanations, his stumbling words, his references to "a young lady in an unfortunate position," his statement that it would be rendering him a personal obligation, ensured failure. The lady manager of the hotel shook her head, and said she could not accommodate his friend "under such circumstances," adding that she was surprised he should ask her to do so.

He rejoined Emilia, whose fingers tightened upon his arm as she murmured:

"You have come back!"

They had not walked fifty yards before her strength gave way. Again she fainted, and but for his support would have fallen to the ground. Hailing a passing cab he, with the assistance of the driver, lifted her into it, and gave the man instructions to drive to his house. With a covert smile the man mounted to his box, and drove in the given direction.

The house in which Gerald lived was that his parents had occupied. He had been loth to leave it until the arrival of his half-brother Leonard, when he had decided to discuss their future movements with him. He had had a sincere affection for Leonard, and relied greatly upon his judgment. Most of the servants had been dismissed; only two remained, a housekeeper and a maid, and these attended to the young gentleman's wants. They were in the habit of retiring early to bed; Gerald had a latchkey with which he let himself in when he came home late. Thus, in the present emergency, a certain privacy was ensured.

Under no other circumstances than these would Gerald have dreamed of taking Emilia to his house, but he was driven to a course of which he inwardly disapproved. He had no time now to consider consequences; Emilia demanded all his attention. She was still unconscious when they arrived at the house, and he was compelled to ask the assistance of the driver to carry her in. This being accomplished, he paid the man liberally and dismissed him.

They had entered without being observed; the housekeeper and the maid occupied rooms below, and Gerald supposed them to be both asleep at the time. The room into which Emilia had been carried was his favorite apartment, on the ground floor, and was somewhat daintily furnished. From a sideboard he took wine and biscuits, and from an inner room he brought towels and a basin of cold water. The fire in the grate had burned low, but he threw wood and coals on it, and it was soon in a bright blaze. Then he drew the sofa upon which Emilia was lying close to the fireplace, and stood debating with himself what he should do. Had the housekeeper been the only servant in the house he would have called her in to attend to Emilia; she had been many years in the service of his family, and he thought he could trust her; but he was sure he could not trust the maid, who was an inveterate chatterbox. Before he had decided what to do Emilia revived; struggling to her feet she gazed around in stupefaction. In as few words as possible Gerald explained what had occurred; she listened to him in silence, then sank upon the couch, and burst into a passion of tears.

"Are you angry with me, Emilia?" he asked, in deep concern. "I could do nothing else. To have kept you in the streets any longer would have been your death. Listen to the rain; it is coming down harder than ever. Here at least you are safe for a few hours. The housekeeper is asleep down-stairs. I will call her up if you wish, but there is another servant who cannot be trusted, I fear."

"If anyone sees me here I shall die of shame," said Emilia, in a low tone. "What will become of me--oh, what will become of me?"

"There is nothing to fear," said Gerald, "and no one need be aware that you are in the house. Do you not know already that I love you with all my heart and soul, and that by consenting to become my wife you will make me the happiest man in the world? The position in which we are placed has been forced upon us. No one shall have the power of placing an evil construction upon it. I will see to that. Your happiness, your honor, are in my keeping. Can you not trust me, Emilia?"

With these and other words as true and tender, he succeeded in calming her. With innate delicacy he did not press her to answer him at such an hour; he would wait till to-morrow; meanwhile he explained his plan to her. She was to occupy the room till the morning, and to lock herself in. He would find a bed elsewhere. Before the servants rose he would return to the house and make a confidant of the housekeeper; the younger servant should be sent upon a distant errand which would keep her from the house till eleven or twelve o'clock. Before that time Emilia would be settled elsewhere. Thus the secret would be preserved and the tongue of scandal silenced.

"And then, Emilia," he said, gazing upon her with ardent affection, "I will ask for my reward."

It was impossible, even if her heart were not already his, that she should fail to be touched by his delicacy and devotion. Tenderly and humbly she thanked him, and intended to say that she would give him his answer on the morrow, but love broke down the barrier of reserve. Involuntarily she held out her hands to him, and he clasped her in his arms and kissed her on her lips, and said that the embrace was a pledge of truth and constancy.

"From you, Emilia, as well as from me!"

"Yes, Gerald," she sighed; "I love you!"

So through the clouds of this dolorous night broke the sun of faithful mutual love. It might have been excused him had he lingered, but for her sake he would not.

"I shall wait in the passage," he said, "to hear you turn the key. No one will disturb you. The housekeeper does not enter this room till I ring in the morning, and I am not always an early bird. Good-night, dear love."

"Good-night, dear Gerald. Are you sure you will be able to get a bed?"

"I can get a dozen. God bless and guard you!"

They kissed each other once more, and then he left her. He waited in the passage to hear the key turned, and with a lover's foolish fondness kissed the door which shut his treasure from his sight. He listened in the passage a moment or two to assure himself that all was still and safe, and then he crept to the street-door, which he opened and closed very softly. He did not seek a bed elsewhere, having come to the determination that it would be a better security from slanderous tongues that it should be supposed he slept in his own house that night. So he made pilgrimages through the streets, ever and anon coming back to the house which sheltered his darling. But once it fatefully happened that he was absent for some thirty or forty minutes, during which period a startling and unexpected incident occurred, the forerunner of as strange a series as ever entered into the history of two loving hearts.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE.

The young servant whose loquacious tongue Gerald did not dare to trust was not asleep when he brought Emilia home. She was in bed, it was true, but wide-awake, with a candle alight at her bedside. It was against the rules of the house, but she did not care for that, being deeply engrossed in a thrilling story which set rules at defiance and drove sleep away. She heard the street-door opened and closed, then a murmur of voices, like the distant murmur of the sea, and then the second opening and closing of the street-door. The sounds did not arouse her curiosity, she was so profoundly interested in the fate of the hero and heroine that nothing short of a miracle could have diverted her attention. So she read on with eager eyes and panting bosom, long after Gerald had left the house, and would have continued to read, had she not come to those tantalizing words, "To be continued in our next." Then, with a long-drawn sigh, she turned in her bed--and forgot to blow out the candle.

Emilia had intended not to sleep; she would keep awake all the night, and wait for Gerald in the morning--the morning of the day which was to be for her the herald of a new and happier life. She bore Mrs. Seaton no malice for the indignities she had suffered in her house. There was no room in Emilia's heart for anything but love. With what heartfelt gratitude did she dwell upon the image of Gerald, the noblest man on earth. "I thank God for him," she sighed. "Dear Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast given me the love of a man like Gerald. My Gerald! Is it true? Can it be real? Ah, yes; I see his dear eyes looking into mine; his dear voice sinks into my heart. Make me grateful for the happiness before me!" It stretched out into the future years, a vista of peace and love and joy. Insensibly she sank upon her knees and prayed, and when she rose the room, the world, and all that it contained, were transfigured. How fair, how sweet was life! She had prayed for Gerald and for herself, had prayed that she might prove worthy of him, and might be endowed with power to brighten his days. Then she sat before the fire, and clasping her knee with her hands, imagined bright pictures in the glowing points of lights. She felt herself sinking to sleep. "I will just close my eyes for a few minutes," she thought. There were warm rugs about the room. Loosening her dress, she threw herself upon the couch, and covering herself with the rugs, fell asleep with joy in her heart and a smile on her lips.

At half-past three in the morning Gerald, after an absence of half an hour or so, was returning to the street in which his house was situated, when he saw an angry glare in the sky, and heard sounds of confusion in the near distance. Almost instantly A fire-engine raced past him. He hastened after it, partly from instinct, but chiefly because it was going in his direction. He had, however, no idea that the danger personally concerned him. Long before he reached his street he was undeceived. Crowds of people encompassed him, and he found it difficult to proceed. Three or four fire-engines were at work; firemen were risking their lives in the enthusiasm of their noble work; policemen were keeping back the excited lookers-on.

"My God!" he cried, as he turned the corner; "it is my house, and Emilia is there!"

Frantically he strove to force his way through the crowd, which would not give way for him at first, but he redoubled his efforts, and running under or leaping over firemen, policemen, and the men and women who were surging round, he tore off his coat, and rushed toward the burning building. He was pulled back, and escaping from those who held him, darted forward again with despairing cries, and was caught in the arms of one who knew him.

"It's all right," cried this man to the firemen. "Mr. Paget has escaped from the house."

He who spoke thought that Gerald, instead of striving to enter the house, had just emerged from it, and his idea was strengthened by the circumstance that Gerald was in his shirt sleeves. One in authority came up to Gerald and said:

"We were getting frightened about you, sir. We got out a young lady and your two servants----"

"A young lady!" gasped Gerald, and inwardly thanked God that Emilia was saved.

"Yes, sir. There's some mystery about her, because your housekeeper said there was no young lady there, but out she came, or was carried, insensible----"

"For God's sake," cried Gerald, "don't tell me she is injured!"

"I think not, sir; but she was in an insensible condition, and some people took her away. Your housekeeper said you were the only one left. Now that we know no lives are lost we can get on with our work. Your house is a wreck, sir; there'll be very little saved out of it."

"Where was the young lady taken to?" asked Gerald, in a state of indescribable agitation, detaining the officer by the sleeve.

"I can't tell you, sir. Excuse me, I must attend to my duty."

Releasing himself from Gerald's grasp, he plunged among his men. Gerald, in his eager anxiety for information of Emilia, asked a dozen persons around him, and obtained a dozen different answers. One said one thing, one said another, and each speaker contradicted the one who had previously spoken. At length he saw on the outskirts of the crowd his housekeeper talking to a lady, and running toward them, he saw that the lady was Mrs. Seaton.

"I am glad you are saved, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton, with freezing politeness. "I was just asking your housekeeper who is the young lady who was carried out of your house barely half dressed, and she insists that no such person was there. But as a hundred people saw her, there is, of course, no disputing a fact so clear. Perhaps you can tell us who she is?"

A number of neighbors gathered around, some who knew both Gerald and Emilia.

"And I said, sir," said the housekeeper, "that their eyes deceived them----"

"Oh, that is very likely," interposed Mrs. Seaton, in her most malicious tone.

"Because," continued the housekeeper, "when we went to bed last night there was nobody but me and that little wretch of a Susan in the house. It was her who set the place on fire, sir, with her novel reading. I hope she'll be put in prison for it."

"But enlighten us, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton. "Who was the young lady?"

"You are a malicious scandal-monger," cried Gerald, and tore himself away, feeling that he had made for himself and Emilia a more bitter enemy in calling Mrs. Seaton by that name.

He continued his inquiries for Emilia, but could obtain no satisfaction. So many different stories were related to him that he could not tell which was the true one.

The truth was that Emilia, being aroused from sleep by the fire, unlocked the door of the room in which Gerald had left her, and rushed into the passage. The place was strange to her, and she might have been burned to death had not a fireman, who was making his way past her, pulled her into the street. There she was taken up by one and another, striving all the while to escape the prying eyes of those around her, until, overcome by the complicated horror of her position, she swooned away. Two compassionate maiden ladies, sisters, pitying her state, said they would take care of her, and conveyed her to their home.

There they tended her, wondering who she was, for she was a stranger to them, as they were to her. But the terrors through which Emilia had passed had completely prostrated her; the whole of the succeeding day she fell from one faint into another, and the doctor who was called in said it would be best to wait awhile before they questioned her too closely. "She has had a severe mental shock," he said, "and if we are not careful she will have an attack of brain fever." On the evening of the following day she was somewhat better, but her mind was almost a blank as to what had transpired during the past twenty-four hours. The image of Gerald occasionally obtruded itself, and if he had appeared, all would have been well; he was her rock, her shield, and, incapable as she was of coherent thought, his absence weighed upon her as a reproach, and she felt as if God and man had forsaken her. An experience still more cruel was in store for her.

It was night, and she heard a voice in the adjoining room that smote her with terror, the voice of Mrs. Seaton speaking to the ladies who had befriended her. More successful than Gerald, Mrs. Seaton had hunted her down.

"It's a neighborly duty," Mrs. Seaton was saying, "to prevent kind-hearted ladies like yourselves from being imposed upon. I have suffered from her artfulness and wickedness myself, and there was no one to warn me; but if you allow yourself to be taken in by her you will do it with your eyes open."

"She is very gentle-mannered," said one of the two ladies who had befriended her, "and we have a great pity for her. Surely she cannot be so bad as you paint her."

"Facts are facts," said Mrs. Seaton. "You do not even know her name."

"She is too weak to enter into particulars," said the lady, "and we forbore to press her."

"Too weak!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, with a derisive laugh. "Fiddlesticks! Excuse me for speaking so, but I hardly have patience with her. Her weakness is put on; you are no match for the creature. Of course if you do not mind being disgraced by association with such a character it is no business of mine; but I ought to know her better than you do."

"You use strong words," said the lady very gravely. "Disgraced! It is too dreadful to think of. What is her name?"

"Emilia Braham. Her father died deeply involved, and would no doubt have swindled his creditors if he had lived; fortunately for them he died suddenly, and they were able to step in and save something from the wreck. I will tell you the whole story if you care to hear it."

"We ought to hear it."

"You shall. After her father's death she came to me and begged me to give her a situation. I took her out of pity. 'I will give you a trial,' I said to her. So she came into my house, and I treated her as a daughter. After a time I had my suspicions, and I do not mind confessing that I set a watch upon her. Then I discovered that she was carrying on a disgraceful intimacy with Mr. Gerald Paget, meeting him regularly and secretly, and keeping out at all hours. When she found that all was known she told her gentleman friend, who came to me and bullied me. In return for his insults I showed him the door, and forbade his ever entering my house again. Then in the evening I sent for the creature and informed her that she must leave my service the following morning--that is, to-day. The language she used to me was dreadful, and she said she would go at once. I told her I would not allow it; badly as she had behaved, I felt that it was not right for her, a single girl, to leave the house at night. However, she insisted, and I had to give way. To protect myself from her malicious slanders, I wrote out a paper which she signed in the presence of another servant, who is ready to testify that the creature knew perfectly well what she was doing. Here it is; you can read it. The other servant witnessed her signature, as you see. Then she left the house, and I soon found out why. She had arranged a clandestine meeting with Mr. Paget that very night--I saw her with my own eyes in his embrace. An hour or two afterward they got into a cab--I can give you the number of the cab and the name of the driver--and drove to Mr. Paget's residence, he being a bachelor, mind you, and living alone with only two female servants in his employ. When he took the creature home he knew quite well that his domestics were abed and asleep, and that there was no risk of his scandalous doings being discovered. But he reckoned without his host. There is a Providence--yes, happily there is a Providence. The fire occurred, and the creature you are harboring rushed out of Mr. Paget's house. Ask her how she got into it. In the middle of the night, too. I ask you, as ladies of common-sense, what construction does it bear? No artfully-invented tale can explain it away. You should be thankful to me for putting you on your guard. Oh, you don't know these creatures!"

"It is a dreadful story," said the lady.

"I hope you will do your duty, as I have done mine. Have I put it too strongly in saying that her presence here is a disgrace?"

"No. We are obliged to you for the unpleasant task you have performed. To-morrow, if she is strong enough, I will request her to take her departure."

"Too lenient by far. In your place I should bundle her out, neck and crop. If you wait till she says she is well enough to go you will wait a precious long time. I shall take care, for my part, that everybody knows the truth."

"Is it not strange," asked the lady, "that Mr. Paget has not called to inquire after her?"

"Not at all; he wishes to keep his name out of the disgraceful affair if he can. It is perfectly clear that he is ashamed of the connection, and wants to be rid of it. So long as it could be kept quiet he didn't mind, but now that it is made public--I can't help repeating, in the most providential manner--it is another pair of shoes. Why, the whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face, if she has the hardihood to do it, she will meet with a proper reception. I shouldn't at all wonder if it gets into the papers. Good-night."

Then there was a rustling of skirts, and Emilia knew that her cruel persecutor had taken her leave. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and the scalding tears ran down her fingers. The horror of the situation was almost more than she could bear. She could not think clearly, but through her aching brain one conviction forced itself. She was disgraced, irretrievably disgraced. Her good name was lost forever. Nothing could restore it, nothing. If an angel from heaven were to declare it, no man or woman would hereafter believe in her purity and innocence. What should she do? Wait till the morning to be turned from the hospitable house of these kind sisters? Go forth into the broad light of day, and be pointed at and publicly shamed? No, she would fly at once, secretly and alone, into the hard, cold world, far, far from the merciless men and women who were ready to defame her. The story which Mrs. Seaton had related to the maiden sisters was false and malignant, but it was built upon a foundation of truth. If she herself had to give evidence in her own defence she would be pronounced guilty. She had been turned from Mrs. Seaton's house late in the night, but she had signed a paper saying that she went of her own free will. She and Gerald had been together in the streets--for how long? She could not remember, but it seemed to be hours. And as if that were not shame enough she had taken refuge in his house and had accepted his hospitality at an hour that would make virtuous women blush. He had pledged his faith to her, he had asked her to be his wife, and now, when she most needed a defender, he was absent. It was true, then, that he had deserted her. Had it been otherwise would he not have sought her long before this, would he not have been present to cast the malignant lie in Mrs. Seaton's face? She had believed so fully in his faith and honor, in his professions of love! But he was false, like all the rest of the world, from which sweetness and life had forever fled.

"Oh, God!" she moaned. "In your Divine mercy, let me die to-night!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

LEONARD RETURNS HOME.

A revulsion took place within her which, for a few moments, imbued her with strength. Upon a piece of blank paper she wrote the words, "I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me--Emilia Braham." Dark as it was she managed to form the letters fairly well, and she laid the paper upon the dressing-table. Then despair overtook her again. What had Mrs. Seaton said? "The whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face she will meet with a proper reception." But she would not give her revilers the opportunity of publicly hounding her down.

With stealthy steps she crept into the passage. No one was near. Softly she glided to the door. The next moment she was in the street, flying she knew not whither. All that she was conscious of was that the direction she was taking led her away from the town. It was her wish; no person who knew her must ever look upon her face again. First solitude, then death--that was her prayer. She reached the outskirts of the town and plunged into a wood. A part of her desire was accomplished. In her flight no one had recognized or noticed her, and now she was alone with her shame and her despair. For the consciousness of her innocence did not sustain her. Judgment had been pronounced; she was condemned.

Meanwhile the maiden ladies, believing that Emilia was asleep, sat in their room overcome with grief. The revelation which Mrs. Seaton had made to them was a great shock to these simple ladies, who were almost as ignorant of the world's bad ways and of the worst side of human nature as Emilia herself. They did not hear the young girl's footfall in the passage, and Emilia had made no noise in opening the street door, which she left open, fearing that the sound of its closing would betray her. They were silent for many minutes after Emilia's departure, and when they spoke it was in whispers.

"It is a frightful story," said the younger lady. "Can it be true?"

Her sister did not reply immediately; she was thinking of the sweet and innocent face of the hapless girl, and of the impossibility that it could be a mask to depravity. Presently she clasped her sister's hand and said:

"We will not judge, dear, till we hear what she has to say."

"You are always right," said the younger sister, and both experienced a feeling of relief. "Let us go to her; she may be awake."

They stole into the adjoining room, and one said gently, "Are you awake?" Then, presently, "We do not wish to disturb you."

They listened in the darkness and heard no sound of breathing.

"I will get a candle," whispered the elder sister. Returning with it they looked around in alarm. "She is gone! Poor child, poor child! She must have heard what the lady said, and would not wait to be thrust forth. Oh, sister, is it innocence or guilt?"

"Innocence, dear sister, innocence!" replied the younger lady, snatching up the paper upon which Emilia had written. "See sister; 'I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me.--Emilia Braham.' She speaks the truth. She is innocent, she is innocent!"

"Yes," said the elder sister, solemnly. "She is innocent. Thank God!"

Tears ran down their cheeks; their faith in goodness was restored.

"But where has she gone? Oh, sister, so young, so sweet, so helpless!"

They threw shawls over their shoulders, and ran to the street door, observing that Emilia in her flight had left it open. As they stood there, looking anxiously up and down the dark street, two gentlemen approached and accosted them. They were Gerald and his half-brother Leonard.

In explanation of their presence a retrospect of a few hours is necessary.

Leonard, having been absent upon his selfish pleasures for the better part of a year, had returned home upon the morning of the fire. It was a startling reception for the wanderer; regarding Gerald's money as his own his first concern was whether the house and furniture were insured. Ascertaining that they were, and that there would be no pecuniary loss, his next business was to find Gerald. But in his quest he heard something more; "slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword," was already doing its horrible work, and from one and another he heard for the first time of the existence of Emilia and of her having been found in Gerald's house in the middle of the night. "So," thought he, "Gerald is no saint. Well, that sort of thing is better than marrying. I must keep him from that, at all hazards. It seems I have come home just in time." Soon afterward he met with Gerald, who was striving vainly to discover where Emilia was. Despite Gerald's agitation he greeted Leonard with much affection.

"It is a stroke of good fortune," he cried, "that you have arrived to-day. I need a friend. You will help me to find Emilia."

"Emilia!" echoed Leonard, pretending not to have heard her name before.

Then Gerald began to confide in him, but his story threatened to be long, and Leonard drew him away from the curious people who thronged about them. They went to an hotel, Leonard insisting that it would be best, for Gerald wished to continue his inquiries for Emilia in the streets.

"Be guided by me," said Leonard; "I can do what you want in half the time that you would do it yourself. Can you not trust me?"

"Yes, with my life, Len," replied the warm-hearted young fellow, and allowed himself to be persuaded. In a private room in the hotel Leonard heard the whole story, and saw that Gerald was very much in earnest. This did not please him, but he said not a word to Emilia's disadvantage; he was a cunning worker, and he knew which roads were the best to compass any designs he had in view. He no more believed in Emilia's innocence and purity than the worst of her detractors, but he was not going to tell Gerald this. Gerald was trying to throw dust into his eyes, but that was a game that two could play at. With his own cynical disbelief in womanly purity he laughed at the idea of Emilia innocently occupying Gerald's house for a whole night.

"You must not be too angry with people," he said, "for speaking against the young lady. We live in a frightfully ill-natured world."

"I know, I know," groaned Gerald, "and it makes it all the harder for my poor girl. It was I who thrust her into the position; she was insensible when I took her into the house. Can you not see there was nothing else to be done?"

"I see it of course, my boy, and I am sincerely sorry for the pair of you."

"She must be suffering agonies"----

"Be reasonable, Gerald," said Leonard with affectionate insistance; "it's a hundred to one she knows nothing of it. I must exercise my authority as an elder brother over you, and as more of a man of the world than you are. Now, what is it you want to do?"

"To find out where she has been taken to, and to insist upon her marrying me at once. That is the surest way to silence the slanderer. I have done her a wrong--not wilfully, Len, you know me too well for that--and I must repair it at the very earliest moment. Thank God she believes in me, and knows that I am faithful and true. Oh, Len, she is an angel, the sweetest, dearest woman that ever breathed! No man could help loving her."

"From what you tell me of her, Gerald, we must proceed carefully. A nature so sensitive as hers must be dealt with delicately. You see, my boy, there is no disguising that if people are speaking against her, you are the cause of it. I was wrong in saying that it's a hundred to one she knows nothing of it; I ought to have put it the other way. Very well, then. Your Emilia is an angel--granted; I believe every word you say of her. But she is a woman, nevertheless, and you are responsible for dragging her name through the mud."

"Good God!" exclaimed Gerald. "You put it strongly."

"I am bound to do so, as the sincerest friend you have. I hope you give me credit for being that, Gerald."

"Len, if you were not here I should go distracted."

"I am only too glad I have come in good time to assist you. To continue about Emilia. What does such a woman as she value most in the world? Her good name. You have jeopardized hers, Gerald, with the best intentions I admit, but jeopardized it is. Hearing the scandal she will naturally ask herself, 'Why did Gerald take me into his house when I was in a fainting condition, and unable to have a voice in the matter? Could he not have waited till I recovered? And now see what people are saying of me? He has degraded me; I shall never be able to look honest people in the face again.' Is it entirely unnatural, my boy, that she should not rush into your arms when you present yourself? Just think a bit."

"I have not thought of it in that light," said Gerald ruefully.

"Because you have considered it from your point of view, not from hers. Answer me candidly. If she had been in possession of her senses would she have consented to enter your house clandestinely with you at such an hour last night--you, a single man, and her lover?"

"No, I see it now. Wretch that I am! I deserved to be pilloried for it."

"Don't rush into the other extreme. You acted unwisely, but honestly." (Leonard had no more belief in the professions he was making than Mrs. Seaton would have had, but he knew the nature of the man he was playing upon.) "Now, what you want in this crisis is a friend like myself, who, a stranger to your Emilia, can explain everything to her in a considerate, sensible way. Otherwise she may refuse to have anything more to say to you."

This suggestion frightened Gerald. "What do you advise me to do?" he asked.

"To place yourself entirely in my hands, and let me bring this unfortunate matter to a satisfactory conclusion."

"I will do so, Len. Thank you a thousand, thousand times. I am eternally grateful to you."

"Nonsense. I love you, Gerald; our interests are one. Look at yourself in the glass; you are a perfect scarecrow."

"I have had no sleep since the night before last.

"Is that a fit condition in which to set about a task so delicate? It would be inviting failure. First, you must have some breakfast."

"I can't eat, Len."

"You must. A devilled bone and a glass or two of champagne." He rang the bell, and gave the order, and ordered also a warm bath to be prepared. "Now, Gerald. The bath first, the devilled bone and a pint of champagne next, and then to bed for two or three hours. When you awake, refreshed and with a clear mind, I will tell you all about Emilia."

"You will find out where she is?"

"I will--if it is to be found out."

"And you will explain everything to her?"

"I will."

"And you will tell her I love her more devotedly than ever?"

"I will; and that your only wish is to hear the wedding bells ring."

"You're a good fellow, Len. I can never repay you. You are my good angel. But what a selfish brute I am, to talk only of myself and my troubles. You cabled for money, Len, and it was sent to you. How's the exchequer?"

"Thank you for the inquiry, dear boy. It never was lower. I have been deucedly unfortunate; plunged into a land speculation which I thought was going to make my fortune, but which cleaned me out to the last sovereign. How on earth I made my way home I don't know. I was consoled by one reflection, that I was coming home to the dearest brother an unfortunate devil ever had."

Gerald took out his check-book and put his name to a check.

"Here is a blank check, Len. Fill it in for what you like."

"Good boy. I am in debt, Gerald."

"Never mind; there's a balance of over two thousand in the bank."

"May I fill in for a thou----?

"And welcome. I've a lot of money in securities."

"I won't thank you, Gerald," said Leonard, handing the pen to his step-brother; "you know what my feelings are toward you. Write the sum in yourself."

Gerald wrote, and gave the check back. Leonard just glanced at it, and saw that it was drawn out for twelve hundred pounds, payable to bearer. He passed his hand over his tearless eyes, and turned his head. A very skilful actor indeed was Leonard Paget; he knew to a nicety the value of a light touch. The waiter entered and said the bath was ready.

"Don't bring up breakfast till I ring for it," said Leonard to the man. "Off with you, Gerald. I give you just twenty minutes."

Gerald gone, he looked at the check again. "It is only an instalment," he murmured. "Every shilling he has belongs to me; and I mean to have it. As for this girl--bah! They must never come together again."

Upon Gerald's appearance from the bath he greeted him with a smile. "You look twice the man you were. Now for breakfast. Tuck in, Gerald."

In any other circumstances Gerald would not have been able to eat, but with such a friend and counsellor by his side he made a tolerably good meal. Then Leonard saw him to his bedroom, and did not leave it till the honest fellow was in bed, and had drank another glass of champagne into which Leonard had secretly poured a dozen drops Of a tasteless narcotic which he was in the habit of carrying about with him to insure sleep.

"That will keep him quiet for six or seven hours," he said. "I must have a little time to myself to settle my plans."

The first thing he did when he went from the hotel was to cash the check. He was a man again, his pockets well lined, and he was ready for any villainy. He had little difficulty in discovering where Emilia was, and in ascertaining the character of the ladies who had given her shelter. This knowledge conveyed with it a difficulty; the character for kind-heartedness which he received of the maiden sisters was not favorable to his schemes, and he deemed it best to take no definite step on this day. But he was not idle; he learned all there was to be learned of Emilia, and, reading between the lines, found himself confronted with fresh difficulties. It would not be easy to deceive such a girl--a girl who might have committed an imprudence, but who was not the artful creature he had supposed her to be. He came to the conclusion that the love which existed between her and Gerald was a genuine, honest love. "I must trust a little to chance," he thought. In the afternoon he returned to the hotel. Gerald was still asleep; he waited till the evening, and then heard Gerald moving. He went into the bedroom as Gerald jumped out of bed.

"At last!" he exclaimed, before the young man could utter a word. "I have been trying these last three hours to rouse you. How thoroughly dead beat you must have been to have slept so long!"

Gerald looked round in dismay; evening was fast deepening into night.

"What time is it, Len?"

"Nearly eight o'clock. Do you feel refreshed?"

"I'm a new man. How about Emilia? Have you seen her? Can I go to her?" He dressed rapidly as he spoke.

"I am sorry to say," continued Leonard, "that I can obtain no news of her. Wait yet a little while; I will go out again and endeavor to find her."

"I cannot wait I will go with you."

"I forbid it, Gerald. You will spoil all if you don't mind. I should not be here now, but I was getting alarmed about you. I will return in an hour."

He hastened away before Gerald could reply. "What am I to do now?" he thought. "If Gerald makes inquiries himself he will be certain to learn where she is. I have twelve hundred pounds in my pocket. If the devil would range himself on my side I would give him half of it with pleasure."

He little knew how near he was to the accomplishment of his wishes. At that moment Mrs. Seaton was making her way to the house of the maiden sisters. He himself was wending his course toward the house, moodily debating how he could drive Emilia from it, and from the town forever. He knew all about Mrs. Seaton and her animosity against Emilia; the woman had been pointed out to him early in the day, and her face was familiar to him. He walked slowly, she quickly; thus she overtook and passed him, but he had seen and recognized her. He quickened his steps, and paused as she paused, before the house of the maiden sisters. With unerring intuition he guessed her errand.

"Are you going to see the ladies who live here, madam?" he asked in his most respectful tone.

"I am, sir," she replied with asperity. "Who are you, may I inquire?"

"I am a stranger in the town, madam," he said, speaking with the greatest deference. "Is it not to this place that the young person was taken who was found in Mr. Gerald Paget's house last night?"

"It is, and my business is to expose her. Have you any objections?"

"Not the slightest, madam. I think you are performing a Christian duty."

"I am not obliged to you, sir," said Mrs. Seaton, haughtily. "I am in the habit of doing my duty without being prompted. The creature who is harbored there shall be turned adrift before many hours are over. She is a disgrace to the neighborhood, and I will see that she is hunted out of it."

"Madam," said Leonard, "the whole town will be in your debt if you rid it of the person in question, and I myself shall be deeply grateful to you."

He raised his hat and walked away, thinking, with a blithe laugh, "The devil is on my side and I have the twelve hundred pounds safe in my pocket." After this agreeable reflection he idled an hour, singing little snatches of song to himself, and then returned to the hotel with a plausible tale which he had invented to put Gerald off the scent till the following day, by which time he hoped that Emilia would be gone and all traces of her lost. He was a keen judge of human nature, and knew what effect Mrs. Seaton's calumnies would have upon a young and sensitive girl. Her first impulse would be to fly from a spot where she was known--to hide her face anywhere so long as it was among strangers. With a strong, determined woman it would be different; she would brazen it out, and, give back scorn for scorn, and although she could not hope for victory she would have the satisfaction of saying bitter things to her revilers. Emilia was not this kind of woman; Gerald's descriptions of her had enabled Leonard to gauge her correctly, and to forecast how she would act in the face of an accusation so vile and degrading. Believing firmly in the judgments he formed of matters in which he was personally concerned, he had, therefore, reason to congratulate himself upon the course which events had taken, and he skipped up the steps of the hotel with a mind at ease. Its balance, however, was disturbed when he was informed that Gerald was gone.

"Did he say where he was going?" he asked.

"No, sir," was the reply.

"Nor when he would return?"

"No, sir."

"But he left a message for me?"

"No, sir."

"Can you tell me which direction he took?"

"No, sir."

These unsatisfactory iterations produced no outward effect upon Leonard; he was a man who never showed his hand. With a pleasant smile he left the hotel thinking, "Now where the devil has the young fool gone? To make inquiries for his goddess, no doubt. Does that indicate impatience merely, or that he cannot trust me? I must no lose my hold on him. If it is necessary to humor him, humored he shall be. There is more than one way out of a wood." As a measure of precaution he walked in the direction of the house of the maiden sisters, and reaching it, walked slowly back toward the hotel. This was done with the intention of intercepting Gerald, and learning whether the young man had discovered Emilia's refuge--in which event he was prepared to disclose that he himself had at length discovered it, and was hurrying to his dear brother to communicate the welcome intelligence. "By the Lord Harry," he muttered, as he stood at the corner of the street, "here comes the young fool! It is lucky I am prepared." He strode rapidly toward Gerald, and almost upset him in his haste.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE FALSE FRIEND.

"Hallo, Gerald!" he cried. "I meet you by the most fortunate chance. I have been hunting for you everywhere."

"I could not wait for you at the hotel," said Gerald, "and had to go out and make inquiries for myself. What is the name of this street?"

"Never mind the name of the street," said Leonard, jumping at the safe conclusion. "The house is the important thing, and I have discovered it."

"Where my Emilia is?"

"Yes, where your Emilia is."

"I also have been told where she was taken to, and I was hurrying to her. Have you seen her, Len, have you seen her?"

"I have not, and have not attempted to do so. You see, Gerald, it is night, and I am a stranger to her and to the people who have taken care of her. It will be best, after all, for you to go first, especially as you are no longer the scarecrow you were, and will not alarm her by your haggard appearance."

"I am quite fresh now. Are we going to the house?"

"Yes, I am taking you there. Oh, Gerald, how I have hunted for your Emilia! If I had been in love with her myself, if she were my sweetheart instead of yours, I could not have worked harder to find her."

"I am sure you could not. You are a true friend. Forgive me for leaving the hotel; I could not bear the suspense."

"You acted naturally, Gerald--as I should have done in your place. I am something more than a friend, I am your loving brother, dear boy, ready to go through fire and water to serve you."

"God bless you, Len! Are we near the house?"

"There it is, Gerald, on the opposite side, just beyond the lamp-post."

"Come, then, come!"

They had scarcely started to cross the road when the street-door was opened, and the maiden sisters appeared on the threshold, peering up and down the street.

"Which is Emilia?" asked Leonard, grasping Gerald's arm, detaining him a moment.

"Neither. Let us go to them."

"It is hard to say to so devoted a lover," said Leonard, "but be a little prudent. Any appearance of violent haste might cause them to shut the door in our faces."

Thus advised Gerald curbed his impatience, and crossed the road in a more leisurely manner. The maiden sisters started back as the two gentlemen halted before them.

"I beg your pardon," said Leonard, raising his hat; Gerald was so agitated that he could scarcely speak; "but we have been directed here to see a young lady who was rescued from the fire last night, and who found a refuge in your hospitable house."

"We brought Miss Braham home with us," said the elder lady, "and are now in great distress about her. I presume you are friends of hers."

"We are her most devoted friends," said Leonard, "and have been searching for her the whole of the day. My name is Leonard Paget; this is my brother Gerald."

The sisters were standing hand in hand, and at the mention of these names their fingers fluttered, then tightened in their clasp. Gerald found his voice.

"Is she ill?" he exclaimed. "Do not hide anything from me, I beg!"

The sisters looked nervously at each other; the elder was first to speak.

"Are you aware that we have received a visit from a lady well known in the town?"

"No," said Gerald. "Who is the lady and what has her visit to do with Miss Braham?"

There was a ring of genuine honesty in his voice, and it made its impression. The elder lady touched his arm gently.

"Tell me," she said, "In what special manner are you interested in Miss Braham?"

"Madam," replied Gerald, "I hope very soon to have the happiness of calling her my wife."

The sisters gave each other a bright look, and the younger lady said, "It is cold standing here, and my sister is not strong. Will you not walk into the house?"

They accepted the invitation, Gerald gladly, Leonard with curiosity as to what the sisters meant when they said they were in great distress about Emilia.

"Excuse my impatience," said Gerald, "but I implore you to allow me to see Miss Braham at once."

Their pity for him would not admit of Emilia's departure being immediately communicated to him; it must be led up to gently. But Gerald's indignation would not be restrained; before the conclusion of Mrs. Seaton's visit was recounted he interrupted the maiden sisters with the truthful version of Emilia's misfortunes and of the unhappy circumstances which compelled him to take her to his house a few hours before the fire. He blamed himself bitterly for the indiscretion, but asked them what else he could have done; and they, completely won over by his indignation and by the manifest honesty of his professions, threw aside for once all reserve and hesitation, and boldly declared that he could not have acted otherwise.

"Sister," said the elder to the younger, "the sweet young lady deserves our deepest pity, and is worthy of our love. Mr. Paget"--turning to Gerald--"Miss Braham will find a home here, and if she will consent, shall be married from our house."

"You are angels of goodness," said the young man, "but do not keep her from me any longer. If you do not think right that I should see her alone, let me see her in your presence."

"Alas!" said the elder lady; "she must first be found."

"Found!" echoed Gerald, in bewilderment.

"Do not alarm yourself. The dear child cannot have gone far. We have not finished what we have to tell you. Listen patiently to the end."

When all was related Gerald stood stupefied for a few moments, holding in his hands the pathetic vindication of her innocence which Emilia had left behind her. Leonard was secretly exultant. Emilia was gone, and if he assisted in the search for her she should never be found. He was confident that she had flown from the neighborhood, and that her one desire would be to hide herself and her shame among strangers. It was not in his nature to believe in womanly purity, and it was not likely that he would make an exception in Emilia's favor. She was his enemy; she stood in his path; she barred his way to affluence; let her sink into the obscurity she was seeking.

These sentiments were not expressed in his eyes, which were full of sympathy.

"Come, Gerald," he said, passing his arm around the young man's neck, "be a man. As these good ladies say, it will not be difficult to find Emilia. Let us seek her; in an hour or two all your troubles will be over."

"Your brother is right," said the elderly lady, "no time should be lost, for the poor child must be suffering. We rejoice that you have so true a friend to assist you. Do not desert him, sir; he is not fit to be left alone."

"Desert Gerald!" cried Leonard. "Desert my dear brother in the hour of his distress! No, indeed. He will find me true to the last."

The ladies pressed his hands, and gazed at him approvingly and admiringly. His face beamed with earnestness and enthusiasm. He had in him a touch of the actor's art; he was playing a part in a fine comedy of manners and intrigue, and he thoroughly enjoyed it, and commended himself for his masterly performance.

The maiden sisters saw the brothers to the street door, and impressed upon them that Emilia should be brought to their house at the earliest opportunity, and that her room would be ready for her.

Then commenced Gerald's search for Emilia, a search not only without a clue to guide him, but with a cunning man at his elbow, suggesting that they should go here and there, where he was certain there was chance of finding her. There were times, however, when Gerald himself said he would go to such and such a house and make inquiries, and Leonard never opposed him. It was his one wish to keep Gerald in the town, and he breathed no hint of his conviction that Emilia had flown from it. Everything was against Gerald; it was late when the search commenced, and at an hour past midnight he and Leonard stood in the quiet streets, gazing at each other, Gerald helplessly, Leonard inquiringly.

"Where now, Gerald?"

"God knows! I think I am losing my mind."

"May I make a suggestion, dear boy?"

"Yes, Len."

"You will not think it treason; you will not blame me for importing a little common-sense into our sad position?"

"How can I blame you, Len--you, the truest friend that a man ever had? Do not think me ungrateful. I have only one desire in life--to find Emilia. I can think of nothing but her."

"Then I may make my suggestion?"

"Yes."

"Understand, Gerald, that I make it entirely in Emilia's interests."

"I do, Len."

"Our best plan will be to go to the hotel and jump into bed----"

"Len!"

"There, I knew you would storm at me; but just be reasonable."

"I can't be reasonable. I must find Emilia."

"All right, dear boy. I'll stand by you till I drop. Which way shall we turn?"

Gerald, in response to this heartless question, led the way aimlessly down one street, up another, and on and on, Leonard trudging by his side, and neither of them speaking a word. At last Gerald stopped, and gazed pitifully around; his eyes fell upon Leonard, who, conscious that the gaze was coming, and timing it, closed his with an air of pathetic weariness.

"You are tired, Len."

Leonard instantly opened his eyes, and said briskly, "Tired, dear boy! Not a bit of it. What should make me tired? Come along, old fellow. Let's be moving."

"No, Len, I don't see much use in it."

"It is not I who say that, Gerald."

"No, it is myself. What o'clock is that striking?"

Leonard put up his finger, and they listened to the chiming of the bells.

"Two o'clock, Gerald."

"What is Emilia doing now?" murmured Gerald, more to himself than to his companion.

"She is asleep, I should say."

"No, Len. I know her better than you do. She is awake, thinking of me, as I am thinking of her. You are some years older than I, dear brother; have you ever been in love?"

"Yes, Gerald," replied Leonard, quietly.

"And you are still unmarried," said Gerald, pityingly. "How did it end?"

"Do not ask me, Gerald."

"Forgive me; it is a painful remembrance. She is dead?"

Leonard did not reply, and Gerald repeated,

"She is dead? I am sorry, very sorry."

"You need not be. She lives."

"How did it happen? You were true to her, I am sure."

"For heaven's sake, Gerald, do not force me to answer you. Let us talk of something else."

"I open my heart to you," said Gerald, with sad insistence, "and you close yours to me."

"You cut me to the quick. Yes, I was true to her, but she was not true to me. There is the tragedy or the comedy--which you like, Gerald--related in less than a dozen words. It is a story which all men live to tell--all men, I mean, with the exception of yourself."

"I am a selfish brute, to compel you to expose your wounds. Poor Len! If she had been like my Emilia you would not have had to tell the tale. We can do nothing more to-night."

"Nothing that I can see."

"I am so full of my own grief that I forget to sympathize with yours, but I am truly sorry for you. At this moment Emilia is thinking of me; there is a spiritual whisper in the air which assures me of this. Would it be really best to go back to the hotel?"

"It would be wisest, both for your sake and for Emilia's. Early in the morning we can commence again. Gerald, to stop out any longer would be folly. You would not dare to knock at the door of any house at this hour and inquire for Emilia; it would be the ruin of her. You have her honor to guard, as well as your own happiness to look after."

"I am blind, and utterly, utterly selfish. Heaven has sent you to guide and counsel me. Yes, we will go."

They returned to the hotel, and Gerald gave directions that he should be called early in the morning. He and Leonard wished each other good-night, and retired to their separate rooms. As Leonard undressed he chuckled at the successful progress he had made. Everything had worked in his favor, and would so work to the end. He had no doubt of that, with his hand on the wheel. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep contented and happy.

Gerald stood by the window and thought of Emilia. To-morrow they would be together; to-morrow all would be well. He threw the window open and looked out. Could his sight have reached the distance he would have seen a pitiful figure staggering on through country roads, stopping ever and anon to recover her breath, then starting feverishly on again, with panting bosom and streaming eyes, mournfully grateful for the darkness that encompassed her, and dreading the coming day. Slander's foul work was being accomplished. Dark as it was, Emilia saw the malignant eyes; silent as it was, she heard the hard voices. On and on she stumbled, praying for rest. Gerald was false; she did not care to live.

CHAPTER XXIX.

ON THE TRACK.

As early, as practicable in the morning Gerald was astir, continuing his inquiries for the missing girl. Leonard, of course, accompanied him, with the pretence of being very busy and as anxious as Gerald for the success of the search, but inwardly fuming at his step-brother's activity. His spirits rose as hour after hour passed fruitlessly by; his hopeful anticipations were being realized; Emilia was gone, never to return again.

At three o'clock in the afternoon Gerald came to a standstill. The tortures he was suffering were reflected in his face.

"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Leonard, in his gentlest tone. "I can truly sympathize with you, Gerald."

"I know, Len, I know," said Gerald. "Let me think quietly; don't speak to me. Something must be done; something shall be done. It weighs like a sin upon my soul that I have driven my dear girl to misery. What must she think of me?"

All at once an inspiration fell upon him; his face lighted up; he spoke with hope and animation.

"Fool that I am," he cried, "to trust myself. I am going to my lawyers; if you care to come with me, Len----"

"Of course I care to come with you," interrupted Leonard. "But why to your lawyers? They cannot assist you."

"They can," said Gerald, in a decided tone; and they proceeded to the office arm-in-arm.

In a private interview with the head of the firm, at which Leonard was present, Gerald explained what he wanted. The firm was to set all their machinery to work at once to discover where Emilia had flown to; everything was to be done very quietly, and no expense was to be spared. When the young girl was found she was not to be informed that a search had been made for her, but she was to be carefully and secretly watched, and Gerald was to be immediately communicated with. That done, and Gerald conducted to the house in which Emilia had sought refuge, the business entrusted to the lawyers was concluded. Gerald left with the head of the firm a check for a large amount, in proof that he was thoroughly in earnest; and it was arranged that he or Leonard, or both of them, should return to their hotel and wait for news.

"If it is in the middle of the night," said Gerald, "let me know. Not a moment must be lost."

Then the step-brothers left the office and walked to their hotel. Leonard inwardly gave Gerald credit for being much more practical than he had imagined, but still hoped that his good luck would follow him, and that the business would fail. To Gerald the misery of entrusting the task to other hands lay in the necessity of his remaining inactive himself; but although he would not leave the hotel for fear that a messenger from the lawyers might arrive in his absence, he could not endure to remain idle. He sent a note to the kind maiden ladies who had sheltered Emilia, and received one in reply, to the effect that they had heard nothing of the lost girl; and at least once in every hour he despatched a communication to the lawyers, to which the invariable answer was that the inquiry was proceeding, but no clue had yet been discovered. Gerald did not undress that night; he slept fitfully in an arm-chair. Leonard prepared for any sacrifice in the furtherance of his own interests, took off his coat and waistcoat, and made himself as comfortable as he could with wraps and rugs on a sofa in the same room in which Gerald passed the night. Gerald urged him to go to bed, but he would not.

"It is not right," said the unhappy young man, "that you should share my fatigue and troubles. Go and have a good night's rest."

"I distinctly decline," replied Leonard, in an affectionate tone. "Your troubles are my troubles, and I feel them almost as deeply as yourself. My name is Thorough."

"There is no other man like you, I believe," said Gerald. "I will try and repay you one day."

"You shall repay me one day," thought Leonard, "and whatever I get will be richly earned."

Aloud, he said, "The only repayment I ask, my dear boy, is to see you happy with your Emilia. There, let us say no more about it. If you want me in the night you have only to call me, you will find me ready for anything."

Gerald woke a dozen times before daylight, and moved gently about so that he should not disturb his noble friend. He stole down to the night porter.

"No one has come for me?"

"No one, sir."

"If anyone calls send him to me instantly."

"Yes, sir."

It was a fortunate night for the porter, the tips he received from the distracted young man making a very handsome total. Gerald was grateful when morning broke. It would not be long before Emilia was in his arms. He made an effort to repair the disorder in his clothes and appearance, and long before the door of the lawyers' office was open one of his messengers was waiting for tidings. Still the same answer, always the same answer; no traces of Emilia had been found. He paced the room with the restlessness of a wild animal.

Once he stopped, and leaning heavily on Leonard's shoulder, whispered, "If she should be dead! Good God, if she should be dead!"

"So much the better for everybody," thought Leonard, as he passed his arm round Gerald's waist and endeavored to soothe him.

At noon the lawyer paid Gerald a visit.

"You have brought me news?" cried Gerald.

"None of a satisfactory nature," replied the lawyer. "We have ascertained for certain that the young lady is not in the town."

"But when she left the house in which she was sheltered," said Leonard, for Gerald was too overpowered to speak, "someone must have seen her."

"If so," said the lawyer, "we have not discovered the person, who has a good reason for coming forward, as we have offered handsome rewards for definite information of any kind concerning her. However, we have now taken other steps, and it is for the purpose of making Mr. Paget acquainted with them that I have paid this visit."

He paused, and Gerald motioned to him to continue.

"Being convinced that Miss Braham has left the town, we have despatched agents in every direction to track her down. These agents understand that they are to pursue their mission in the most delicate manner, and they are instructed to keep in regular telegraphic communication with us. My errand here is to communicate these proceedings to you, and to advise patience and"--with a significant look at Gerald--"peace of mind."

"I shall not know peace," said Gerald, "till she is found."

"All that is humanly possible is being done; we can do no more."

It was poor comfort, and it did not diminish the young man's distress. The lawyer remained for a few minutes longer, and then took his departure. The day waned, and the night, without any tidings, and on the following morning despair seemed to have reached its height in Gerald's mind.

"Upon my soul," thought Leonard, "I think he is going mad. Well, that would not be a bad ending to this insane hunt. I should be his guardian, and should know how to take care of him--and his money. His? No, mine, by the laws of nature."

During this day copies of telegrams received by the lawyers were sent to Gerald, but not one of them satisfactory.

"She is lost to me forever," groaned Gerald.

"Amen!" thought Leonard.

Early the next morning, however, a telegram was handed in with these words, "On the track." The lawyer hastened to Gerald.

"It is from one of our best men," he said. "Something will be known in the course of the day."

But it was not till another night had passed that Gerald learned where Emilia was.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE.

The terrors of the night on which Emilia fled to escape from her traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. Often in afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of those few pregnant hours. From the moment of her departure until sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven, so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. Feeble as she was, and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance during these interminable hours. When, compelled by exhaustion to rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting, she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. Sometimes she caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable from exhaustion to rise. She might have been able to continue her flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the exertion of which completely overpowered her. The spot upon which she fell commanded a view of a river. It stretched to the north and south of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the rising sun. She did not see it at first, for it came into view only at the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to sight.

Presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on the surface, and they so distressed her--yearning as she was for peace and rest--that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with delight. But she knew the river was there.

For full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a horrible temptation. Then she turned to the water, struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. Not voluntarily and of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled her to do so.

It was quieter now. The gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and the river was in repose. "Come," it whispered, "come to my embrace, and end your woes." But the strong religious instinct within her enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "No, no!" she murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "Help me, dear Lord, to avoid the crime!" Her appeal did not banish the silent voices which urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. How the struggle would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken out of her own hands.

There came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human voice urging horses up the hill. She bowed her head upon her lap to hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.

He was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. The cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement to them. They reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner, merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. It was then his eyes fell upon the form of Emilia. He approached her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shivered and shrank from his touch. At this human contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been thrust. That it was unmerited mattered not. It clung to her, and was proclaimed in her face. How, then, could she raise her head to meet the gaze of any human being?

"In trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. With but an imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.

Emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand might not touch her.

"Can I help you?"

No sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. He lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. Giving the word, his team began to descend the hill. But at the bottom of the descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again, and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left Emilia, who was hidden from his sight.

This man had a history--as what man has not?--and it is probable that Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. Her body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of her. That is all.

It was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn toward Emilia. Perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that of his own lost child. Had she met a kind heart, had a helping hand been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged parents. He would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. Up the hill he climbed, having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound of his voice.

Emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward it. He saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. It may have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his lost child. So engrossed was Emilia in the terrible struggle that was raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the wagoner seized her arm, and said,

"My dear, let me help you in your trouble."

It was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. She threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion:

"Save me, save me!"

"It's what I've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up. "Where is your home?"

"Home!" she echoed, hysterically, "I have none! I am alone in the world--alone, alone!"

"No father or mother?"

"None."

"No friends?"

"None--not one."

"What can I do for you?"

"Take me from the river. Hark! Do you not hear what it is whispering to me? I am exhausted; my strength is gone, and I can no longer resist. If you leave me here I shall die!"

"But you do not know where I am going."

"It does not matter. Anywhere, anywhere, so that I can have rest. Hide me--hide me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"

Upon this she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and the good wagoner saw that she was not in a fit state to answer further questions. Endeavoring to calm her, he assisted her down the hill to where his team was standing, but before they reached it she swooned. It was not an easy task to lift her into the shelter of his wagon, but he managed it, and made up a bed of straw upon which he laid her. Then he started his horses again, and was careful to avoid ruts, in order not to jolt his fair guest too roughly. He had the whole day before him, and it would do if he reached his home before night. Now and again he mounted the wagon to look at Emilia, and was concerned that he could obtain no coherent words from her. The poor girl's trials had produced their effect upon her weak frame, and she was fast relapsing into delirium. All that he could distinguish in her feverish mutterings were the words, "I am innocent, I am innocent! I have done no wrong. God will speak for me!" Even these pathetic utterances came from her at intervals, and he had to piece them together. Her youth and beauty deeply impressed the kind-hearted man, and he did not regret the course he had taken. In the middle of the day he arrived at a village, and gave his horses two hours' rest. He utilized these two hours by hunting up a doctor, who, feeling Emilia's pulse and putting his hand on her hot forehead, said, "She is in a high state of fever. The only thing you can do is to get her home as quickly as possible." He believed her to be the wagoner's daughter, and he gave the old man a draught which Emilia was to be persuaded to take, should she have an interval of consciousness before they reached their journey's end. The wagoner's anxiety now was to get home as soon as possible, and the roads being good he put his horses to a trot. At six o'clock in the evening the journey was over, and the team stood at the door of his cottage. His old wife ran out to greet him, and he rapidly explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it.

"Was it right, mother?" he asked.

The tears rushed to her eyes. It was thirty years since he had addressed her by that endearing term, and she thought, as he had thought, of the daughter they had lost in the time gone by. There are memories that never die.

"Quite right, John," murmured the old woman, and together they carried Emilia into their cottage and laid her upon a bed. There the wagoner left his wife to attend to the young girl; he had his horses to look after, and when this was done he returned to the cottage, to find Emilia undressed and in bed, with the old woman standing by her side.

"We must have a doctor, John," she said, and away he went for one.

The report was not favorable; Emilia was prostrate, and now that the strain was over a dangerous reaction had set in. The doctor gave it as his opinion that she would not be well for weeks, and so it proved. But long before she was convalescent Gerald, accompanied by Leonard, made his appearance, and thus the unfortunate girl had near her one enemy and three friends. Which side would triumph in the end?

CHAPTER XXXI.

LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS.

Leonard cursed his ill luck, cursed Gerald for his infatuation, cursed Emilia for stepping in to spoil his plans, cursed the wagoner and his wife for their kindness toward her--in short, cursed everything and everybody except himself, whom he regarded as the person who was being wronged in the affair. But he wore a constant smile upon his lips, his words were honey, and the consideration he expressed for Emilia was perfect in its way. Sometimes when he spoke of her it was in a choked voice, and he was certainly successful in deceiving everyone around him. His one hope now was that Emilia would die, and could he have done so without risk to himself, he would cheerfully have given her a cup of poison to bring about that consummation.

Gerald's great grief was that Emilia did not recognize him. Indeed, she knew no one. Even when she was able to move about her mind was a blank. She allowed him to take her hand in his, and to retain it, but to the tender pressure of his fingers she made no response. They took woodland rambles together, hand in hand, and she gathered wild flowers which she arranged afterward in the cottage. She listened to all he said, nodding her head gently from time to time in a manner which made his heart beat with hope that she understood what he was speaking of. Of course the subject-matter, when originated by Gerald, was personal. He dilated upon his love for her, and explained again and again how it was that he had not come to her the day after the fire; and when he finished she gazed at him with a pitiful smile on her lips and a vacant look in her eyes, which proved too well that his words had fallen upon ears insensible to their meaning. Upon abstract matters she was more intelligent. She loved the animals about the cottage, and the dumb creatures loved her and obeyed her least motion; she loved the flowers that were gathered, but Gerald observed with pain that she tended with care only those she gathered herself. When he gave her any she accepted them gently, but presently they dropped from her hand, and she made no effort to pick them up. "I have wrecked her reason," he groaned. "Monster that I am, I have ruined my dear girl's life!" As for Leonard, he derived some satisfaction from what was transpiring. "She is drifting into a confirmed idiot," he thought. "It is not so good as getting rid of her altogether, but I am grateful for small mercies."

It had been arranged between Gerald and Leonard that a certain secrecy should be observed in their proceedings. Leonard did not exactly know how this would be to his advantage, but he had a dim idea that it might be so turned, and that at all events it would be better than making a full disclosure of all that had transpired. When Leonard mooted the plan Gerald asked what would be the good of it, and Leonard answered:

"My poor boy! What a simpleton you are, and how little you know the world. It is the publicity of the thing that has driven Emilia to the injudicious course she has pursued, for I do not disguise from you that it would have been far better for her had she remained to face matters boldly."

"It was impossible she should do so," said Gerald. "My dear girl's nature is far too sensitive and delicate to cope with such snakes in the grass as Mrs. Seaton."

"Granted; but although there would have been suffering, I still maintain it would have been the better course. I repeat that it is the publicity of the unfortunate affair that has directed her movements. Would she have run away, had she not been found in your house?"

"No, she would have had no motive for doing so."

"Exactly; and the motive that urged her on was the publicity of the thing. You would only be adding to her unhappiness by making affairs still more public. Scandal is a feminine bird with a thousand pairs of wings, my boy, and she would fly here, and render Emilia's life intolerable. There is nothing that people enjoy so much. Every man's door flies open when she knocks, and if it should chance to remain shut the jade creeps in through the crevices. Emilia would not thank you if she discovered that it was through you she was being pursued by the wretched innuendoes circulated by Mrs. Seaton. Let sleeping dogs lie. And bear in mind that Emilia has made things a hundred times worse by running away from her enemies."

"How so?"

"She has left them in possession of the field, and therefore in the position of victors. I am not speaking from my heart, but with the usual worldly tongue, which I most heartily despise, when I say that Emilia's flight is in itself an admission of guilt. It is really so, Gerald. She has piled difficulty upon difficulty, and you must not assist her in the work. Her sensitive nature, yes, I grant you all that, but it is for the man to be strong and wise, and to let his actions be guided by a cool brain."

"You are a true counsellor, Leonard. But for you Heaven knows to what a pass we should be driven. Still it sounds cruel."

"We must be cruel only to be kind, dear boy. The people in these parts are like people in our own town, like people all over the world. There isn't a pin to choose between them. So for your Emilia's sake we will be mum."

So it was settled. Had Leonard had his wish, their names would have been concealed and they would have adopted others; but to this Gerald would not consent. Leonard was secretly exultant, although, as has been said, he did not exactly know how it would be of advantage to him. But he did know that secrecy would make matters worse for Emilia instead of better, and that when her acquaintances became aware of the plan adopted--as become aware they should if the necessity arose--it would place another weapon in their hands against her.

Thus six weeks passed, and Emilia remained in the same condition. Leonard wondered for how much longer they were going to stop. The quietude of the place palled upon him; there were no amusements, no society, and Gerald being with him, he was compelled to be on his best behavior. He longed for the busy world and its pleasures and excitements. He ventured to speak to Gerald about their stay.

"I shall not leave," said Gerald, "until Emilia is better, or until we are married."

This staggered Leonard. "Surely," he said, "you have no notion of marrying her while she remains as she is?"

"If it were possible," said Gerald, very seriously, "I should not hesitate. Leonard, my dear brother, you are my superior in every way, but at least in this affair I know what is right. Leave me here to myself, then. Why should I condemn you to a life which must be intolerably dull to you? You have already assisted me in a manner which no other man in the world could or would have done, and to my last hour I shall be grateful to you."

"I shall not leave your side," said Leonard, pressing his hand, "until you drive me from you."

"That will be never," said Gerald, affectionately. "Leonard, with your worldly wisdom, can you suggest any plan by which Emilia's mind could be restored to her?"

"None, my dear boy."

"The doctor who attends her," said Gerald, in a musing tone, "is a worthy gentleman, but there may be cleverer than he to be found in cities."

"So far as I can see," said Leonard, much disturbed by this observation, "he has done all that is possible in such a case."

"There will be no harm in my having a conversation with him. I shall go at once."

"I am with you, Gerald, if you want me."

"I always want you, my dear brother. Let us go."

They found the doctor, an elderly gentleman, at home, and he received them politely, but not exactly with cordiality. They fell immediately into conversation about Emilia, but both Leonard and Gerald observed that the doctor expressed himself with marked reserve. At length he seemed to arrive at a certain resolution, and, with a significant look at Leonard, he said:

"Would you mind leaving your brother and me in private a while?"

"Not at all," replied Leonard, somewhat startled. "If there is any particular reason for it."

"I have a particular reason," said the doctor, "or I should not request it."

"What do you say, Gerald?" asked Leonard.

"The doctor wishes it," said Gerald.

Leonard rose, and went to the door. Gerald ran after him into the passage and whispered, "I will tell you everything that passes, Leonard. You must not be hurt."

"Nothing can hurt me that is for your good," said Leonard. "I will walk up and down the street, and wait till you come out." He was furious with the doctor. "Officious fool!" he muttered when he was outside. "What mischief will he be up to?"

"Now," said the doctor, when Gerald rejoined him, "I can speak more freely. I have nothing whatever to say against your brother----"

"Nothing can be said against him," interrupted Gerald, warmly.

"It is pleasant to see the affection that exists between you," remarked the doctor; "but he is not the young lady's lover."

"No," said Gerald, "I am."

"It is for that reason," said the doctor, with a slight frown, "that I desire to confer with you alone. Young gentleman, it is my intention to speak very plainly to you. You are the young lady's lover, you declare. Her honorable lover, may I ask?"

"Her honorable lover," replied Gerald, "as I am a gentleman."

"Declared and accepted?"

"Declared and accepted."

"Have you any objection to my saying what is in my mind?"

"Not the slightest."

"You love her honorably. Therefore you would do much to restore her to health?"

"I would give all I possess in the world. I would sacrifice my life for her dear sake."

"You are rich?"

"I am very well-to-do."

"Have you a thousand a-year?"

"Three, at least, and funds in hand besides."

"What is the young lady's income?"

"She has none."

"She is poor, then?"

"Yes."

"And friendless?"

"With the exception of ourselves and two good maiden ladies who have known her only for a day, she has no friends."

"Nor family--parents, I mean, brothers and sisters?"

"She has none."

"Your frank answers make my task easier, but at the same time do not remove my doubts. I am taking the liberty of an old man, for I am old enough to be your grandfather. The young lady interests me greatly, and all that I know of her I have learned from the good people who, perfect strangers to her, have taken her to their bosoms with as much sincerity and almost as much affection as if she were a child of their own."

"God bless them for it!"

"They have told me all they know. It is very little. Shortly after being taken into their hospitable house, you and your brother present yourselves. You are not related to her in any way--interrupt me if I am wrong--and you at once place yourself on terms of loving intimacy with her. You walk with her, hand in hand, you conduct yourself as a lover toward her. Your behavior places her in an equivocal position--I have no hesitation in saying so much--and I, an old-fashioned gentleman, with old-fashioned notions of honor, regard your proceedings with disfavor. The restoration of her health is placed in my hands, and I, a physician of some experience, find in the patient herself obstacles which it is out of my power to surmount. You two gentlemen do not assist me in the least; you give no information concerning her which may assist me in the duty devolving upon me as a professional man. For there is here some mental disturbance, the result of a severe shock, I judge to her heart and feelings, of which I am in complete ignorance, and which renders me practically powerless. Nevertheless, the interest she has created in me causes me to make a study of the case, and I have a vague notion that I could find a road to a cure if I were in possession of the particulars of her history. Control your excitement."

But Gerald was not to be restrained. He started to his feet, and bending toward the doctor, said, in his most earnest tone:

"Doctor, there is no fee you can name which I should deem too high if you can restore the mind of my dear girl."

"My fee," said the doctor, dryly, "is half-a-crown a visit, medicine included, and the poor young lady is in no position to pay even so small a bill."

"I am responsible for everything."

"From you, as matters stand, I should decline to accept a penny. You are acquainted with the story of the young girl's life?"

"I am."

"I have no right to force your confidence. If you choose to confide in me, I may be able to do as I have said."

"I will tell you everything unreservedly," said Gerald, "on the understanding that it does not pass your lips to another person."

"Let it be so," said the doctor, after a little pause, "for the young lady's sake."

"It is for her sake," said Gerald, "that I exact the pledge of secrecy."

Then he began the story, and related it faithfully, down to the smallest detail. It occupied him some time, but the doctor did not once interrupt him, but kept his eyes fixed upon Gerald's face, his own growing brighter and brighter as the young man proceeded. The story finished, there was silence for a minute or two, during which the doctor sat with his head resting in his hand.

"Is there hope, doctor?" cried Gerald, the first to speak. "Tell me, is there hope?"

"There is," replied the doctor, removing his hand. "The road is open to you if you will take it."

"Does it, then, depend upon me?" exclaimed Gerald.

"Upon you, and upon no other man. It is my firm belief that from the moment you take her in your arms and whisper the word, 'Wife,' the cure will be commenced. The windows of her mind, of her heart, will be opened for the light, and it will shine upon her soul, which will leap up exultant in the knowledge that she stands purified in her own eyes and in the eyes of the world. The stain that now lies upon her, the heartless, merciless, unjust degradation which has been forced upon her, have weighed her down, have clouded her mind. And let me tell you that God has been merciful in this visitation. Had she recovered her reason, and with her reason, the consciousness of her shame, she might have gone mad from the horror of it. She is in your hands now, not in mine."

He spoke solemnly, but no less solemnly than Gerald when he said, "As I deal by her, may I be dealt by! how can I atone quickly for the unconscious suffering I have inflicted upon her? Is a marriage in church possible?"

"In her present state I fear not," said the doctor, "and I consider it vital that there should be no delay, for she is sinking into melancholia, from which she would never emerge. The registry office is open to you, and a marriage there is as binding as a marriage at the altar."

Gerald's joy at the suggestion was unutterable. All he could do was to seize the good doctor's hands and press them convulsively, and mutter incoherent words of gratitude. The doctor understood him, however, and smiled brightly upon him.

"One word more of advice," he said. "On the day you and my patient are married, take her away immediately. Do not tarry here an hour. Have all your preparations made, and start at once for France, or Italy, or Switzerland. Let her move among new scenes--they will help her to forget her misery, and will bring back memories of a happiness she believes is lost to her forever. There, there. Go now, and see about it. A gentleman offers you his hand."

They shook hands cordially, and Gerald hastened away.

Leonard banished the gloomy look from his face when Gerald came from the house, but when he heard what Gerald had to tell him he was seized with consternation. All his fine plans were about to be upset, and he was powerless. He recognized instantly that nothing he could say would stop the marriage, and that there was no alternative but to keep Gerald bound to him, and to do whatever was required. But fair as was his face, smooth as were his words, his heart was as the heart of a demon, and he was already at work, scheming for the future, scheming for the destruction of honest love and happiness.

Gerald found no difficulties in the way. The doctor's assistance rendered everything easy. In fifteen days from that on which he had made a confident of the good doctor Gerald and Emilia were on their way to the registry office.

"You understand, Emilia," he said. "We are to be married this morning."

"Yes, Gerald," she said softly, "I understand."

It was Gerald's wish that no one should accompany them to the office. The witnesses, of whom there were three--Leonard, the doctor, and the old wagoner--were to wait for the couple, and to make no demonstration whatever. The ceremony was to be perfectly quiet, and the registrar with a twenty-pound fee, managed this so perfectly that not a soul in the place with the exception of those present at the marriage, was aware that it was being performed.

When Emilia said to Gerald, "Yes, Gerald I understand," he looked with heartfelt hope and gladness into her face. There was already a new note in her voice; her soul was struggling to the light. They passed a poor woman with a baby in her arms and some withered violets in her hand. Emilia turned and gazed at the poor creature and the infant. Gerald took some gold pieces from his pocket and pressed them into Emilia's hand. She gave him a sweet look. The light was coming.

"Will you sell me two bunches of your violets?" said Emilia.

"Take them, my lady; two bunches for a penny."

The woman held out her hand, but Emilia, before she paid for the flowers stooped and kissed the little child. Then she dropped the gold pieces into the woman's palm.

"Oh, my God!" cried the woman, with a bewildered look, her fingers closing tightly on the gold.

As they walked along Emilia gave Gerald one of the bunches of the withered violets, which he put into his buttonhole, and she pinned the other bunch to the bosom of her dress. Then she lowered her head and touched Gerald's hand with her lips.

"My darling, my darling," murmured Gerald, with moist eyes, "may I live to brighten all your future life!"

The ceremony was performed. Gerald placed the ring on Emilia's finger. She caught her breath, and pressed her bosom with her right hand, holding out her left.

"Be brave!" whispered Gerald. "My dear wife!"

The light had come: It shone in her eyes, in her face, it irradiated her whole form. For the second time she lowered her head, and kissed the hand of her faithful lover.

In a sequestered spot, at some distance from the registry office, two carriages were waiting, one for Emilia and her husband, one for Leonard. There had been a brief parting between Emilia and the wagoner and his good wife, who had kissed her and bade her farewell. Then came Gerald's parting from those friends and from the doctor. He left with that worthy man two checks, the first being for the exact amount of the doctor's account, calculated at half-a-crown a visit--he would accept no more--the second for a substantial amount, to be given to the wagoner when the newly-married couple had departed.

"You will join us at Interlaken to-day fortnight," said Gerald aside to Leonard.

"Depend upon me," said Leonard; and so for that brief space they parted from each other.

"My wife!" said Gerald, as they rode away in the bridal carriage, "my darling wife!"

She lay in his arms, quiet and happy. Heaven's light was never sweeter than that which shone within her wakened soul.

CHAPTER XXXII.

LEONARD MEETS WITH A FELLOW-SCOUNDREL.

The few months that passed were the happiest period in Emilia's life. Gerald's love, his care and devotion, his wonderful thoughtfulness, were in their effect something like divine revelations to the tender-hearted and confiding young girl, who was enjoying a very heaven upon earth. Leonard joined them in Interlaken, as had been arranged, and accompanied them through the loveliest parts of Switzerland and Italy. Gerald's plan was not to rush from place to place, but to proceed leisurely from one scene of loveliness to another, and to linger and dawdle wherever the fancy seized them. It suited Leonard, who could make little detours to neighboring cities which offered greater attractions to him, and he never went away from them without making it understood that it was for their sake, and not for his own, that he left them.

"I know what young people like yourselves enjoy most," he said, "their own society. I am like the fifth wheel in a coach."

Gerald did not dispute with him on this point. Much as he loved Leonard he loved Emilia more, and his greatest happiness was derived from that delicious intercourse of soul and soul which can only be made manifest when lovers are alone together.

"Leonard is the dearest fellow in the world," he said to Emilia, "and I don't know what we should do without him. You do not know what we owe him. If it had not been for him I doubt if you would be with me at the present moment."

Emilia was only too willing to subscribe to this affectionate estimate of Leonard's character; she grew, like Gerald, to have never one moment's doubt of the sincerity of his affection. From this it will be seen how thoroughly the villain had succeeded in deceiving them.

Giving himself up entirely to the blissful enjoyment of the present, Gerald, at the instigation of Leonard, had delivered over to him the management of his monetary matters. Leonard thus became a kind of steward to Gerald's estate, and so absolutely did he succeed in getting matters into his hands that he now drew all the checks for the current expenses of the tour, supplying Gerald with loose cash as the young man required it. Ostensibly, therefore, Leonard, was the master and Gerald the dependent.

In this manner five months of happiness passed, and then it was that Emilia, with burning blushes and a palpitating heart, whispered to Gerald the solemn, joyful news that a new life was born within her.

"If anything was needed to complete my happiness," said Gerald, pressing his wife fondly to his heart, "it was this."

Leonard, ever on the watch, knew that some fresh spring of happiness had been found, and he wormed the news out of Gerald. It drove him almost mad. If a child was born to them he might bid farewell forever to every chance of stepping into possession of the fortune which Gerald possessed, and which ought by right to have been his. "I must find a way," he thought, with burning hatred in his heart, "I must find a way, and soon, or it will be too late."

"My dear boy," he said to Gerald, "I am overjoyed at the tidings. Heaven bless you, and Emilia, and the little one--my nephew or my niece, Gerald; which!--who is going to cheer our hearts!"

It was evening when this confidence passed between Gerald and Leonard. They had been travelling for a few days in the Valais, and were making for the village of Vissoye, where they intended to remain a little while if they could find accommodation, and make it the starting-point of idle excursions in the romantic neighborhood. They had mules and guides; Emilia was riding in front, alone for a few minutes, while the step-brothers, walking in the rear, were conversing. Gerald was too enamoured of Emilia to leave her long alone, and presently he was walking by her side, with his hand in hers. The guides took no notice, being well accustomed to these loving exchanges on the part of foreign tourists.

"Do you hear Leonard singing?" asked Gerald. "I wish he could meet some one like you--but that, I think, is impossible, Emilia--to make him happy as you have made me. He deserves everything that is good."

While he uttered these words, Leonard, who was carolling a mountain song to show how light of heart he was, gazed at the precipice over which they were passing, and thought, even in the midst of his singing, "If she would only topple over! Things would be so much easier then. Such accidents have occurred. Now, if the guides were absent, and Gerald had gone on a little ahead, just round that turn where he could not see what was going on, I daresay it could be managed. It would not take a moment. A bold sweep, a scream, and all would be over." He stopped singing, to give full play to his thoughts, and he mentally acted the tragic scene, from its initiatory stage to the point where he stood with his arms round the distracted Gerald, endeavoring to console him for the horrible loss. It did not appear so difficult; he was a clever fellow, and he ought to be able to manage it. But it would have to be done very, very carefully; no shadow of suspicion must rest upon him. Corrupt as was Leonard's nature, he would go only to a certain length; he stopped short where there was fear of danger to himself.

They found rough but clean accommodation in the village, and after the evening meal Leonard left the lovers alone, and went out to smoke and think. So far as a full purse and creature comforts went he was in clover. He had plenty of money, and was enjoying the best of everything. The cigar he was smoking was of the finest brand that could be obtained; when they stopped at good hotels every luxury that could be obtained was his; the largest rooms with the grandest views, the most famous vintages, the most delicate dishes--nothing was spared. But how long would it last? When the child was born a new interest would be created which was certain to be injurious to him. Curse them! He was but a pauper, after all, and what he enjoyed was at the will of another, to be continued or taken away at a moment's notice. And he did not trust Emilia. He trusted no woman. They were a false, selfish lot, thinking only of themselves, with no sense of justice. It was intolerable that he should be at the mercy of one of the falsest and most selfish of the crowd.

He was out of the village now, and stood smoking and musing, facing a tremendous range. The evil thoughts by which he was animated were expressed in his face; being alone, as he thought, there was no reason for concealment, and although he generally kept perfect control over his features, there were rare occasions upon which he indulged in the luxury of frankness. This was such an occasion.

He was mistaken in believing himself to be alone. A man, also smoking a good cigar, was sitting on a jutting rock, observing him. Leonard threw away the end of his cigar, and took another from his case. Then he took another from his case. Then he took out his matchbox, and found that it was empty. "The devil take it!" he muttered. "The whole world is against me!" Low as was the tone in which the words were spoken, the stranger heard them.

"Allow me to offer you a light."

Leonard started, and his countenance became instantly composed. The stranger laughed aloud. Irritated by the laugh, in which there was a malicious, if not a sinister note, Leonard turned on his heel.

"Why so fast?" said the stranger, stepping to Leonard's side. "A match is a very simple offering for a friend to make."

"A friend!" exclaimed Leonard, and looked the stranger full in the face.

"Allow me to introduce myself anew," said the stranger. "Your memory is not good. Dr. Peterssen, at your service."

"What, Peterssen!" cried Leonard.

"The same."

"I should never have recognized you," said Leonard, taking the lighted match and applying it to his cigar.

"Small wonder. When we last met I was in low water, and my face was bearded. You remember me now?"

"Yes, I remember you now."

"Voices do not change. Let me see. It is eighteen months ago since we saw each other. Ballarat I think the place was.

"Yes, it was on Ballarat."

"A marvellous gold field, though we got none of the precious metal, partly from indolence, partly from ill luck."

Dr. Peterssen and Leonard had met in Australia, and had struck up an acquaintance there. Arcades ambo. It would not have been to their credit if some of their mutual experiences were known. Leonard was painfully conscious of the fact, and could not just at this moment make up his mind whether the meeting was one to be hailed with satisfaction, or the reverse. He knew Dr. Peterssen to be ripe for any villainy, and at this juncture it might be handy to have such a friend near him; but how far would it be safe to trust the man?

"What brings you here, Peterssen?"

"Business, Royce, business. I have a mission."

"You remind me," said Leonard, with an awkward smile. "When I was at the antipodes I thought the name of Royce an easy one to go by."

"But it was not your own."

"It was not my own."

"What I always admired in you," said Dr. Peterssen, "was your candor. The soul of truth, upon my honor! I used to ask of myself, 'Can Royce lie?' Excuse my sticking to the name till you supply me with another. Yes, I used to ask of myself, 'Can Royce lie?' There was but one invariable answer, 'No, he cannot.'"

The laugh with which he accompanied his words was so distinctly opposed to their sense that Leonard's face flushed, and Dr. Peterssen laughed still louder when he observed this sign of emotion. Of all the men whom Leonard had met in the course of his varied experiences Dr. Peterssen was the only one whom he was conscious he could not deceive. Peterssen spoke good English, with just a touch of foreign accent. He was by descent a Dane, and was a past-master in every species of craft and villainy. It would not have been easy to find his match in a scheme of evil cunning. Leonard was smooth-spoken, suave, and persuasive; Dr. Peterssen was brutally outspoken, calling a spade a spade, and, if it served his purpose, something worse--never something better.

"Don't be a fool, Peterssen," said Leonard. "You are lying yourself, and you know it."

"True, true, Royce--but really this is awkward, addressing a friend by a name he has no right to bear. What name do you pass by now?"

"My own," replied Leonard, convinced that Dr. Peterssen would bring him to the proof through other persons; "Paget."

"Christian name?"

"Leonard."

"Mr. Leonard Paget. Rather nice-sounding. When did you arrive here?"

"This evening."

"When do you leave?"

"I can't say."

"You can, Leonard, you can."

"I tell you I cannot."

"Let us test it. I have something of the breed of your English mastiff in me. Do you go away to-morrow?"

"I think not."

"On the following day?"

"It is uncertain."

"Your movements, then, do not depend entirely upon yourself? You are not alone?"

"Am I in the witness-box," demanded Leonard, beginning to lose his temper.

"You are. And when I have done with you, you shall place me in the witness-box, and I will be frank with you. It is best for men like ourselves to be friends, Leonard. Who knows? We may be able to serve each other. Allow me to remind you that you are in my debt. Our last transaction in Ballarat was when we laid a snare to sell a man of substance a golden claim. The price was five thousand pounds. The stuff at the bottom of the shaft was salted--with gold purchased with my money. At that time you had none--that is, you said you had none; so I expended my last fifty pounds in the purchase of twelve ounces, which we distributed cunningly in the wash-dirt below. The plant almost came off, but it was discovered one moment too soon. We had only to fly; and then we lost sight of each other. You did not wait to pay the half of the fifty pounds--a shabby trick."

From his pocket-book Leonard extracted twenty-five pounds in bank notes, which he handed to Dr. Peterssen.

"I am out of your debt."

"Not at all. There is the interest, which I shall not exact to-night, but in the future, from time to time. You pay so readily that you are worth sticking to; you think so lightly of twenty-five pounds that you must be rolling in money. Back to my questions. You are not alone?"

"I am not."

"Shall we say, a lady? Ah, fortunate man! Susceptible heart! Forever putting itself into chains. There was a lady on the other side. And there is a lady on this. I see it in your face.",

"She is none of mine; she is one of our party."

"How many in all?"

"I am sick of your questions. Here is the plain truth. I am travelling with my brother and his wife. They are on their honeymoon. There, you have the whole thing in a nutshell."

"Apparently. But how about the kernel? I have an odd idea there is a maggot inside. How arrived at? Easily. It is you yourself who have engendered the suspicion. You come to this spot to think and smoke, leaving your brother and his bride to their honeymooning. That is considerate, and as a tender-souled man I commend you for it. You believe yourself to be alone, but I am here, communing with Nature. Looking up, I see you, and on your face I see that which you would not like your friends to see. There is a convulsive twitch in your features. What is the cause? Do you love your brother's wife?"

"No."

"The tone in which you speak that little word convinces me that you hate her. Do you remember we used to congratulate each other in Australia that we could read men's faces and voices? Why do you hate her? There must be a reason."

"Peterssen, you are going a little too far."

"Between friends? No, Leonard, I have not yet gone far enough. Give ear, Leonard, to something analytical--not very deep, only in a superficial way. You and I are alike in our aims but not in our methods. We are both adventurers--why disguise it? The supreme motive-power in our natures is self-interest. To serve that we would go any lengths--except, perhaps, that I would go a little farther than you. We have no honest regard for each other, it is only our self-interest that draws us together. Why, Leonard, if I could profit largely by it I would have no more compunction in pushing you over that precipice than I have in flinging away this cigar. Give me another, will you? I warrant yours are better than mine. Thank you. And the compunction on your side, should it be to your advantage to serve me the same, would be as small as my own. Commend me for being an honest man, for I take it the quality of sincerity is vital to honesty--and my sincerity cannot be disputed. What reason have you for hating your brother's wife?"

"Could not the agitation you observed in my face spring from some other cause than love or hate?"

"Yes, one--money; and you have proved to me that money is not the cause by paying me the twenty-five pounds so readily. For really it is a debt that I could not have enforced in a court of law."

"Well, let the matter bide, Peterssen. Your searching questions have exhausted me."

"We will suspend it, then. There is time before us. Meanwhile I attach myself, and with myself another, to your party."

"Are you mad?" cried Leonard. "Why that would ruin all!"

Dr. Peterssen's previous laughter was tame in comparison to the sounds of merriment he emitted now. He made the echoes ring again.

"So there is work to be done," he said when his merriment ceased. "Good. Two things to be kept always in view--personal safety and the reward to be earned for the work. Still I attach myself to your party, but now secretly. I follow you wherever you go, but I do not mix with you. Our parties may meet, but it shall be in a casual, accidental way, and there shall be no close intimacy. I do not affect disguise, Leonard. I follow you for the purpose of making money out of you. I have very little; I want some. I put a question to you, to which I must have an answer. Without encroaching further on your confidence, I wish you to inform me what the end you are scheming for is worth, supposing I accomplish it in safety. I do not ask what that end is, but how much it would be worth to me? You are silent. Shall we say a thousand pounds?"

"Yes," replied Leonard, slowly, "say a thousand pounds."

"Much obliged to you. The subject is now dismissed. Have you any questions to ask me? I put myself in the witness-box."

"When did you come here?" asked Leonard.

"Yesterday."

"When do you go away?"

"To-morrow if I like; the next day if I like; next week, or month, if I like. It depends absolutely on myself."

"Are you alone?"

"I remember, you said you were here on business."

"What business?"

"Professional. I am a doctor: I have a patient in my care."

"Male or female?"

"Male."

"The disease?"

"Madness."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A FOUL DEED.

Leonard gazed fixedly at Dr. Peterssen, doubting for the moment whether the man was in earnest. There was no doubt of it, however. Dr. Peterssen was speaking the truth.

"I will enlighten you," said Dr. Peterssen, "I am not quite a pretender. I am a doctor with a diploma, and I have practised in all parts of the world. My specialty is diseases of the mind. I do not say I am fond of the study, but when needs must, the devil drives. Returning home--that is, to England, which I look upon as home--chance throws me in the way of a patient with a rich father. The father cannot keep his son at home, and he shrinks from sending him to a regular madhouse. Can he find a capable man who, for a consideration, will take charge of the young man and devote himself to him? I present myself; I am ready to do anything for a consideration. Between ourselves, my diploma is not exactly what it should be, and I could not practise regularly in England; there would be difficulties in my way, there are so many censorious people about. I have no difficulty in convincing the father of my patient that I am what I represent myself to be, and a bargain is struck. The young man, whose name is George Street, is given into my charge, and away we go. One reason that the father wishes to obtain without delay a guardian for his son is that he himself is compelled to leave England for a year or two for his health; another reason is that about twice a year he has a dangerous fit upon him. It lasts for two or three days, and he has to be carefully watched. While the father is absent I have to write to him on the first of every month, acquainting him with the condition of his son. I am to do what I like with the young man, to the extent of indulging in foreign travel for the purpose of diverting his mind. My expenses are paid, but I have to render a strict account, and though I garble them a little I cannot make much out of it. Then I am, like yourself, naturally extravagant, and I am also at heart, I am afraid, a bit of a gambler. I have not been very fortunate hitherto, but my turn will come. In addition to the trifle I make out of cooked accounts--shockingly mild cooking, Leonard, my patient's father being the soul of meanness--I receive three hundred a year. Of course, all my personal expenses are paid, but what can a man do with three hundred a year? It is a miserable pittance. My patient is now asleep; he is perfectly harmless, and he sleeps fifteen hours out of the twenty-four. I have no difficulty with him. He is as tractable as a lamb. 'Get up.' He gets up. 'Come out.' He comes out. 'Read for an hour.' He reads for an hour, or pretends to. 'Sit still till I return.' He sits still till I return. Thus all is plain sailing, and I have nothing to complain of except the salary. However, there is a better prospect before me, perhaps."

Leonard did not respond to the sharp look which Dr. Peterssen gave him. He was revolving things in his mind, groping for a crooked path by which he could reach his goal.

"Well, friend of my heart?" said Dr. Peterssen.

"There is nothing more to be said at present," said Leonard. "It is time for me to join my friends."

"I will go with you."

"We agreed that you were not to intrude upon us."

"I do not intend to. I merely wish to see where you put up. Don't try to give me the slip, Leonard."

"Why should I? You may be of use to me."

They walked together to the little inn in which they had rooms, and there Dr. Peterssen wished Leonard good night.

He was not as good as his word. The next day he contrived that the parties should meet, but he was clever enough to make it appear as if it were an accidental meeting, and Leonard, being to some extent in his power, did not quarrel with him. His patient, George Street, was a quiet young gentleman, whom no person, without foreknowledge, would have supposed to be mad. Upon certain subjects he spoke rationally, but as a rule he was silent and reserved, with the air of one who had some deeply-rooted cause for melancholy. He seemed to fear Dr. Peterssen, and a dog could not have been more obedient to the least motion of its master. He was of about the same age as Gerald, and their statures differed very slightly. In accordance with the advice of Dr. Peterssen, Leonard informed Gerald and Emilia that the young man was not exactly in his right mind, and that they were to be under no apprehension concerning him, as he was as tractable and docile as a child. Emilia conceived a great pity for him, and occasionally walked with him, accompanied by Gerald; for Dr. Peterssen evinced no immediate intention of leaving their society.

"The presence of a lady so gentle as yourself," he said to Emilia, "is good for the poor fellow; he is benefiting by your kindness already."

"He will get well, I hope," said Emilia, solicitously. "There is no doubt of it," said Dr. Peterssen. "In less than twelve months his cure will be perfect."

Some three weeks passed, and they were now in the Engadine, located in a comfortable inn in the valley of Roseg. For some reason of his own which he disclosed to not one of the party, not even to Leonard, Dr. Peterssen gave out that he expected from day to day to be called home by his patient's father, and that he might be compelled to leave them suddenly. His mind was busy with a diabolical scheme, which, however, he might not have succeeded in carrying out had not circumstances favored him. During the time they had been together he had extracted cleverly from one or the other information relating to the positions the step-brothers held toward each other, by which he learnt that the fortune enjoyed by Gerald would revert to Leonard if Gerald were out of the way. Leonard was annoyed by his pertinacious desire for details and particulars, but Dr. Peterssen, with his hand on the plough, never turned back. The fatality which assisted him to the cruel end he had in view was the indisposition of Emilia, who, in the Roseg Valley, exhibited signs of fatigue and depression. The local doctor prescribed rest, and Gerald gave up the mountain excursions which afforded him so much pleasure.

"When you are quite strong," he said to her, "we will return to England." And whispered, "Our child shall be born there."

Emilia, whose head was reclining on his shoulder, kissed him softly, and hid her face in his breast.

"Before we leave these beautiful scenes, my darling," he said, "I shall pluck some edelweiss for you with my own hands. That will insure you good luck all your life."

A woman in one of the villages had told Emilia that purchased edelweiss lost its charm, and that its potency could only be preserved if plucked and presented by the man one loved. Emilia had told this to Gerald, and he had set his heart upon finding the white flower for Emilia. Hitherto he had been unsuccessful. It was no secret between Gerald and Emilia; the whole of the party were acquainted with the wish of the loving couple; and it was this simple and innocent desire which was to bring a woful tragedy into the lives of Gerald and Emilia.

It was afternoon, and Emilia was sitting at the window, gazing upon the wondrous vista of snow mountains which lined the horizon. Gerald came to her with excitement in his face.

"Mr. Street and the doctor are below," he said. "They are going in search of the edelweiss, and they know where it is to be found."

"You wish to go with them," said Emilia, with a smile. "Go, love."

"But you will be alone."

"I shall be very happy and contented, Gerald. Go and pluck me the magic flower with your own dear hands."

How often in after life did these fatal words recur to her. "Go and pluck me the magic flower with your own dear hands!" Ah, if the effect of words were known before they were uttered, how many breaking hearts would at this moment be filled with happiness!

"I may not have another opportunity," said Gerald. "I shall be home before sunset. Good-by, dear love. God bless you!"

He was gone, and Emilia waved her handkerchief to him from the window. He looked back and smiled, and waved his hand gayly, and soon was lost to sight. "My darling!" she murmured, and leaned back in her chair, and thought with ineffable bliss of the time soon to come when she would hold out her babe to him for a father's kiss. One arm rested upon a table which Gerald had drawn close to her side. Upon the table was an open cedar-wood desk of Indian workmanship, inlaid with silver, and Emilia's fingers touched a dagger which Gerald was in the habit of using as a paper-knife, its handle resembling a twisted snake, the mouth open, and in its head a ruby to represent an eye. For a few moments she toyed with it idly, thinking of words Gerald had spoken to her with reference to the desk. "There is a secret drawer in this desk, Emilia, and in the desk something which concerns you nearly." He had said it smilingly, and she had merely nodded, but now, between sleeping and waking, she dwelt upon the words, and indolently resolved to ask Gerald when he came home what it was the secret drawer contained which concerned her nearly. With these thoughts in her mind she fell asleep.

George Street turned to Dr. Peterssen when they were at some distance from the village. Dr. Peterssen nodded, and the four men--for Leonard was with them--paused.

"This foolish fellow," said Dr. Peterssen to Gerald, laying his hand kindly on his patient's shoulder, "has a great wish to lead you himself to where the edelweiss is to be found--you and he alone, and I am almost inclined to humor him."

"Why not?" asked Gerald, who had never yet detected any sign of insanity in his young companion.

Dr. Peterssen took Gerald aside. "He knows the road to take, but he is in my care. Between you and me he is as sensible as we are, but still I feel somewhat anxious. I am responsible for him to his father you know."

"We shall be able to take care of ourselves," said Gerald.

"Then go. We will await your return at the inn." Away went the young men, and Dr. Peterssen and Leonard were left together.

"What does it all mean?" asked Leonard.

"Simply that you can compass your wishes if you desire it."

"I do desire it."

"Come with me, then."

They turned in another direction, but not toward the valley. They continued to ascend the rocky ranges.

"We shall get there half an hour before them," said Dr. Peterssen. "I have carefully studied the route, and have traversed it twice--in your interests."

"Explain yourself."

"I will, as we walk along. There is nobody in sight, is there?"

"Not a living being."

"We must be sure of that, as we proceed. Answer me, Mr. Leonard Paget. If I remove your step brother from your path--he is, after all, no relation to speak of--what will you give me?"

"You said something about a thousand pounds," said Leonard, his face growing white.

"Not enough. Not half enough."

"There is his wife also in the way, remember."

"Rubbish! She may die; the shock will probably kill her."

"But if it should not?"

"If--if--if--!" exclaimed Dr. Peterssen, impatiently. "There is no if in the case when two clever scoundrels like ourselves are in the game. Has he made a will?"

"I am sure he has not.

"Make a clean breast of everything if you want to succeed. I know only half the story. I must know the rest, and I will stake my future that I show you a dozen ways to conquer her, even if she lives. Don't lag. It is hard work mounting these ranges, but the reward is worth it. Did you observe that they took the tracks to the left. We are taking those to the right; and we are both making for the same point. Now, Leonard, out with every detail of this romantic story, which is as yet only half finished. It is your last chance, old fellow."

Thus urged, Leonard related everything he knew concerning Gerald and Emilia. Dr. Peterssen laughed, and instilled into Leonard's ear certain counsel which Leonard was only too ready to follow. It was a risk, but as Dr. Peterssen said, the reward was worth it.

In a couple of hours they had reached the spot they had been making for. They had not met a soul on the way, and they saw nothing of Gerald and George Street.

"They will come into view in half an hour or so," said Dr. Peterssen, "and if not we will go and hurry them up."

They had halted on a wild spot. They were surrounded by enormous glaciers, and all around them lay dangerous precipices. At a dozen points an unsuspicious man might be pushed without effort into abysses where he would be almost certain to meet with death. It was this infernal plan which Dr. Peterssen had conceived, and which Leonard guessed at, but was too timid to ask about. Easy to carry out a bloody deed in such a place, without a living witness to bring evidence against them.

"Sit down," said Dr. Peterssen.

He pulled out a flask of brandy, and gave it to Leonard. The treacherous friend took a long drink. Dr. Peterssen also drank, but more sparingly.

"If I don't mistake," he said, "you have a check book in your pocket."

"What if I have?"

"Everything. Answer my questions. You are acting as your brother's treasurer."

"I am."

"With full authority, as I understand."

"With full authority."

"The bank in which his money is deposited has written instructions to that effect."

"It has--but what are you driving at?"

"Easy, Mr. Paget, easy. Do you know that I am about to lose a patient?"

"Your own doing."

"But for your ends. Now, I want a guarantee. I had a little private conversation with your step-brother yesterday, in which I skilfully pumped him. What do you think I learned? That you had been realizing a quantity of valuable securities for him lately, and that there was a very considerable balance at the bank to his credit."

"You are an infernal meddler."

"All in your interest, Leonard, and a little, a very little, in my own. You will give me here, and now, a check for two thousand pounds."

"You are out of your senses."

"Most absolutely and positively in them, my dear fellow. What I am about to do for you is worth ten times the sum, so I am not hard on you. In brains, Leonard, you have the best of me--I am a very candid and honest scoundrel, you must admit--but when the pinch comes you lose your nerve. Take another pull at the brandy. Down with it, man. It will bring some color to your cheeks, and perhaps some false courage to your chicken heart. We--fellows like myself--are the real men. If I had lived three or four centuries ago I should have been a man of mark. Produce your check-book."

"What is the use? I have no pen and ink."

"Ha ha, my honest comrade, I have provided for that. I had just enough brains to think of the contingency. Here are the requisites. Now, fill in and sign. Date it two days ago."

There was a brute ferocity in Dr. Peterssen which compelled and overawed Leonard, and with a sullen look he wrote the check and signed it.

"I warrant," said Dr. Peterssen, examining the check narrowly and carefully pocketing it, "that you have feathered your nest pretty well. In the event of Gerald Paget leaving a widow behind him--though that will not be so in this case, Leonard, for there can be no widow where there was no wife--you could strip her of every farthing of ready cash by drawing the entire balance from the bank, dating the check yesterday, as a measure of precaution. Hush--they are coming! Behind this rock--crouch down, and don't so much as breathe!"

Almost breathless Gerald and George Street halted within two feet of them, standing side by side on the edge of a precipice.

"It makes me dizzy looking down," said George Street. "Does it not you?"

"No," said Gerald. "And we have not found the edelweiss after all. It is a great disappointment to me."

"It grows on the edge of the precipice," said George Street. "Let us kneel and look over. I am sure this was the spot Dr. Peterssen pointed out to me."

The young men knelt down and looked over the precipice, Gerald keeping tight hold of his companion. As they bent their heads there came a fierce and sudden movement behind them, and with a loud cry the two young men sank into the abyss.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

DR. PETERSSEN EXPLAINS HIMSELF.

"What have you done?" exclaimed Leonard, starting to his feet in irrepressible excitement, but cooling immediately as Dr. Peterssen turned to him with a smile on his lips. It was seldom, indeed, that Leonard was taken off his guard, but the suddenness of this foul deed startled him. When engaged in a scheme of villainy he was in the habit of being more deliberate.

"Be more careful with your pronouns," said Dr. Peterssen, inclining toward the abyss, and putting his hand to his ear. "You mean what have we done?"

"I did not stir."

"You lie," said Dr. Peterssen, with a brutal laugh. "With my own eyes I saw you hurl your step-brother over the precipice. In the attempt to save himself he caught hold of my poor patient, but he was just one little minute too late. Instead of saving himself he destroyed his companion, and thus at one fell swoop I was robbed of three hundred a year. I, with a record at least as spotless as your own--we are a fine pair of white doves, you and I--am ready to take my Bible oath to this version of the catastrophe; and I'll bet you a hundred to one, my buck, that I swear you down in any court of justice you can name. A likely thing, isn't it, that I should wish to get rid of my poor patient, when by doing so I lose a sure income? You, on the contrary, have everything to gain by your step-brother's death. Dying unmarried--you understand?"

"Yes."

"You have only to be firm with Emilia and the point is carried. After what she has gone through, and plunged into despair as she will be, she can be made to believe anything, especially when she learns that you are prepared to behave generously to her. To resume, Gerald, dying unmarried, you come into all the property. Therefore his death is a distinctly desirable event in your eyes. Do not, therefore, my dear comrade, in this little affair, attempt to shirk your share of the responsibility, or I will throw it all upon your shoulders, and send you to the gallows. Mr. Leonard Paget, I should be inclined to call you a fool if I did not know you better. What is done cannot be undone, nor, with all your cant, would you wish it undone."

"But," said Leonard, inwardly acknowledging the weight of his companion's arguments, "we are in danger."

"We are in none. Your step-brother Gerald, ardently desiring to gather with his own hands some edelweiss for his lady love, is informed by my unfortunate patient that he knows where the flower is to be found. Unwilling that they shall go alone, we express our intention to accompany them. Off we start with merry hearts. But we have not gone far before the young gentlemen beg to be allowed to enjoy their excursion without our society, and we, two fond and indulgent guardians, yield to their implorings, and leave them to themselves. Lured by the balmy weather, we stroll up the mountains, scarcely noting in which direction we are wandering. We stop and dilate upon the sublime beauty of the scenery, our souls exalted by the thoughts it inspires, when our ecstatic musings are rudely interrupted by screams of anguish. We hasten to the spot from which they proceed, and see--nothing. But our ears, ever open to the calls of humanity, cannot have deceived us. No, that is impossible. So we hunt and look about, calling out all the while to the poor souls who may be in peril to give us some indication how we can assist them. At length our attention is attracted by signs of a disturbance at the edge of this precipice, and kneeling"--he suited the action to the word, and Leonard knelt by his side--"we observe marks in the soil which engender the suspicion that a human creature has fallen over. We call out loudly, and are answered by a groan and scarcely distinguishable but undeniably pathetic appeals for help."

"I do not hear them," interrupted Leonard.

"Then you ought to. Are you quite devoid of imagination? Our hearts are rent by these appeals. We are not practised mountaineers, and are unable to render assistance. Therefore we hasten to the nearest village, and return with men and ropes to the rescue. But by that time it is too late."

"By that time," said Leonard, in a questioning tone, "they are dead?"

"By that time," repeated Dr. Peterssen, "they are dead. And"--with a steady look at Leonard--"of this fact we must convince ourselves before the introduction of other characters into the melancholy scene."

"How is that to be done?"

Dr. Peterssen rose to his feet, and cast sharp glances around.

"We are quite alone, I think."

"Not a person is in sight," said Leonard, watching his ruthless companion with curious eyes.

"Be silent a minute or two."

They stood perfectly still, all their senses on the alert.

"There is no doubt," said Dr. Peterssen, "that we are the only witnesses of the unhappy occurrence, and, thus far, safe. Now to make sure."

He divested himself of coat and waistcoat, and unwound a rope which he had adjusted round his waist.

"It is not very thick," he said, "nor very long, but it will help to steady us. See, I wind and fasten it about this slim trunk which providence has grown here to further our ends. Try it; you will find it quite secure."

"Yes, it can hardly get loosened of itself."

"The descent, as you will observe, is not very difficult after all. All that is required is steadiness and confidence. About 30 feet down--I reckon it is not more than that--you see a broad plateau of rock upon which half a dozen men can stand easily."

"But neither Gerald nor your patient is there."

"They have rolled over it, and we must ascertain their position, if it is possible to do so. Descend."

"Descend!" cried Leonard, retreating.

"Descend," repeated Dr. Peterssen, calmly. "I will follow you."

"But why do you not go first?"

"Because, cherished idol of my soul, I do not trust you. You above and I below, you might easily finish me off, and have the game entirely in your own hands. You are quite safe with me, dear friend. It is to my advantage to keep you alive; I intend to get money out of you in the future. It would be to your advantage if I were in the same plight as our friends below, for then you would save the money you will have to pay me. Even as a lad I was distinguished for frankness. Descend."

He was master of the situation, and Leonard was compelled to submit. Steadying himself by the rope he descended, and reached the plateau. Dr. Peterssen climbed down after him with the agility of a cat.

"I see them," he said, "though not very distinctly. They seem to be lying side by side. Luckily it will not be at all difficult to get to them. Between being hurled down these rocks unaware and descending them voluntarily there is a great difference. We will go together. Careful, Leonard, careful; I must not have my milch cow injured."

They reached the spot where the bodies lay. The violence with which they had been dashed over the precipice had told its tale. Of the two Dr. Peterssen's patient was the more injured. In his descent his features had been so dreadfully cut and lacerated that they were scarcely distinguishable.

"My poor ward is done for," said Dr. Peterssen, adding, with eyes sanctimoniously raised to heaven, "he is now in a better world."

"And Gerald?" whispered Leonard.

It was some time before Dr. Peterssen replied, and when he spoke there was a strange note in his voice.

"Gerald lives."

"Then what has been done," cried Leonard, in a tone of mingled despair and fury, "has been done in vain!"

"Easy to finish the job," remarked Dr. Peterssen.

But, hardened as he was, Leonard shrank from the ruthless suggestion. Had he been alone he might have nerved himself to the desperate expedient, but in the presence of a witness----

"Are you certain be lives?"

"Quite certain," said Dr. Peterssen. "His head is badly cut, and there is no saying in what condition he will be when he opens his eyes. He has a long illness before him, which may terminate fatally."

"But, before the end he may be able to assure Emilia that they are legally married. Before the end he may make his will!"

"He may. It would be bad for both of us"

"Is there no road but one out of it?"

"I have a strong gift of invention," said Dr. Peterssen. "There is another road, a hazardous one, the risk and trouble of which will be mine; but I don't mind, so long as I am properly paid for it, and you will be rich enough to arrange that to my satisfaction."

"Speak plainly, in the devil's name."

"In the name of that august myth I will endeavor to do so. What hazards and what personal inconvenience will not such a sacred friendship as ours incur for a quid pro quo! The two men lying helpless before us, one dead and one living, are about the same height. Perhaps you have observed that?"

"I have not."

"I have. And not only about the same height but about the same build. The color of their hair is not dissimilar, and it really seems to have been ordained by fate that neither of them should wear mustache or beardeek."

"For the life of me I can't see your drift."

"The quality of your mental powers is not generally opaque, but you are remarkably dense at this moment. Dressed in each other's clothes, who is to distinguish them? Thus attired, my poor patient, whose features are battered beyond recognition, is carried back to the village as your luckless brother Gerald. As Gerald he is buried; the tombstone you lovingly erect over his remains proclaims it. Thus attired, he is carried back to the village as my patient, and I attend on him; no one else sets an eye upon him, though that risk might be run with safety. To-morrow comes a summons from his father, which I invent, to take him back to England. It grieves me to leave you in your grief, to leave the bereaved Emilia in her sorrow--but what can I do? Duty is my watchword, and I set it before me unflinchingly, and perform it. Without delay I return home, bearing my patient with me. Do you see the drift of my plan now?"

"I do," replied Leonard, setting his teeth close. "But will you be able to carry it out?"

"To the bitter end--till Gerald is dead."

They exchanged glances; the compact was made.

"If he should recover consciousness while we are changing their clothes!" whispered Leonard.

"Accept my professional word. The injuries he has received are so severe that he will not recover his senses until he is on the road to England. Not even then, perhaps. Trust me to manage him. I am responsible to no one, and there are potent drugs which I can use to any end I wish. As a matter of fact my poor patient's father is thousands of miles away, and will learn just as much as it pleases me to impart, and at the time I choose to impart it. What kind of friend am I?"

"The best of friends. Let us set to work."

Dr. Peterssen laughed internally; in this villanous scheme he saw what was hidden from Leonard.

An hour afterward they stood again on the edge of the precipice, and the rope they had used was once more concealed round Dr. Peterssen's body. He had forced down Gerald's throat ah opiate which insured insensibility for many hours to come. Leonard hoped that his step-brother would die under its influence, but Dr. Peterssen did not share the hope. He wanted Gerald to live--at least for the present.

CHAPTER XXXV.

EMILIA AND LEONARD.

On the evening of the following day a closed carriage was waiting at the door of the inn to convey Dr. Peterssen and Gerald to the nearest railway station. The plot he and Leonard had hatched had been cruelly successful. Strangers in the little village, and living during their stay upon terms of affectionate intimacy, their movements and actions were absolutely untrammelled, and not a shadow of suspicion had been aroused. Emilia, overwhelmed by the shock, was attacked with brain fever, and was lying in a dangerous condition. Dr. Peterssen declared it likely that she would never rise from her bed, and his opinion was shared by the village doctor. Gerald's condition was not less perilous. Dr. Peterssen had devoted the greatest attention to him, and Leonard learned from his partner in villainy that there was something more than a possibility that even if Gerald recovered his health he might never recover his reason. Their simulation of grief was perfect, and every person in the village spoke in praise of their devotion, and sympathized with them. Leonard, of course, was to remain behind to attend to Emilia, and to perform the last sad offices for his dearly beloved brother.

In a state of unconsciousness Gerald was carried out of the inn and placed in the carriage, and Dr. Peterssen and Leonard stood a little apart, conversing privately. The landlord and all the attendants quite believed that it was Dr. Peterssen's patient, and not Gerald, who was about to be taken to England.

"Up to this point," said Dr. Peterssen, "there has not been a hitch. We could not hope to have succeeded better, and should Emilia recover, there is no chance of a mishap if you play your cards properly."

"I shall not fail to do that," said Leonard, gazing at Dr. Peterssen with a certain mistrust. "I am in hopes that I shall be spared the awkwardness of an explanation."

"Meaning that you are in hopes she will die. Well, there is an even chance of that, but it is as well to be prepared. And now, friend of my soul, you and I must come to terms."

"We will leave all that till we meet in England," said Leonard.

"There will be plenty to talk of there," said Dr. Peterssen. "We will settle preliminaries here, before we part."

"What do you want?" asked Leonard, with a dark look.

"A clear understanding, and an undertaking in writing. You see, old comrade, I am doing your dirty work, not my own. I don't object to your enjoying the lion's share of the spoil, but I must have some guarantee of a sure and certain income."

"It is already agreed that you are to have three hundred a year, which with the three hundred you will receive from the father of your patient, makes you very comfortable."

"Not as comfortable as I ought to be," said Dr. Peterssen, placidly.

"What the mischief do you want? You have got a check for two thousand out of me."

"A retainer, my dear Leonard, merely a retainer. I should have stuck out for more, but I am always sacrificing myself for others. The three hundred must be six. Don't look black; a heart-stricken expression is advisable, with strangers observing us. The eyes of half-a-dozen are fixed on us at the present moment, and there would be the devil to pay if they suspected there was the smallest difference of opinion between us. Remember the stake you are playing for."

"You seem to hold the winning cards."

"I never play a game without them, dear old chum, but you must admit that my winnings are small in comparison with yours. Notice the smile of sad resignation on my face, with which I cajole our friends the simple villagers. Yes, Leonard, the three hundred must be six."

"I carry your brother Gerald from the carriage back to the inn. He is not in a fit state to travel, I say in reply to questions; I will not risk his life. I nurse him into health, I restore his senses--quite possible, I believe. I keep a watchful eye upon Emilia also, in order that you shall play no tricks, and she, too, gets well. Then I bring the two together, and leave you, noble captain, to your own devices. All very beautifully arranged, is it not, sweet child?"

"You shall have the six hundred, curse you," said Leonard, careful to follow Dr. Peterssen's advice as to the play of expression on his features.

"A million million thanks. And now be kind enough to sign this paper binding you to the arrangement. Go into the inn, and affix your signature in a bold, clear hand. No arguments, Leonard, but do it. If you delay we shall miss the train, and I shall have to return with your brother to the enjoyments of your society."

Leonard had no choice; he went into the inn and presently reappeared with the document, which he handed to Dr. Peterssen, who examined and pocketed it.

"Farewell, old comrade, farewell," he said, with his handkerchief to his eyes. "This is a dramatic moment; deeply do I feel the parting. Adieu, till we meet in England. By the way, I have informed Father Anselm, the good priest, that I have left five hundred francs in your hands which you will give him in my name for the relief of the poor. He blessed and thanked me. He will remind you of the benediction if you need reminding, but your best plan will be to give him the money soon, with a cheerful heart. Once more, farewell. Speak well of me when I am gone."

With profound sighs and melancholy looks he wrung Leonard's hand and entered the carriage, bidding the driver to proceed gently. Leonard and a few of the villagers watched the carriage till it was out of sight, and then the remaining actor in the vile plot entered the inn, enraged at the extortion--for so he inwardly declared it to be--that Dr. Peterssen had practised upon him. But he felt that he was in this man's power, and that it was advisable to submit with as good grace as possible. What was done could not be undone, nor would he have had it undone. The future was before him with all its possibilities of pleasure; a life of ease was his when the scheme was carried out to its bitter end. Even were he willing to forego his ruthless design he had gone too far now to retract. In the event of Emilia's recovery to health, his next move was to impose upon her and reduce her to silence, and he did not doubt his ability to achieve his purpose.

There were certain official formalities to go through with respect to the fictitious death of Gerald. He testified that the body was that of his brother, and he was supported by the independent testimony of witnesses, who identified the clothes of the deceased. The official record of the death of Gerald Paget was duly made, and in a few days the funeral took place, Leonard being the chief mourner. Over the grave was placed a flat tombstone, with the inscription--"To the memory of my dear brother Gerald." Nothing more.

Throughout the whole of these proceedings Emilia lay between life and death, and consequently knew nothing of what was going on. But her ravings proved that she was at least conscious of the fatal blow her happiness had received. She called upon her dear Gerald in Heaven, and implored to be taken to him; and then, and then--stirred by the mysterious promptings of approaching maternity--she as earnestly implored to be spared for the sake of her child yet unborn. For six weeks she lay in a dangerous condition, and then youth and a sound, though delicate, constitution triumphed, and her health began to improve. Another fortnight, and she was convalescent.

Before this took place Leonard, who was sedulously employed in earning a character for charity and kindness, had succeeded in blasting her good name. The simple priest of the village was shocked at the disclosure that Emilia had no right to wear the wedding-ring on her finger.

"Alas," he said, "that one so fair should be so frail!"

"Unhappily," said Leonard with a hypocritical sigh, "it is frequently so with the fairest of women. Weak as they appear, they are strong in vice."

The priest nodded his head sadly. How could he disbelieve a man so charitable and sweet-mannered as Leonard? How could he mistrust one who consecrated the memory of a beloved brother by donations to the little church and by constant benefactions to the poor and suffering among his flock? In the total it was not a large sum that Leonard parted with, but it was magnificent in the eyes of the poverty-stricken priest, who had never experienced such free-handed generosity. Leonard, was looked upon as a benefactor, and his false benevolence gave weight to every word that fell from his lips. He explained to the priest that the reason of his accompanying his brother Gerald and the young woman who had led him into vice was his earnest desire to break the guilty tie which bound them. "Death has done that for me," he said, covering his eyes. "A good man," thought the priest, "a good and noble man!" He inquired of Leonard how he intended to act when Emilia regained her health.

"I shall not desert her," replied Leonard; "Heaven forbid that I should do so! She has sinned, but the door of repentance shall not be closed upon her--she shall not lose the chance of leading a better life. I will insure her a small income, sufficient for any woman's wants, upon which she can live in comfort. She will be able to do so, will she not, upon two thousand francs a year?"

The priest raised his hands in astonishment. Two thousand francs! It was affluence.

"May your kind intentions be fruitful," he said. "May the erring woman lead in the future a virtuous life."

His flock were distinguished by a singular morality, and he, a simple-minded man, regarded with horror any backsliding from the straight path. On the following Sabbath he took the theme for his text, and without mentioning names, referred to two strangers in their midst, one distinguished for his noble deeds of charity, the other degraded by her vicious conduct. Every one in the chapel knew to whom he referred, and were prepared to receive Emilia with something more than coldness. The first knowledge of this state of feeling came to her on a day she was able to sit at her window to breathe the sweet air. The innkeeper's daughter had grown fond of her, and had performed many kindly offices for the hapless woman. The whole of this day the young girl had not made her appearance in Emilia's room, and yearning for female companionship she rang the bell for her. It was answered by the innkeeper.

"I wish to see your daughter," said Emilia.

"She will not come," said the innkeeper. "She shall not come."

"Why?" asked Emilia, in wonder at his rough tone.

"Answer the question yourself," replied the innkeeper. "When you are strong enough to leave my house I must request you to seek a shelter elsewhere."

He left the room without another word.

There was a significance in his manner as well as in his words which brought a flush into Emilia's face. "She will not come! She shall not come!" What fresh misery was in store for her? A terrible fear stole upon her. The undeserved shame she had passed through in her native town glided from the past and hovered like a spectre over her. She turned with a sob toward Leonard, who a short time afterward made his appearance. He pretended not to notice her agitation, and did not afford her an opportunity of opening a conversation with him.

"Would you like to come into the open air?" he asked.

"Yes, Leonard," she said, noting also the coldness of his voice. "Will you assist me down?"

He nodded, and she took his arm; but she missed the gentle and considerate guidance which she had a right to expect.

He placed a chair for her in front of the inn, and stood a few paces from her. Not a soul spoke to her. Men and women whom she remembered, whose faces she recognized, and with whom she was upon friendly terms when Gerald was with her, passed to and fro, and exchanged cordial words with Leonard, but did not address a single word to her. If by chance their eyes met hers, which, after a little while, were turned appealingly toward them, they turned abruptly from her, with looks of displeasure and aversion which chilled her heart. Even the innkeeper's daughter came near her, but did not approach close enough to speak to her. Yet she spoke to Leonard. Emilia beckoned to him.

"I cannot remain here any longer," she said. "I must go to my room."

She did not ask for his arm, nor did he offer it. Weak, and beset with torturing doubts, she clung to the wall as she ascended the stairs. In silence they entered the room. Leonard stood mute by the door.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" she asked presently.

"Nothing," he replied, "until you are stronger."

"I have borne so much in the past," she said, "that I can bear anything you have to tell.

"I will wait," he said, and left the room.

Long did she ponder over the strange conduct of those who were once her friends, but she could not account for it. She felt herself alone in a strange land. Gerald was lost to her, and she was without a friend. She did not give way to despair; she nerved herself to strength and fortitude; another life would soon be dependent upon her; for the sake of her unborn child it was her duty to keep up her heart.

Some days passed, and not a friendly word was spoken to her, not a friendly hand was held out. She suffered without remonstrance; dark as was the present there was a sweet light in the future. She would have her child in her arms before many weeks elapsed, Gerald's child. Spiritual baby eyes looked into hers; spiritual baby hands were stretched toward her. "For your sake, my darling, for your sake!" she murmured.

She was now able to walk alone, without assistance, and one day she walked to the village churchyard, to visit the grave of her beloved. She read the inscription, "To the memory of my dear brother Gerald." Should not her name have been there? She was nearer to him than any other human being. She resolved to seek without delay an explanation from Leonard.

On her way to and from the churchyard she met with many persons, and was avoided by all. A woman and her young daughter, a girl of sixteen, passed close to her; the mother drew her child away from Emilia so that their dresses should not come in contact. She met the village priest, who looked at her reprovingly, and then turned in an opposite direction. Was she, then, a pariah? What crime had she committed?

Once more in her room in the inn she forced herself to a practical examination into a matter which had surprised her. Certain articles of jewellery had been given to her by Gerald. They were gone. All that she possessed in remembrance of her dear husband were her wedding-ring and a ring set with diamonds, which had never left her fingers. Possibly if these had been lying loose they would have shared the fate of her other mementos. Quite as strange was the circumstance that everything belonging to Gerald had been removed during her illness from the rooms she and her husband had occupied. Her purse, too, was empty; there was not a coin in it. She could not remember whether she had any money before she received the terrible news of Gerald's death; indeed, with reference to past events, her memory was in the same state as it had been after the good old wagoner had taken her to his home in England. During that period she was not in a condition to gain any knowledge of her surroundings, and she did not even know the name of the place in which she and Gerald had been married. Up to the morning of that day her mind had been a blank, and Gerald, out of consideration for her, had made no attempt to revive memories which in their inception had brought so much suffering to his dear girl. The only thing that was clear to Emilia was the memory of the shame into which she had been plunged by Mrs. Seaton's calumnies, and when her mind reverted to the experiences of those dark days she strove shudderingly to thrust them from her. But there was something in her present position which seemed, in some dread manner, to be connected with that shame and with the horror of the slanders which had ruined her good name, and strive as she would she could not banish the remembrance.

She sent for Leonard and he came at her bidding.

"I have visited my husband's grave," she said.

"My dear brother Gerald's grave," he said in correction. "I said my husband's grave," she repeated.

"And I replied, my dear brother Gerald's grave."

There was a dark, stern look in his eyes, and she did not have the courage to come straight to the point.

"I believe you to be my friend," she said.

"I did not wish to distress my poor brother," he rejoined.

"Then you deceived me by professing what you did not feel?"

"I have no explanation to give."

"Yet you have remained here with me during my long illness."

"I had a duty to perform."

"Was it not out of love that you have stayed with me?"

"It was not."

She strove to look at him steadily, but her eyes wavered; his were unflinching.

"On the last day I saw my dear husband--What is the meaning of that gesture?" For Leonard had put up his hand with scornful motion.

"Your assumption of innocence and indignation does not deceive me; it will deceive no one who knows you. Go on. On the last day you saw my dear brother----"

"I had reason to believe," she continued, "that I had won the respect, if not the affection, of those around me, strangers though they were. I passed through a dangerous illness, and have been mercifully spared. I thank God humbly for it. Recovering, I am met with coldness whichever way I turn. People avoid me. Why?"

"Search your own heart for the answer."

"I have questioned my heart, and find none. I have done no wrong."

"You have singular ideas of morality. Is living with a man as his mistress a virtuous act?"

"Great God! How dare you speak those words to me?"

"Because they are true. People avoid you because the truth is known. Spare hysterics; they will not help you. You are not fit to associate with virtuous women."

"How dare you, how dare you? Gerald and I were man and wife."

"You never were. You and my dear, fond brother--dear to me, weak though he was--were never married. With his death ended your life of deceit. You were Gerald's mistress, not his wife."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I."

The horror of this infamous statement so completely overwhelmed her that she lost the power of speech. The room swam before her; in her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her slight form swayed like a reed in the throes of a pitiless storm. Presently Leonard spoke again, and his voice brought some clearness to her distracted mind; but every word he uttered cut into her heart like a sharp knife.

"If you are not sufficiently composed to hear what it is my duty to say, I will leave you and come again in an hour."

She motioned to him to remain, and her trembling hands then stretched themselves toward a bottle of water on the table. He poured some into a glass, which he placed close to her. Rallying a little she managed to raise the glass to her lips, and to drink, the cold draught revived her fainting senses.

"Speak," she said. "Say what you have to say."

"Had my brother lived," said Leonard, "the time would have come when he would have been compelled to make the disclosure himself. Being gone, the duty which was his devolves upon me. It may be that he would have righted the wrong he did you, for he was weak and easily prevailed upon. I do not seek to excuse him, and it is certain that he acted as he deemed best when he deceived you. Are you attending to me? Shall I go on?"

"Yes," she gasped, "go on."

"When you were lying at death's door in the village to which you had flown, the name of which you probably remember--" He purposely paused here, to afford her an opportunity of answering him.

"I do not remember it," she said. "If I heard it, it has gone from me. My mind was a blank."

"He was informed by the doctor," continued Leonard, with guilty satisfaction, "who attended you that there was only one means of restoring your reason, and that was to make you his wife. It was then he conceived the idea of a sham marriage ceremony. It must be clear to you, as it is to every person gifted with common-sense, that it was not possible for you to marry him or any man in your state of mind. No minister would have sanctioned such a marriage, and you could not, therefore, be married in church. It was easy for Gerald to devise a mock civil marriage, and to carry you away immediately to a foreign country in order that you should not discover the deception. You have been witness of the love which existed between him and me; his death is to me an irreparable loss. I endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose, but he would not listen to me: weak and amiable as he was, he had a soul of obstinacy when his mind was strongly set, and my words of counsel fell upon ears which were deaf to all the arguments I could use. I saw that there was a danger that the strong love we had for each other might be sapped if I thwarted him, and I could bear anything but that. My dear, dear brother! His spirit is with me day and night, and I forgive him for the action, although many would condemn him for it. Now, perhaps, you can understand why you are looked upon with disfavor here in this place--with something more than disfavor, indeed, with repugnance. They regard your presence as a shame and a scandal, and young girls are enjoined by their parents to avoid you. Since my dear Gerald's death the true story of your relations with him has in some way become known. It is not unlikely that he himself confided it to some person, perhaps to the village priest; and, to speak plainly, your position here is a little worse than it was in your native town in England, from which you had to fly. It is out of a feeling of kindness to you that I tell you it will be best for you to leave as soon as possible. The simple people will not tolerate you among them, and they may show their feelings toward you in a more practical manner than they have yet done. To enable you to escape I have a proposition to make to you, if you care to listen to it."

To escape! Had it come to that? Was it to be ever her fate to fly from unmerited shame, to be oppressed and hunted down? But it was not of herself alone she thought; her unborn babe appealed to her. A life of duty lay before her. It was merciful that this view of the position in which she stood came to her aid; otherwise her great despair might have driven her to the last desperate expedient of those wretched mortals to whom life has become a burden too hard to be longer endured.

"What is your proposition," she asked, faintly.

"My brother had a regard for you," said Leonard, "and when the time had arrived when, supposing that he had lived, he would have been compelled to separate himself from you, he would most likely have made some provision for you. I stand in his place, and I do loving honor to his memory by acting as he would have done. You shall not face the world in poverty, and besides, you shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless. I will provide for you, and will undertake to pay, through a lawyer whom I shall appoint, a sum of two pounds a week so long as you lead a respectable life and say nothing to my dear brother's hurt. You may live where you like, but I would advise you to choose some other country than England. There the story of your shame would cling to you, would follow you everywhere. Away from England no one would know, and life would be easier for you. Do you accept?"

"Leave me to myself," said Emilia. "I will send for you presently."

"I will wait below," said Leonard; "but do not be long in deciding, or I may change my mind."

Alone with her grief and her shame, Emilia, by a supreme effort of will, forced herself to calmness. The solemn sense of responsibility imbued her soul with strength. She was no longer a girl, dependent upon others for counsel, for guidance, for love. Not a friend in the world had she, but a helpless being would soon be lying at her breast who would claim from her all that it was in the power of a loving woman to give. A new life lay before her. How would she commence it?

She strove for a few minutes to bring the past back to her mind, but it presented itself to her in pictures so blurred and indistinct that she relinquished the effort. Up to the point of her being driven from Mrs. Seaton's house everything was clear, but her memory was gone upon all that had occurred afterward until she found herself with Gerald in a foreign land. The names of places, the names of people with which and whom she had been associated within that interval were completely blotted out. She did not doubt the base story which Leonard had related. Had she and Gerald been legally married he would have placed in her hands the certificate which proved her a lawful wife. The fatal omission proved Leonard's story to be true. Not a word about their marriage had ever passed between Gerald and herself during their honeymoon. He, with his careless easy nature, living with Emilia a life of sweetest happiness, left everything to the future; he had thought it wisest, too, to allow a long time to elapse before reviving memories which had brought Emilia so much sorrow; she would regain her full strength, she would be better able to think of the past. This was not known to Emilia; she could only decide upon her future action by what was within her cognizance.

She felt no bitterness toward Gerald. He had, no doubt, acted for the best, and had imposed upon her by a mock ceremony of marriage, in order that she might be restored to health and reason. Would it have been better that she had died? No. Her child would soon be in her arms, bringing with it hope, and light, and peace perhaps. But the child must not open her eyes among those who knew her unhappy mother's story. The duty to the unborn which Emilia had to perform must be performed elsewhere. Gerald's brother was right in advising her to choose some other country than England in which to reside. But she had to think of his offer to provide for her.

The moment she set her mind upon the subject she indignantly rejected the offer. It was too late to remedy the errors of the past into which she had been unwittingly led, but there should be no bridge between the past and the future. Even had she been willing to entertain the offer, it had been made in terms so insulting that no woman of decency could have accepted it without covering herself with shame. "You shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless." The provision, then, assumed the shape of a bribe. And it was to be paid so long as she led a respectable life--a tacit admission that hitherto her life had been disreputable within her own knowledge. No, she would reject the offer, and would, with the labor of her own hands, support herself and child.

At this point of her musings the landlord of the inn unceremoniously entered the room.

"I wish you to leave my house to-day," he said.

She smiled sadly. This was the second time in her young life that she had been undeservedly thrust forth upon the world. But she ventured a gentle remonstrance.

"Give me till to-morrow," she pleaded, "and I will go. It is so sudden, and I am not prepared."

"I have nothing to do with that," he said roughly. "You must go to-day."

"If it must be," she said, resignedly, "I must submit. Will you kindly ask Mr. Leonard Paget to come to me?"

Needless to say that this cruel move had been prompted by the villain with whom Emilia was presently once more face to face.

"Have you reflected upon my offer?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I cannot accept it."

He shrugged his shoulders, but not exactly at his ease. Did the rejection mean that she intended to fight for her rights? This might prove awkward. Her next words reassured him and made him jubilant again.

"I prefer to depend only upon myself, and to get my own living."

"How? Where?"

"I am well educated, and may be fortunate enough to obtain a situation as governess in a family or school where a knowledge of English is desirable. I thank you for your advice as to my future place of residence, and I shall remain abroad. I have no friends in England--nor, indeed, anywhere," she added, with a pitiful sigh, "and I never wish to see it again."

"The landlord informs me," said Leonard, "that he has given you notice to leave the inn immediately."

"He has been here with the same unkind order. Of course I must go."

"Of course: He has a right to send people away of whom he does not approve. What will you do? No one else in the village will give you shelter. I have made myself responsible for the expenses you have incurred since my dear brother's death."

"That is hardly just," said Emilia, "as I have no claim upon you; but my purse is empty. I must go away before night." She paused a moment or two before she resumed. "Things have been removed from my room during my illness which I might sell, and thus be enabled to take my departure. I am not strong enough to go away on foot."

"Everything belonged to my brother."

"I do not dispute that."

"Would it not be sensible on your part to reconsider your determination. Accept the offer I have made to you."

"I cannot." Her eyes fell upon the rings on her finger--the wedding ring which Gerald had placed there, and the diamond ring which he had given her. With a lover's extravagance he had purchased one of considerable value. Leonard knew the price he had paid for it, one hundred guineas. "These," said Emilia, pathetically, "are my own."

"I lay no claim to them," said Leonard, ungraciously.

"But they are really my own?"

"Consider them so."

She removed the diamond ring from her finger. "Is there any person in the village who will purchase this of me?"

"No one rich enough. I will do so, if you wish."

"I humbly thank you. Give me what you like for it."

"I will give you a thousand francs," said Leonard, with a sudden fit of generosity.

"But I do not want more than it is worth," said Emilia, with a joyful flush. A thousand francs! It meant a safe escape from a place where she was avoided; it meant sufficient to pay for a few weeks' board and lodging.

"We will say it is worth that."

"You are most kind," said Emilia, giving him the ring. "And I can pay what I owe the landlord."

"You cannot do that out of a thousand francs. Try and be a little sensible, and say nothing more about it. After all, it was Gerald who brought you here, and the responsibility, which was his, is now mine. Here is the money. You will give me a receipt for it? Otherwise I should not be able to account for my possession of a ring you have always worn upon your finger."

"Kindly write out the receipt," said Emilia, "and I will sign it."

Leonard wrote the receipt, which Emilia signed.

"This will not do," he said. "You have signed it in a name which does not belong to you."

She had signed "Emilia Paget." She shuddered at Leonard's remark.

"How else should I sign it?"

"In the name which is your own," said Leonard, tearing up the paper, and writing another; "Emilia Braham."

He placed the fresh receipt before her, and with trembling fingers she affixed the name, "Emilia Braham." Leonard exulted. Here was a proof which he had not thought of obtaining. Being dated, it might serve as an open admission that Emilia, living with his brother, was quite aware that she was not his wife. The confession and the renunciation were of her own doing.

"Can I do anything more for you?" he asked.

"Yes. Get me a carriage, and accompany me out of the village. I need protection from insult."

"You shall not be insulted. I promise it. How long will you be getting ready?"

"I shall be ready in less than an hour."

Her preparations for departure helped to divert her mind from the grief which oppressed it. Into one trunk she packed what belonged to her. She would have liked to take the desk, inlaid with silver, of Indian manufacture, which she had regarded as her own, but it had been removed with other articles which she believed were hers. She made no complaint; even to herself she did not repine; she submitted to everything, her only wish being to find herself in a place where she was unknown. All was ready when Leonard came to tell her that the carriage was waiting.

"Where do you wish to go?" he asked.

"It does not matter," she replied, "so long as I am among strangers."

He named a town at a distance of eighteen or twenty miles, and she said it would do as well as any other. Soon they were at the door of the inn, about which were assembled the usual idlers. The carriage which Leonard had procured was a closed one, and he assisted Emilia into it, saying that he would sit by the driver. She appreciated the act, and believed it proceeded from thoughtfulness; it was her desire to be alone with her thoughts.

The driver was a long time starting; he fidgeted with his horses, with his reins, with the harness, and then he fortified himself with half a bottle of red wine. No one approached Emilia while he was thus employed; no one breathed "farewell," or gave her a kind look. But when at length the driver took his seat on the box, with Leonard beside him, and was gathering up his ragged reins, the landlord's daughter passed the open window of the carriage, and furtively threw something in. It fell into Emilia's lap, and she, with eyes suddenly overflowing, and lips convulsed with emotion, covered it with her handkerchief, lest it should be taken from her. Then with a shout, the driver set his horses in motion, and they commenced their journey.

Emilia lifted her handkerchief. In her lap lay a little bunch of flowers, tied together with string, attached to which was a piece of paper, and written upon the paper the words, "From his grave." She pressed the flowers to her breast, to her lips, and murmured a prayer of thankfulness. The sense of the deep and irreparable wrong which Gerald had inflicted upon her passed away, and she thought of him only as one to whom she had given her heart and the full measure of her love. He was her child's father; better to think of him with love and kindness, which would soften her heart, than with harshness and bitterness, which would harden it. It would help to smooth the roads of the future she was to pass in the loving companionship of her child. "Only you and I alone, darling," she murmured; "only you and I!"

How kind of the young girl to send her away with this token of pity and sympathy. "Heaven bless her for it!" thought Emilia. "Heaven brighten her life, and save her from misery!" Had Emilia possessed a nature which would have hardened under such sufferings as she was enduring, the young girl's simple offering would have humanized and softened it. No wonder, then, that with a nature as sweet as ever woman was blessed with, she looked upon the flowers from Gerald's grave as an angel's gift, sent to her as a divine solace and strengthener. "I will be strong," she thought. "A duty of love is mine to perform, and I will perform it in humbleness and gratitude."

From time to time Leonard came to the door of the carriage and asked if he could do anything for her. She gently declined his offers of refreshment, and said she needed nothing. He did not press his attentions upon her, and she gave him credit for a kindness of heart to which he had no claim.

It was ten o'clock at night when they reached the town to which Leonard was conveying her. The carriage drew up at the door of at hotel of some pretension, and there Leonard had no difficulty in obtaining accommodation for Emilia. He told her he did not intend to pass the night at the hotel, and she was grateful to him.

"To-morrow I shall return," he said. "Shall I say good-by to you now or then?"

"Now," she replied.

"Very well. Good-by." He hesitated a moment, and then offered her his hand.

She hesitated, also, before she accepted it. From him she had received information of the blow which had dishonored her; could she touch his hand in friendship? No, not in friendship, but why should she be sullen and churlish? He had done her no direct wrong, he had even shown her consideration and kindness. To refuse his hand would be a bad commencement of the new life. She held out hers, and he took it in his cool palm.

"You are still resolved not to accept my offer?" he asked.

"I am resolved."

"I will not endeavor to prevail upon you, for I see your mind is made up."

"It is. You cannot turn me."

He gazed at her in surprise. There was a firmness in her, voice, a new note he had not heard before.

"Is it your intention," he asked, "to come back to England?"

"I shall never set foot in England again," she said.

"Neither from that determination can anything turn me."

"It is a wise resolve. I promise to keep your secret." She turned from him, saying in a low tone, "I shall be grateful if you never speak of me."

"I promise not to do so. And you on your part should never mention my name or my dear brother's."

"I will never do so. He is dead to me. You will be, when you pass out of this room."

"I should tell you," he said, lingering still a moment, "that I have entered your name in the hotel book as Emilia Braham."

"I should have done so myself. It is the name I shall bear for the future."

"Being your right one. Well, good-by."

"Good-by," she said.

So they parted, to meet again--when?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A GOOD WOMAN.

As briefly as possible must now be sketched the story of Emilia's life during the next eighteen years. To her resolution not to return to England she remained firm during that period. Two days after Leonard left her she quitted the town to which he had brought her, and twelve months afterward she found herself settled in Geneva. It was her good fortune to meet an elderly lady who required a companion. The name of this lady was Madame Lambert, and she was attracted by the gentleness of Emilia's manner. These two ladies happened to be staying at the same hotel for a few days, and Emilia was enabled to render Madame Lambert some slight service. Like Emilia, the elder lady was travelling alone, and one evening Madame Lambert was seized with a sudden faintness at the table d'hôte. Emilia, who was sitting next to her, assisted her to her room, and remained with her during the night, sharing her bed by invitation. In her situation Emilia was compelled to register her name as Mrs. Braham, and Madame Lambert, questioning her, was told by Emilia that she was a widow. Emilia did not attempt to justify herself to her conscience; she knew that the duplicity was necessary for the credit of her unborn child.

"Are you quite alone?" asked Madame Lambert.

"Yes," replied Emilia. "My husband died poor, and left me very little. My intention is to seek a situation as governess."

"In England?"

"No, here in Switzerland. I shall be happier here. I have no friends in England, and my knowledge of the English language will perhaps enable me to obtain a situation more easily here than there."

"You will soon," said Madame Lambert, in a tone of kindly significance, "be compelled to rest a while. For a little time at least you will not be able to fill a situation as governess."

Emilia blushed and sighed. "I have thought of that," she said, "with fear and trembling."

"Because you are poor?" questioned Madame Lambert, speaking still with the utmost kindness.

"Yes," said Emilia, softly. Frankness was best under the circumstances.

"My dear," said Madame Lambert, "I am sure you are a lady."

"My father was a gentleman," said Emilia. "He fell into misfortune, and when he died I was penniless."

"And you married a penniless gentleman. Ah, how imprudent is youth! But I have been young myself, and have loved and lost. My dear, neither am I rich, but I have a life income which is sufficient. It dies with me, I regret to say. I have a reason for telling you this. Like yourself, I am alone in the world. I was born in Geneva, and when a course of travel, which my doctor recommended for my health, is over, shall return there to live. Will you travel with me as my friend and companion? I can offer you very little in the shape of salary, but it will be enough to provide you with clothes, and perhaps a little more. Then you will have a lady with you when your baby is born. What do you say?"

"What can I say," replied Emilia, in a voice of gratitude that completed the conquest she had began, "but thank you from my inmost heart for your kind offer? I can scarcely believe it real."

"It is real, my dear. Heaven is very good, and sends us friends when we least expect them. I am sure we shall get along very well together. You accept, then?"

"I accept with gratitude." She raised the hand of the kind lady to her lips, and her tears bedewed it. "Yes, God is very good to me. I will prove worthy of your kindness. You shall never repent it."

"If thought otherwise I should not press it upon you, my dear. You will really be rendering me a greater service than it is in my power to render to you. It is miserable to travel alone, without a kindred soul to talk to and confide in. So it is settled. We shall be true friends."

From that day Madame Lambert and Emilia travelled together, not as mistress and companion, but as friends, until the time arrived when Madame Lambert saw that it was imperative that Emilia should remain for a few weeks quiet and free from the fatigues of a wandering life. Thus faith and goodness were rewarded.

In a picturesque and retired village Emilia's baby, a girl, was born, and baptized in the name of Constance, Madame Lambert's christian name. Sweet and profound was the happiness with which the young mother's heart was filled when she held her baby to her breast. A sacred joy was hers, in which she found a holy consolation for the troubles through which she had passed. Madame Lambert was delighted, and drew from the mother and child a newborn pleasure. She never tired of showing them kindness; had they been of her own blood she could scarcely have been more considerate and thoughtful. She called Constance "our child," and was as nervous over the little one's trials as Emilia herself. In such sympathetic companionship, and with such a sweet treasure as she now possessed, Emilia could only be happy. She never dwelt with sorrow upon the past. With rare wisdom she destroyed the bridge behind her, and buried the memories which had threatened to utterly wreck and ruin her life. Constance was a child of love, not of shame. Emilia's pure soul exonerated her from self-reproach, and shame could never be her portion now that there was no link, except the loving link of a baby's hands, between the past and the future. Wherever she turned she met looks of kindness; no longer was she avoided and repulsed. The world once more was sweet, and bright, and beautiful, and when she prayed to our Father in Heaven it was in the happy consciousness that He knew her to be a pure and innocent woman.

"Baby, baby, baby!" she whispered to the child in her "You have restored me to life, to joy, to happiness. Oh, my baby, my baby! Can I ever be sufficiently grateful to you? Dear Lord in Heaven, give me strength and wisdom to guide her aright, to keep her from pitfalls, to see her grow in purity and innocence to a happy womanhood! Do not take her from me. Let her remain with me as a shield and protector. Through her I see goodness and light. Oh, my angel, my angel!"

She wiped her happy tears away, and sang and crooned and worshipped as only a good mother can. Ah, the little fingers, the childish prattle, the pattering of little feet, what would the world be without them? Religion would be dead, and faith a mockery not to be indulged in without a sneering devil creeping close to lay its icy hands upon hearts in which sweet thoughts are harbored. Flowers of the human garden, let us be humbly grateful for the light they shed upon the dark spaces which at one time or other every mortal has to tread. In the midst of the gloom which surrounds us shines a star illumining a fair face and a head with flowing curls. In the midst of the stillness by which we are encompassed steals a musical voice, with its divine melody of childish laughter. What is that light in the distance? A bright cloud shining on a little bed, by the side of which kneels a small form clad in white. The pretty hands are clasped, and from the lovely lips issue the words, "Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name!"

It was impossible that Emilia could forget Gerald, but her thoughts of him were ever gentle and kind and forgiving. "You see our child, dear Gerald"--thus ran her thoughts--"watch over her. I forgive you for the wrong you committed. Do not trouble and sorrow over it. It is done and gone, and only sweetness remains. You have given me a flower which makes my heart a garden of love. God bless you, dear Gerald!" So from the bitterest woe in which a human being could be plunged uprose a heavenly light.

"We must not spoil our child," said Madame Lambert.

"We cannot spoil her," said Emilia. "Is she not beautiful?"

"The loveliest baby that ever drew breath, my dear. You happy woman! If I were as young as you are I should be jealous of you."

The good lady was amazed at the new beauty which now dwelt in Emilia's face. The young mother was transfigured. A holy radiance shed its light upon her. Madame Lambert found herself presently worshipping the mother almost as much as she worshipped the child.

"If you were my own daughter, my dear," she said, "I could not love you more."

"You are the best woman in the world," responded Emilia. "Heaven guided my feet when it led me to you."

"Now it is time," said Madame Lambert, "to think of returning to Geneva. There is our baby's education to be attended to."

"Yes," said Emilia, gravely. "She must be taught everything that is good."

And baby was only four months old! But mothers let their thoughts run ahead.

They did not, however, return at once to Madame Lambert's home. They lingered for two or three months in the valleys and mountains, and gathered garlands and posies for their child, which they pressed and preserved as though they were jewels of inestimable value. And, indeed, there are no jewels to compare with memories so sweet and pure. At length the happy rambles were over, and they were in Geneva.

"Welcome home," said Madame Lambert.

Her apartments, in a good position in the city, consisted of five rooms and a kitchen. Two of these rooms Madame Lambert gave to Emilia, one a sitting-room, the other a bedroom for her and the baby. During Madame Lambert's absence the apartments had been taken care of by an old servant, who acted as cook and general domestic, to whom Madame Lambert had sent certain written instructions. When Madame Lambert said to Emilia, "Welcome, home," she conducted Emilia to the rooms set apart for her, and the young mother's eyes overflowed as they fell upon the flowers which welcomed her and at the other evidences of a loving friendship which the thoughtfulness of Madame Lambert had provided.

"How good you are to me!" she murmured.

"We are going to be very happy here," said Madame Lambert.

"I should be undeserving, indeed," said Emilia, kissing her kind friend and putting the baby into her arms, "if I were not happy with you."

Madame Lambert was well known in Geneva, and had many friends there, to all of whom she introduced Emilia. It was through these introductions that Emilia was enabled to obtain employment as a governess, which occupied her four or five hours a day, and her sweetness and gentleness soon made her loved by all who knew her. In this way passed five happy years, and then a calamity occurred. Madame Lambert fell ill, and the doctors said that she could not recover. When this verdict was imparted to Madame Lambert, she received it with resignation.

"I have only one regret, my dear," she said to Emilia, "that I must say farewell to you and our child. But my spirit will be with you always."

"Dear friend, dear friend!" murmured Emilia.

"It's a great comfort to me to know," said the dying woman, "that you are well established here, and can get a living. You are so much loved that I have no fears of your future. I am truly sorry that I cannot leave you and our Constance a fortune. There is a little money, very little, but it will be useful; and in my will I have left the furniture of our home to you. Then I have been clever enough to pay the rent in advance for the next three years, so that you will be able to put by a little more. God bless you, my dear; you have brightened the last years of an old woman's life."

In a voice choked with emotion Emilia thanked and blessed the good lady, who smiled and fondled her hand. She saw little Constance frequently, but she would not allow the child to be saddened by keeping her too long in the room of a dying woman.

"Childhood should be bright," she said. "I want our child to remember me in my cheerful moods."

"She will remember and pray for you all her life," sobbed Emilia, "as I shall, dearest and best of friends."

The end came a little after midnight.

"Do you think," she whispered, with a pause between each word, "that you could let me kiss our dear child without awaking her?"

"I will bring her," said Emilia.

"Kiss me first, dear," said the dying lady.

Emilia kissed her, and lay a few moments with her face nestling to that of her friend. Then she went and brought the child in her arms. Constance was asleep. Emilia had lifted her very lightly from her bed, and now she laid her by Madame Lambert's side, and covered her with a warm shawl. The child's fragrant breath flowed upon the dying lady's face.

"Our little angel is the sweetest flower the world contains," murmured Madame Lambert. "Good-by, sweet one. Heaven guard and protect you!"

She closed her eyes, and did not open them again. And so the good soul passed away, with the child's breath fanning her face.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CONSTANCE AND JULIAN.

The tide in Emilia's affairs which had led her to Geneva proved to be most auspicious and fortunate. Her home with Madame Lambert was happy and peaceful, and when that good friend had passed away there was no break in the even tenor of her days. The connections she had formed were lasting and endurable, and she was never without pupils. One family recommended her to another, and she was constantly employed, meeting respect everywhere. Her earnings were not large, but they were sufficient for her modest wants. Blessed with the companionship of a child whose loveliness and sweet disposition won the hearts of all who came into association with her, the life led by Emilia and her daughter may be likened to a peaceful lake nestling in a valley beyond the reach of storm and tempest. The love Emilia bore for Constance was deep and profound, and represented for the devoted mother the light and joy of the world. So years passed until Constance was seventeen.

All these years Emilia had heard no news from England, and had not seen a face she had known in her youth. The past was buried in a grave destined, as she believed, never to be disturbed, and there was not a cloud in the horizon to warn her of a coming storm. It was the happiest time of her life.

Constance had many young friends, and among them, as was natural--being a beautiful and accomplished girl, with winning and amiable manners--an unreasonable number of young gentlemen who adored her. Of these the favored one was Julian Bordier.

M. Bordier, his father, was the head of an important watch manufactory, a concern the reputation of which was world wide. The name of Bordier was famous; his sign-manual engraved on the back-plate of a watch was a guarantee of excellence. Consequently the Bordiers--father, mother, son, and two daughters--were rich.

Social grades are not so unfairly marked in Geneva as in other cities. To have been well introduced, to be well educated, to live a reputable life, to have good manners, form the open sesame to polite society. Emilia and her daughter supplied all these requirements, and their circle of acquaintance was large and reputable. It was through the young people that Emilia was introduced to the house of the Bordiers, and once admitted she was always welcomed with cordiality. In all respects Julian Bordier was a gentleman and a man of refined instincts; unhappily his sight was failing him, and the Genevese specialists seemed to be powerless in their efforts to arrest the affliction of blindness which threatened him. The effect which this had upon the love which grew between Constance and Julian was to instil into her feelings for him a sentiment of divine pity. Before they were absolutely aware of it their hearts were engaged.

Emilia watched the progress of this mutual affection with solicitous eyes, but she did not speak of it to her daughter. It was for Constance to introduce the subject, and that she had not done so was a proof that there had been no love-making between the young people. Constance believed her secret was not known, but the insight of a mother's love is keen and strong, and Emilia knew it almost before her daughter. The knowledge disquieted her. They were poor, the Bordiers were rich. But it was not in her power to guide the current; she must wait and hope for the best.

One night Emilia and Constance came home later than usual. They had been spending a musical evening at the Bordiers' house, and Emilia had noticed for the first time that Julian's attentions to her child were more than ordinarily marked. Now and again she looked apprehensively at M. Bordier, who was sitting in his usual corner, and seemed to be taking notice of his son's attentions to Constance; the father's face was grave and observant, but there was no trace of disapproval on it. This was comforting, but it did not remove Emilia's apprehensions. It was a fine night, and Julian walked home with them. It needed not a loving mother's insight to detect the newborn tenderness of Julian's manner when he bade Constance good-night and held her hand in his.

Mother and daughter derived delight from attending upon each other, but on this night Emilia dispensed with Constance's services. She brushed her own hair quickly, and then pressed Constance gently into a chair, and busied herself over the abundant tresses of her beloved child. With what loving care did she comb out the flowing locks, her heart beating with infinite love for this sweet and only treasure of her life! Then she coaxed Constance into bed, and knelt by the bedside and prayed.

"Mamma!"

Emilia rose from her knees, and bent her face down to Constance.

"Yes, dear child."

"I am almost afraid to speak, mamma."

"Is it about Julian Bordier, dear?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, my darling."

"You will not be angry, mamma?"

"Angry, darling--with you!"

"He is coming to speak to you to-morrow, mamma."

"He loves you, Constance."

"Yes, mamma."

"And you love him."

The young girl hid her face on her mother's neck.

"You are not sorry, mamma, are you?"

"I think only of your happiness, darling. I have no other object in life."

"Oh, mamma, you are the sweetest, dearest mother in the world. It is ungrateful of me; but, mamma, I cannot help it."

"I know, I know, my darling. What does his father say?"

"He dues not know--no one knows. Are you not surprised, mamma?"

"I think I have seen it for some time past, my sweet."

"And you never mentioned it, mamma--never even whispered it?"

"It was for you to speak first, Constance, and I waited."

"I can scarcely believe it. Oh, mamma, mamma, I love him, I love him!"

"Dear child! When does he intend to speak to his father?"

"After he has seen you. He did intend to speak to both of you first before he said a word to me, but somehow, mamma--I don't know really how it happened, nor does he--Mamma, you are crying!"

"I cannot help it, dear. You are my only one, my only one----"

"But, mamma, we shall still be together. Julian says so. We shall never, never be separated."

Emilia smiled sadly. "I have always liked Julian, dear, and if all should turn out well I am sure he will make you happy."

"He loves you dearly, mamma. I shall be glad when to-morrow is over."

"It will soon be over, dear child. Time passes quickly. Now go to sleep, my dear, dear child!"

They kissed and embraced again and again, and then Constance's head sank upon the pillow, and she fell asleep with her mother's arm encircling her neck. Emilia lay awake for hours. Her daughter's confession had revived memories of the past, and she could not banish forebodings. Of all the young men whom she knew, Julian Burdier was the one she would have chosen for Constance, but she dreaded the coming meeting with his father. She could not explain her fears, but she was haunted by threatening shadows. Daylight was dawning when she fell asleep, and she rose unrefreshed from her bed. Constance, dressed, was sitting by her side when she awoke. Never had she seen her daughter look so beautiful; love made her radiant with angelic loveliness.

"I want you to look very, very bright, mamma," said Constance. "I will help you dress."

Engrossed in her own happy dreams she did not notice the tired expression on her mother's face, which, after a little while, wore away beneath the influence of Constance's gentle ministrations.

"Julian will be here early, mamma," she said, when breakfast was over. "I don't know what to do with myself. Shall I go out, or remain at home? Hark! Yes; that is his step?"

"Go to your bedroom, darling," said Emilia, with fond kisses, "and wait till I call you."

Constance obeyed, and Emilia admitted the young man, who entered the room with flowers for Constance and her mother. She motioned him to a seat; she was palpitating with emotion, but she succeeded in preserving an apparently calm demeanor.

"You expected me," he said, after she had accepted the flowers and laid them aside.

"Constance told me you would come," said Emilia, gravely.

"Is she well?"

"Quite well."

Then there was an awkward pause, but soon the young man took heart of grace, and in modest, manly fashion laid his petition before Emilia.

"I cannot hope to be worthy of her," he said; "no man could be, but I can promise sincerely to do all in my power to make her happy. I love her very dearly. What can I say more? You will not refuse me?"

"If it depended upon me," said Emilia, speaking very slowly, "I should be contented to place my daughter's happiness in your keeping, for I believe you to be worthy of her."

"How can I thank you?" said Julian, impetuously. "It does depend upon you. Then all is settled. May I see Constance?"

She gently shook her head. "Not yet. I could have wished you had consulted me before you said anything to Constance. I am not blaming you--I know there are feelings it is difficult to keep in check, but I think it would have been better if you had confided in me first. I could then have advised you."

"To do what? You have no objection to entrusting me with her; and indeed, indeed, your trust shall not be misplaced. Perhaps you are right, but it can make no difference now that I know you approve."

"There is one," said Emilia, steadily, "to whom you should have spoken even before you addressed me or Constance."

"My father?"

"Yes, your father."

"Again, I daresay you are right. But I am sure of my father. He loves me, and will not thwart me----"

Emilia held up her hand. "Have you considered the difference in our position?"

"No--except that I have always felt that Constance is far above me, if that is what you mean."

"It is not what I mean. Parents are compelled to view such matters in a different light. I can give Constance no dowry."

"I want none. I want her."

"And with your father's approval, you shall have my consent. It is my duty to say this to you, and as you have consulted me first I should wish him to know that I have so expressed myself, and that my answer is in his hands."

"Very well, I will go to him at once. There is not the least doubt of his answer, and I have yours already."

"No," interrupted Emilia, firmly, but with a tender inclining toward the young man, "you have not mine already. I cannot give it to you definitely until I have seen or heard from your father."

"How precise you are," said Julian, in a gay tone; "but my dear Constance's mother cannot be wrong in anything she does." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You will not turn me away without allowing me to see her?"

"I will not turn you away at all, but I cannot sanction anything more than kind friendship between you and my child till your father has spoken. Julian, do you not see that I am striving to perform a duty which I consider right?"

"Of course I do, and I am greatly to be blamed for worrying you. But let me see her for one moment. It is only to say good-morning and to shake hands. You would not have refused me yesterday."

"Nor will I now. I rely upon your honor, Julian."

"You may, implicitly."

She called her daughter, and turned from them while they spoke. They exchanged only a few words, but Constance's hand remained in Julian's and that was happiness enough for the present. Then Julian called out to Emilia:

"Good-morning. I shall be here again very soon."

She accompanied him to the door, and sent him away with a bright smile, but there was a fear at her heart which she could not have defined had she endeavored to set it clearly before her.

An hour afterward M. Bordier was announced.

"Constance," said Emilia, "I think you had best take a walk while I speak to Julian's father."

Constance kissed her mother in silence, and was leaving the room as M. Bordier entered it.

"Are you going for a walk?" he asked, holding out his hand.

His voice and manner were so affectionate that her heart was filled with joy. Emilia's heart also throbbed with hope.

"Yes, sir," replied Constance, raising her eyes timidly to his face.

"It is a bright morning, my dear," he said. "I am glad for your sake and for Julian's."

She wiped away the happy tears as she descended the stairs and out into the sunshine.

"I thought I would lose no time," said M. Bordier to Emilia, "although really it seemed as if I were not master of my own movements. Julian was so impatient that he almost thrust me from the house. We will not beat about the bush, my dear madam. Julian is my only son, and that which affects his happiness affects me almost as nearly."

"Then you have no objection to the engagement?" said Emilia, eagerly.

"None. Julian has related to me all that passed between you and him, and said you chided him for not coming to me first."

"I considered it the right course."

"Perhaps, but young people in love are impetuous, and do not reflect. We ourselves were young, and can recall the time when we were in their position." A shiver passed through Emilia at this allusion. "You made some reference to Julian about the difference in our circumstances. I intend to speak very plainly, you see, because I want the ground cleared once and for all, for all our sakes. Well, there is a difference, I admit, but it is not to be taken into account. You can give your daughter no dowry. It is not needed; I am rich enough to make the future easy for them. My son is a gentleman, your daughter is a lady. I approve of her, and I shall be proud to receive her into my family." Emilia gazed at him with swimming eyes; the fear at her heart was fading away. "She is a great favorite in our home, and we are all very fond of her. I am glad that the matter has come to an issue before Julian leaves Geneva----"

"Is he going away, then?" asked Emilia, startled at the news.

"For a short time only, I hope, and I shall go with him. His failing sight has caused us great anxiety, and the doctors here can do nothing for him. We intend to go to Paris, to consult an eminent specialist, and I trust he will come home quite cured. So that it is as well he has spoken to Constance. Indeed I suspect his projected departure caused him to open his heart to her earlier than he intended. Some persons are opposed to early marriages; I am not; and to judge from your looks you must be of my opinion. You married young?"

"Yes," replied Emilia, faintly. Her fears revived; her undefined apprehension of evil was beginning to take shape.

"Your name Braham, might belong to any nationality. Was your husband French?"

"He was English." Her throat was dry; she could scarcely articulate her words. M. Bordier looked at her in concern. "You are not well."

"A sudden faintness, that is all," said Emilia, in a firmer tone. She must not give way; her daughter's happiness was at stake. "It has passed off now."

"English? And you are English also?"

"Yes."

"I remember when the good Madame Lambert brought you here, that there was some curiosity felt as to your nationality, but Madame Lambert silenced it by saying that you would prefer not to refer to the past. That was woman's talk, and it soon ceased. Your daughter bears Madame Lambert's name, Constance."

"Madame Lambert wished it."

"Were you and she related--excuse my interminable questions, but now that we are about to become closely connected we should know more of each other's antecedents."

"We were not related."

"Ah, well. While I am away I may run over to England. I should not be sorry for the opportunity of calling upon your friends there."

"I have no friends there."

"Some relatives surely."

"None."

"Well, your late husband's relatives."

"M. Bordier," said Emilia, summoning all her courage to her aid, "there are in the world persons whose past is so fraught with unhappy memories that it is painful to revive them. Such has been my past, and the simple references you have made have opened wounds I hoped were healed. Pray question me no more."

"I will not," said M. Bordier, kindly, but also with a certain gravity which impressed itself strongly upon Emilia, "we will say nothing more about it at present, and I ask your pardon for causing you pain. But still, when the formal preliminaries to the marriage between Constance and Julian are prepared--which cannot be done until Julian and I return to Geneva--some necessary information of your past will have, of course, to be given to make the contract legal and binding. Until then we will let the matter drop. And now allow me to assure you that I give my consent to the engagement with satisfaction and pleasure. Julian's mother and I have often discussed the future of our children, and shall be quite satisfied if they marry into families of respectable character. That is all we ask, and all we consider we have a right to demand. As to worldly prospects, we will make that our affair, being, I am thankful to say, able to provide for our children and the mates they may choose."

He held out his hand to Emilia, and with old-fashioned courtesy kissed her, saying, "You and your daughter will make our house your home while Julian and I are absent."

"How long do you expect to be away?" asked Emilia.

"It depends upon what the specialists say of Julian's sight. But under any circumstances we shall be absent for at least three months, I expect. Of course the young people will correspond. The first part of their courtship will have to be done by correspondence."

Soon after M. Bordier's departure Constance returned, and was made happy by the account of the interview. Emilia said nothing of M. Bordier's references to the past, a theme which had only been dropped to be taken up again when M. Bordier and Julian came back to Geneva. The evil day was postponed, but Emilia would not darken the joy of the lovers by speaking of it, or by hinting at her fast-growing fears of what the final issue would be. M. Bordier had made it clear to her that it was absolutely necessary that those who formed matrimonial connections with his children must be persons of respectable character. What was she? What was her darling Constance? Unknown to all in Geneva, where they were both respected and loved, they bore the maiden name of the mother. Let this fact be revealed, let the story of her life be made public, and they would be irretrievably disgraced, their position lost, their happiness blasted. Julian remained in Geneva two days after Emilia's interview with M. Bordier, and now that there was no restraint upon the relations between the young lovers, Emilia recognized how irrevocably Constance's happiness was linked with Julian. Was it to be left to her, the fond, the suffering mother, to wreck the future of the child she adored? Was it fated that she should be compelled to say to Constance, "You cannot wed the man you love. He is a gentleman, with an unstained record. You are a child of shame, and are not fit to associate with respectable people. Take your rightful place in the world--in the gutters--and look at me and know that I have put you there." Yes, this, in effect, was the judgment she would have to pronounce. The agony she endured during those two happy days of courtship is indescribable; but she schooled herself to some semblance of outward composure, and successfully parried the solicitous inquiries of those by whom she was surrounded. As to what was to be done, she would not, she could not think of it till Julian and his father were gone. They were to be away at least three months; within that time much might be accomplished--she did not know what or how--but she would pray to God to guide her. So she suffered in silence, and kissed Julian good-by, and sat quiet in her room while the lovers were exchanging their last words of affection. Were they to be indeed the last? Were they never to meet again, to fondly renew their vows of unchangeful love? It was for her, the tender mother, to answer these questions. She was the Sibyl who held in her hands the skeins of fate. It was for her to shed light or darkness upon the future of her darling child.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN ENGLAND ONCE MORE.

The whole of that night Emilia spent in prayer and thought. She sought for guidance, and her prayers were answered. With one exception the events of the past came clearly before her. The death of her father, her life in Mrs. Seaton's house, her first meeting with Gerald, what occurred on the night she was turned by the cruel woman into the streets, the kindness of the maiden sisters, her flight after overhearing the vile calumnies which Mrs. Seaton uttered against her, her meeting with the good old wagoner--and then a blank. She could not remember where the wagoner's cottage was situated, and she knew it would be impossible to find it without some practical clue. The marriage at the registrar's office she now distinctly recalled, and although she had never held the marriage certificate in her hand, she was certain the ceremony had been performed. Then came the memory of the happy honeymoon, and with that memory certain words which Gerald had spoken to her with reference to the desk of Indian workmanship which he had said was her property, but which his brother Leonard retained with other articles which rightfully belonged to her. The words were these: "There is a secret drawer in this desk, Emilia, and in the desk something which concerns you nearly." It flashed upon her with the power of a divine revelation that what he referred to was the marriage certificate, which, if she could obtain it, would insure her daughter's happiness and save them both from disgrace. She placed credence no longer in the infamous statement made by Leonard, that she had gone through a false ceremony; she had believed it at the time because of her wish to escape from her persecutors and defamers, because Gerald was lost to her, because she thought only of the present. The image of Gerald, with his truthful eyes, rose before her; she heard his voice, the voice of truth and honor, say mournfully, "And could you believe that I could be so unutterably base and infamous as to deceive you so shamefully, that I could plot and lie for your ruin, whom I loved so faithfully?" No, she would no longer believe it. Gerald had behaved honorably toward her, and she had allowed herself to be tricked by the specious tale of a villain whose object was to obtain possession of the fortune which would have fallen to her. He was welcome to that, but she would at least make an effort to rescue her darling child from despair. She would go to England and endeavor to find Leonard. That done she would boldly confront him, and tell him to his face that he had lied to her, and that she would expose him if he did not furnish her with the opportunity of establishing her marriage with Gerald. She would not confide in Constance, for the present, and for as long as it was in her power to do so, she would preserve her secret. Time enough when she was compelled to reveal it.

She acted as she was inwardly directed. The following day she told Constance that business of a private nature necessitated her going to England. Constance was to go with her, and they would be away from Geneva probably some six or seven weeks.

"We shall be back before Julian returns," said Constance, and then was seized with consternation. "But his letters, mamma, his letters!"

"We can leave directions," said Emilia, "that they shall be forwarded to the London Post-Office. It will only be a delay of a day or two, and you can make your letters to Julian longer, as a recompense."

Emilia named London, a city she had never visited, because she had often heard Leonard say that it was the only place in England worth living in. With money at command that would be the most likely place in which to find him.

Julian's family were surprised at this sudden departure, but Emilia easily explained it by saying that it was upon private business of importance. By her directions Constance wrote to Julian at once, informing him of their movements, and bidding him address his future letters to her to the General Post-Office in London. Then Emilia made arrangements for a lady to take her place with her pupils during her absence, and all her preparations being completed, she and Constance started for England.

What would have embarrassed her had Constance been of a less sweet and confiding disposition was the necessity of her conducting her inquiries alone, without the knowledge of her daughter. She explained this to Constance as well as she was able.

"You will not mind being left a good deal alone, dear?" she said, when they were established in lodgings in London.

"No, mamma, if you wish it," said Constance.

"It is necessary, darling. I have some business of a very private nature to look after; if you were with me it would hamper me. I cannot tell you now what it is, but it is for your good and mine."

"And Julian's," said Constance.

"Of course, and Julian's. You will not mind, will you?" "No, mamma, not at all. I can get books, and I can write to Julian."

"You think only of him, dear."

"And of you, mamma," said Constance, reproachfully.

"Yes, my dear, yes. I think I must be growing jealous."

"There is no reason, mamma dear. I love you both with all my heart. And Julian loves us both with all his. And you love us both with all yours. So it is really equal all round."

"Constance," said Emilia, "if it were ever to happen that you had to choose between Julian and me----"

"Mamma," cried Constance, "you frighten me!"

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," said Emilia, hastening to repair her error by caresses, "but all sorts of notions come into a foolish mother's head when she is about to lose her child."

"Now, mamma," said Constance, forcing her mother into a chair and kneeling before her, "I am going to be very severe with you. How, can you talk of my choosing between Julian and you? Why, mamma, it is impossible, it would break my heart! And how can you talk of losing your child? You will never lose her, darling mamma. Instead of losing me you will have another to look after as well as me; you will have Julian, who loves you nearly, not quite--I will not have that--as much as I do."

"Never, Constance."

"And you will never think it again?"

"Never, dear," said Emilia; and she was careful from that hour to keep a more jealous guard over her tongue.

At this period of Emilia's life there entered into her soul a surprising strength. She became strong, morally and physically. All her energies, all her intellectual faculties, were braced up almost abnormally in the momentous mission upon which she was engaged. Feeling the importance of a starting-point, she determined to visit her native town, and to visit it alone. She learnt from the time-tables that a train started at 5 P.M. and arrived at 10. On the following day a train from London started at 4 P.M. and was due some six hours after, so that she need be absent from Constance for one night only. It was her first separation from her child, but she nerved herself to it, and instilled the same spirit into Constance, who consented without a murmur. Constance was to have her meals at home, to keep her doors locked and not stir out, and to wait up the second night for her mother's return.

"I shall be quite safe, mamma," said Constance, "and I shall not be dull. Nearly all the time you are away I shall be writing to Julian."

That night Emilia was once more in her native town. Eighteen years had passed since she left it, and it was with sadness she recognized familiar landmarks with which her childhood had been associated. She had taken the precaution of effecting a change in her appearance. She darkened her eyebrows and arranged her hair in a fashion so strange as to be startled when she looked into the glass. Moreover, she wore a thick veil. "No one will know me," she thought. But when she issued from the hotel the next morning she was a little afraid, for among the first persons she met was Mrs. Seaton. The cruel woman was but little altered; her features were more pinched, her eyes more stern than of yore, but Emilia knew her instantly. Mrs. Seaton, however, did not recognize Emilia, although she looked at her sharply, as was her wont with strangers. There was in the town a gossip who kept a small shop, and thither Emilia went, and, entering the shop, was greeted by the same woman who used to serve her in former years. Making some purchases and bargaining for others, Emilia drew the woman into conversation, and learned all she wished to know. Oh, yes, the woman remembered the brothers Paget very well, very well indeed. They were not brothers, no, they were stepbrothers. There was a fire in their house, and it was burned down, how many years ago? Eighteen or twenty, she could not quite say to a year or two; and a young lady, Miss Braham--Emilia Braham, that was her right name--rushed out of the house in the middle of the night while the fire was raging. There was a lot of talk about it. Miss Braham's father died suddenly--was killed by the falling of a scaffold--and Emilia was left alone, without a shilling in the world. Then she got a situation with Mrs. Seaton--Oh, everybody knew Mrs. Seaton; she had a sharp tongue, and had more enemies than friends--and she left her mistress' house at a moment's notice. Late at night, too. Mrs. Seaton said she had planned a secret meeting with Mr. Gerald Paget--he was the handsomest and the youngest of the step-brothers--and that was the reason of her going away so suddenly. It did look suspicious, didn't it? And it looked more than suspicious when she rushed out of Mr. Gerald's house in the middle of the night to save herself from being burned alive. That is often how people are found out in a way they little expect. But there were some people afterward who took Miss Braham's part, and said she wasn't guilty, though appearances were so much against her. That was because two ladies--old maids they were, and sisters--stood up for her, and went about saying all sorts of kind things about Miss Braham. What is that you say? God bless them for it! Yes, they deserve all that; they were kind-hearted ladies. They're in the churchyard now, and know more than we do. Well, these old maids took Miss Braham home on the night of the fire, when she was in a high fever, and no wonder, with what was on her mind; and Mrs. Seaton went there and told them they were being imposed upon by a shameless young woman. It was a hard thing to do, and she might have held her tongue, but that is not Mrs. Seaton's way. Once she takes a grudge against a body she don't let them alone, not she. While she was, with the old maids talking against Miss Braham, the young lady herself heard it, it seems, and she ran away, no one knew where to. Mr. Gerald, who must have been very much in love with her, was in a dreadful way about her, and the lawyers were busy trying to find her; and his step-brother, Mr. Leonard, who had come home from Australia that very morning, helped him, too. Then the two brothers went away together, and nothing was heard of them, or of Miss Braham, for months and months, till it got about that poor Mr. Gerald had been killed by falling over a precipice in foreign parts. Then Mr. Leonard came home, and took possession of the property, which all fell to him. What did he do with it? He sold it all off, and went to London to live, and that's where he is now, for all she knew. It was a lot of money he came into; some say as much as five or six thousand pounds a year, but he was just the sort of gentleman to make ducks and drakes with it. That was the whole story of the two brothers and Miss Emilia Braham. You would like to know something more! What is it? When Mr. Leonard Paget came home didn't he say anything about Miss Braham? No, not a word, so far as she knew, and she would have been sure to hear of it if he had. No, she was positive he never said one single word about her. She did not suppose he knew what became of her, and most likely, after a time, he forgot her altogether.

Then the garrulous shopwoman, having exhausted her budget, reckoned up the purchases which Emilia had made, and having received payment, bade her customer good day.

Emilia's next visit was to a flower shop, where she bought some loose flowers; then to the churchyard, where she was directed to the grave of the maiden sisters. She knelt and prayed there, and left the flowers on their grave.

She had learned that Leonard was in London, and as there was no occasion for her to remain any longer in the town she took an earlier train than that she had marked, and arrived home four hours before Constance expected her. Reflecting upon her situation during that night, she felt how powerless she was. Leonard, she had every reason to believe, was in London, but to look for him in that vast city in the hope of finding him was scarcely within reason. And, indeed, had she not been befriended by some strange chance she might have remained in London for years without meeting the man for whom she was seeking. But it happened so, and an important stage was reached in her inquiry.

The weather was bitterly cold, and snow was falling heavily, but this did not keep her at home. In a kind of fever she traversed the streets of the city, selecting those which a man of fashion and fond of pleasure would be most likely to frequent. On the fourth day of her search she was walking in Regent Street, when she suddenly stopped with her hand at her heart. It was as much as she could do to prevent herself from screaming aloud, for walking leisurely before her, with a light step and jaunty air, was Leonard Paget himself. By a powerful effort she controlled her agitation, and set herself the task of following him. She had caught a glimpse of his face, and she could not be mistaken. He looked older and thinner, but his expression was that of a man who was enjoying the pleasures of the world and making the most of them. Having thus providentially tracked him down, Emilia determined not to lose sight of him. Her desire was to ascertain where he lived, and in the doing so to keep herself from his sight. To accost him in the open street would be madness. No, she must speak to him in a place where he could not easily escape from her, where he could not thrust her off. "If he takes a cab," she thought, "I will take another and follow him. If he walks all day and night, I will walk after him. He shall not, he shall not, evade me now." No detective could have been more determined and wary than she, but her present task did not occupy her very long. The cold day was no temptation to the man before her, and it happened fortunately for Emilia, that his face was homeward turned. He walked to the bottom of Regent Street, and plunged into the narrow tangle of thoroughfares on the left. The numbers of people favored her pursuit, and she was not noticed. True, the man did not know he was being followed, and only looked back when a pretty girl passed him. Presently he was in Soho, and in one or two of the streets through which she passed Emilia feared detection, there being fewer persons in them; but still he had no suspicion, and walked carelessly, gayly on. At length he stopped before a house in Gerard Street, took a latch-key from his pocket, opened the door, entered, and closed it behind him.

Emilia drew a long breath. It was there he lived; but she would make sure.

A boy with a basket of bread slung across his shoulders had stopped at the next house to deliver a loaf. Leonard Paget had passed the boy, who looked at him while he was opening the street door. Then the boy, having received some money, lounged on to the house which Leonard had entered, and knocked and rang. The housekeeper, Mrs. Middlemore, answered the summons, and took in a loaf. When the street door was closed again Emilia crossed over to the lad, and asked him if he would like a shilling, to which the boy facetiously replied that he would like two, but would put up with one if he could not get more.

"I will give you two," said Emilia, "if you answer a few questions."

"Off we start," said the boy.

"I want to know who that gentleman is who went into the house you have just left?"

"That gent as let himself in with his latch-key. Oh, that's Mr. Felix."

"It's not true," said Emilia.

"Oh, you're going to cry off, are you? I call that mean, I do. I tell you it's Mr. Felix."

Emilia considered a moment. What more likely than that Leonard Paget was living there under an assumed name?

"Are you sure? Here is the first shilling."

"Cock sure. Why, he's lived there years and years, and there's nobody in the house but him. There's a housekeeper, Mrs. Middlemore; she took in a loaf from me."

"Does this Mr. Felix live there regularly?"

"I see him regularly, so he lives there regularly. Anything more I can do for you?"

"No, thank you; here is your other shilling."

"Thank you." And the boy walked off, whistling.

CHAPTER XL.

DR. PETERSSEN REAPPEARS ON THE SCENE.

For the unexpected good fortune of this discovery Emilia was very grateful, and her mind was now occupied in considering how to make the best use of it. She did not linger in Gerard Street lest she should be seen by Gerald's brother, but before she left it she ascertained that he was known not as Mr., but as Monsieur Felix. For what reason had he concealed his right name? For what reason had he assumed that of a foreigner? It was perhaps because she had but one subject to think of, but one supreme end to attain, that she mentally decided that she herself was not unconnected with his motive for concealing his identity. If that were the case it would be difficult indeed to obtain an interview with him. If she presented herself in person, or sent up her name, he would refuse to receive her; if she forced herself upon him he would not listen to her, and the next time she went to him she would find that he had flown. Thus her mission would be a failure and the unhappiness of her daughter insured. It behooved her to be very careful in her movements; the least slip would be fatal.

The whole of that day and the whole of the next she bent her mind to the consideration of the peculiar position in which she was placed. She did not remain at home; she spent many hours in the vicinity of Soho, making inquiries of M. Felix's habits and character, in such a manner as to draw no suspicion upon herself. Small tradesmen of whom she made purchases were the medium of these inquiries, and they were able to give her much information because of the gossiping disposition of Mrs. Middlemore, the housekeeper. It was at this time that she developed a talent for intrigue. To insure that she should not be recognized by M. Felix in a chance meeting in the streets, she took a room that was to let midway between Soho and the apartments occupied by herself, stating that she was an actress; and at one shop in the Strand, and at another in a street running out of that thoroughfare, she purchased a box of "make-up" and a wig of a different color from her own hair. It was a short wig, and when her own locks were concealed beneath it, and she had used certain pigments on her face, no one who knew her as Emilia Braham could possibly recognize her. These changes were made in the room she had taken unknown to Constance, and she gave no person in the house an opportunity of observing her. Independent, however, of these changes she was no further advanced at the end of the second day than when she met M. Felix in Regent Street, and she could think of no means of obtaining the interview she desired.

On the third day she went out again in the direction of Gerard Street, drawn thither, as it were, by a magnetic current. But indeed all her hopes, and the future of herself and child, were centred in the house in which Gerald's brother lived under the name of M. Felix. Snow was still falling heavily, but she did not shrink from the chill blasts which swept through the narrow spaces of Soho. She had struck up an acquaintance with the mistress of a shop in which foreign provisions were sold, and she was now standing before the counter conversing with the woman, and picking up further information of the domestic habits which reigned in M. Felix's house. She learnt that it was Mrs. Middlemore's custom to go out every night for her supper-beer at half-past eleven, and that she was generally absent for not less than half an hour. A wild plan instantly suggested itself; she felt that something must be done, and that she must be bold. At eleven o'clock this very night she would be on the watch outside the house in Gerard Street, waiting for the housekeeper to go upon her usual nightly errand. Then she would go up to her, before she closed the street-door, and say she came by appointment to see M. Felix. She had already ascertained that he occupied apartments on the first floor; she had seen on the previous night the lights shining through his windows, and she would know in the same way on this night whether he was at home. If she played her part well, and controlled her voice so that it did not betray her, the housekeeper would doubtless take her word, and thus she would obtain entrance to the house without M. Felix being aware of it. As to what she should do when she confronted him she was as yet undecided, but certain unformed ideas loomed in her mind which seemed to give her hope that this nocturnal visit would not be fruitless. It would be necessary, however, that she should not present herself to the housekeeper dressed as a woman, for that would almost certainly bring suspicion upon her. In the disguise of a man her story would be more credible. Well, she would buy a suit of male clothing, and so disguise herself. The moral energy by which she was supported caused her to accept any suggestion, however daring and bold, by means of which she could attain success.

She went out of the provision shop full of the scheme, but had not gone ten yards before she made a discovery which occasioned her as much surprise as her meeting with Gerald's brother a couple of days ago. A man brushed quite closely to her, and this man was none other than Dr. Peterssen. Another fateful thread in her sad story. What did his presence in that locality portend?

He took no notice of her as he passed, but lingered before the window of the provision shop, looking through the panes, not at the goods displayed, but into the shop to see who was there. Throughout this series of adventures Emilia's senses were preternaturally sharpened, and nothing escaped her which seemed to bear upon her sad story. Presently Dr. Peterssen entered the shop, and without a moment's hesitation Emilia followed him.

He had already commenced a conversation with the mistress of the establishment, who, saying to him, "I beg your pardon," went to Emilia.

"I have forgotten something I wanted to buy," said Emilia, in a low tone, "but I can wait till you have attended to that gentleman."

She took care that her voice should not reach his ears, and as the woman stepped toward him she turned her back, with the air of a person who was not in the least interested in his business. The first words she spoke caused Emilia's heart to beat violently; but she still kept her face from him.

"Yes, sir, M. Felix lives very near here, in the next street."

"Thank you," said Dr. Peterssen. "It was very careless of me to lose the letter he sent me containing his address. Would you mind writing it down on paper for me?"

"Not at all, sir."

The woman wrote the address, and Dr. Peterssen, thanking her, left the shop. Then she asked Emilia what she wished; it was common enough for people to come and ask the address of persons living in the neighborhood, and she attached no importance to it. Emilia made another small purchase, and again took her departure.

Instead of leaving Soho, as was her original intention, to buy the suit of man's clothing necessary for the carrying out of her scheme, she walked slowly through Gerard Street. Dr. Peterssen was on the opposite side of the road to that on which M. Felix's house was situated, and he was gazing up at the windows with an expression of triumph on his face. There had been a note of triumph also in his voice when he had thanked the shopkeeper for the information she gave him, and Emilia judged from those signs that he, as well as herself, had been hunting for M. Felix. For what reason, and why, had M. Felix hidden himself from a man he knew so well? Here again Emilia did not stop to reason. In the selfishness of the task upon which she was engaged she jumped at conclusions, and the conclusion she formed now was that Dr. Peterssen's search for M. Felix was in some way connected with herself and the husband she had lost.

No detective could have acted more warily than she. With extreme caution she watched Dr. Peterssen's movements. He stood for a few moments looking up at the windows, then he crossed the road, and noted the number of the house, and then, with an exulting smile, he slowly walked away. Emilia was now more than ever resolved to carry out her scheme on this night.

She had observed that there were large clothing establishments in Tottenham Court Road, and at one of these she purchased a suit of clothes for a small-made man. Hastening to the room she had taken she tried them on and found them too large. She went back to the shop and exchanged the suit for a smaller one, which fitted her fairly well. Then leaving the clothes behind her, she joined Constance, and remained with her till eight o'clock.

"Must you go out to night, mamma?" asked the girl.

"Yes, Constance," replied Emilia, "and I may not be home till late. You had better go to bed soon."

"No, mamma," said Constance, "I will wait up for you." She went to the window. "Mamma, you cannot possibly go out. The snow will blind you. There is not a person in the streets."

"I must go, dear child," said Emilia, firmly.

"But, mamma, dear--look!"

It was the night of January 16th, and a terrible snowstorm was raging. For over two weeks now the snow had been falling in London, and many of the thoroughfares were blocked with drift, which the efforts of great numbers of laborers could not remove; and on this night the tempest had reached its height. So engrossed had Emilia been in the task which had brought her from her happy home in Geneva that she thought little of the storms of nature which she had encountered as she trudged through the white-carpeted thoroughfares of the city. What physical sufferings was she not prepared to bear, and to bear cheerfully, for the sake of her beloved child? Only when her strength gave way would she yield, and she was sustained now by an abnormal strength which enabled her to endure that from which on ordinary occasions she would have shrunk. During this trying period of her life her powers of endurance were astonishing.

"You will not go out in such a storm, mamma!"

"Do not try to dissuade me, darling, I must go. Do not fear for me; God is watching over me. I shall be quite safe."

"Let me go with you," pleaded Constance.

"Impossible. You know, dear child, I always do what I believe to be right; I am doing it now, and you must not thwart me, nor make things more difficult for me than they are."

"Are they difficult, mamma!" asked Constance, in a tone of tender solicitude. This was the first time her mother had hinted at difficulties, and the admission had slipped from Emilia unawares.

"Yes, dear, but I cannot tell you what they are. Perhaps the time may come when I shall tell you all, but for the present trust in me, have faith in me."

The solemnity of her voice had its effect, and Constance no longer attempted to prevail upon her.

"Are you warm enough, mamma?"

"Yes, dear child, and my boots are dry and thick. God bless my darling, and shield her from harm."

Constance tied a red silk scarf round her mother's neck, who left her with bright smiles and cheering words. Then Emilia made her way to her other lodging of one room, and effected the change in her garments. There was no other lodger in the house but herself, and she had a latchkey to let herself in; she experienced little difficulty in preserving the secrecy necessary for her operations, and she entered and left the house always without being observed.

She surveyed herself in the little bit of broken looking-glass which rested on the deal chest of drawers against the wall. "It is not possible for anyone to recognize me," she thought, and was about to leave the room, when her eyes fell upon the red scarf which Constance had tied round her throat. With a tender smile she took it up and put it on. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to ten. "I have still a few minutes," she said, and she knelt by the side of the bed she had not yet occupied, and prayed for strength and for a successful issue of her dangerous errand. Then she went out into the streets.

They were almost deserted; all the better for her task. On such a night who would notice her? As she turned into Gerard Street the church clocks chimed a quarter to eleven. She had three-quarters of an hour to wait. But the hot blood rushed over her face and neck as she saw, three or four paces ahead of her, the form of a man proceeding in the direction she was taking--and that man no other than Dr. Peterssen. He knocked--a peculiar knock seemingly by pre-arrangement--and Emilia timed her steps so that she reached and passed the door as it was opened by someone from within. She stooped just beyond the street-door, and while she was pretending to tie her shoestring heard what passed, which may fitly be given here in dramatic form:

Dr. Peterssen: "Ah, my dear friend, at last we meet!"

M. Felix (starting back): "You!"

(His voice, although it had spoken but one word, was to Emilia a confirmation. It was the voice of Gerald's brother, Leonard.)

Dr. Peterssen (airily): "I, sweet comrade in the shady paths, I, Dr. Peterssen--nu ghost, flesh and blood. You received my note."

M. Felix: "Written in a woman's hand, signed in a woman's name!"

Dr. Peterssen: "I knew that was the best bait to hook my fish. And the knock, too, that you yourself and no one else--no prying housekeepers or servants--must answer. Still the same Don Juan as ever. But it is biting cold here. Let us get into your cosy room and talk."

M. Felix: "Not to-night."

Dr. Peterssen: "I am not to be put off, friend of my soul. We will have our little say to-night."

M. Felix: "I have friends with me. I cannot receive you now."

Dr. Peterssen: "A lie. You have no friends with you." (His tone changing to one of undisguised brutality.) "If you keep me waiting here one minute longer I will ruin you. Do you forget our pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago? Do you forget your brother Gerald?"

M. Felix: "Hush! Come in. Step softly."

That was all. The door was closed, and all was still.

Emilia stood upright, with a face as white as the falling snow. The words with their hidden meanings, the voices with their varying tones, the trick by which Dr. Peterssen had found it necessary to obtain admission to the presence of M. Felix, the veiled threats, the allusions to the partnership in Switzerland and to her dear Gerald--what did all these portend? What but a secret plot, unknown to her, unknown to all but its accomplices, a plot in which Gerald had been involved, and therefore she? Oh, for some beneficent gift to pierce those walls, to hear what those villains were saying! But it was idle and might be hurtful to indulge in vain, impracticable wishes. She summoned all her fortitude. Scarcely now could she hope to obtain speech to-night with the man whom she believed had ruined her life, and who could ruin it still further. But she would not desert her post; she would wait and hope. She heeded not the bitter, piercing cold; she seemed to be divinely armed against physical suffering. So she tramped slowly up and down the street through the deep snow, keeping her eyes fixed ever on the windows of the room in which the conspirators were conversing, walking backward with her face to them when she went from the house. Visions of the past rose before her; the white snow falling even in this narrow street brought back the snow mountains of Switzerland, where last she had seen the two enemies within hail of her. "Strengthen me, oh, God of the universe!" she murmured. "Endow me with power to fulfil my task, so that I may keep shame and sorrow from my beloved child."

CHAPTER XLI.

DR. PETERSSEN BRINGS M. FELIX TO BOOK.

When Dr. Peterssen entered M. Felix's sitting-room he sank into a chair, and gazed around upon the luxurious furnishings with an air of scornful approval. A cigar-case was on the table, and without invitation the unwelcome visitor helped himself to a cigar, which he lighted and smoked in silence for two or three minutes. Meanwhile M. Felix looked on and said nothing.

"You are comfortably lodged here," said Dr. Peterssen, at length, "and your cigars are very fine; but you were ever a man of taste in the matter of your own enjoyments; the best were always good enough for you. By the by, the friends you were entertaining? Where are they?" M. Felix smiled sourly, and Dr. Peterssen laughed aloud. The next moment, however, he became grave. "Let us proceed to business."

"With all my heart," said M. Felix. "I shall be rid of you all the sooner."

"You will never be rid of me, dear comrade. I am curious to learn for what reason Mr. Leonard Paget has transformed himself into M. Felix."

"You are curious to learn nothing of the sort; you are acquainted with the reason. It was to escape from your rapacity, which in another year or two would have beggared me."

"A good reason, from a purely selfish point of view, but you lost sight of a most important element. You and I are one, sweet boy; our fortunes are one; if I swim, you swim; if I sink, you sink. I am not at all sure, as to the latter, whether I could not save myself and bring you to destruction at the same time. Why did you cut and run from the tender-hearted individual upon whom your safety depends? I asked you now and then for a trifle of money to help me through difficulties; you always objected, I always insisted. I put the matter before you plainly. If I did not discharge certain obligations----"

"Brought about by your mad gambling," interrupted M. Felix.

"Granted, dear boy, but men with minds are never free from weaknesses of one kind or other, and I freely admit I like a little flutter occasionally."

"You would have bled me," said M. Felix, with a dark frown, "till I had lost every shilling of my fortune."

"Of our fortune, comrade, of our fortune. It is in my power to strip you of it at any moment, therefore, in common equity, the money is as much mine as yours."

"We made a bargain, and I adhered to it--have adhered to it up to this day."

"Quite correct. Every quarter-day I find paid into my bank the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds. Woe to you if there had been a single omission. I might have advertised for you, in terms which would have drawn unpleasant notice upon you; I would have left no stone unturned to unearth you. I think it is five years ago since we last met. It was not an amicable meeting; angry words passed between us. You gave me the money I asked for and insisted upon having, but you declined to accept the view I presented for your consideration, that you were but the treasurer of a common fund. We parted, not the best of friends, and the next thing I heard of you was conveyed in a letter you wrote to me from Brindisi--it was actually posted from there--informing me that you had left England never to return, and that the six hundred a year would be paid regularly into my bankers in quarterly instalments, as usual. My dear friend, that letter naturally did not please me, and I did not propose to submit patiently to the desertion. I was working for you, for your ease, for your safety; I had an establishment to keep up. My little private asylum in the country, with its patients and keepers, entails upon me a great expense. I am getting tired of it; it chains me down; I have to be very watchful and careful; I have to wheedle and bribe, and, besides, I have to live. I knew that you lied when you wrote that you had left England never to return; I knew that it was the only country in the world you cared to live in, and I set to work to discover your hiding place. For five years I have been hunting for you; I have been in London a dozen times; I have searched everywhere. Oh, the money you have cost me, every shilling of which you shall refund. You shall; I have kept an account, and you shall pay me not only what I am out of pocket, but so much a day for my personal labor. But you are extraordinarily cunning, and it is only now I have succeeded in tracking you down. And being tracked, I mean to keep my hold upon you; I mean to have my due; I mean to share equally with you. It was by the merest chance that I obtained a clue, and I followed it up, until, behold, in the person of M. Felix, who passes as a foreigner, I discover my dearest friend, Mr. Leonard Paget, a partner with me in a conspiracy which, if it were made public, would insure, for you, certainly, for me probably, penal servitude for life. Now, what is it you propose to do?"

"What do you want?" demanded M. Felix.

"I have already stated--an equal share of the fortune for which we both conspired."

"What if I told you that it was pretty well squandered, and there was but little left?"

"I should not believe you."

"It is a fact."

"It is a lie."

"Do you think I should be living in such seclusion as this if it were not the truth?"

"I think what I please. What more can a man desire than what I see around me? You must be enjoying your days, Leonard."

"I repeat," said M. Felix, "that I have lost the greater part of the money. You can prove it for yourself if you like. I have speculated unluckily; I have lost large sums at Monaco. You can't get blood out of stone."

"If you are the stone I will have either blood or money. Understand me; I am quite resolved. You see, dear friend, you have unfortunately roused a feeling of animosity in me by your bad treatment. I was to have all the kicks, you all the ha'pence. Unfair, monstrously unfair. Whose was the immediate risk in the conspiracy? Mine. Over whose head has hung, at any chance moment, the peril of discovery? Over mine. Who has done all the work? I. And you, living your life of ease and pleasure, laughed in your sleeve all the time, and thought what an easy tool it was who was doing all the dirty work for you, while you posed as a gentleman of immaculate virtue. Leonard, do not mistake me you will have to do as I command; I am not your slave; you are mine. I hold you in the hollow of my hand. You have escaped me once, you shall not escape me again."

"You speak bravely," said M. Felix, with an attempt at bravado. "What would you do if I defy you?"

"What would I do if you defy me?" repeated Dr. Peterssen, musingly. "I would have my revenge, most certainly. I would bring destruction upon you, most certainly. I would make a felon of you, most certainly."

"You forget that you would be implicated in these unpleasant consequences."

"I forget nothing; but you are mistaken, friend of my soul. There are roads open to me which are closed to you. I could turn Queen's evidence. I could do better than that. I could hunt up your brother Gerald's wife, who deems herself a dishonored woman. I could say to her that I was a tool in your hands, that you bribed me and played upon my poverty. I could say that the tale you told her of a mock marriage was false, and that she was truly Gerald's wife. I could inform her that her husband was at this moment alive, and was to be found at----"

"Hush!" cried M. Felix.

"Why? I am not afraid. Having revealed the plot to her I should disappear. She would come to England, if she were not here already; she would lose not a moment in ascertaining whether I spoke the truth; and then, my very cunning and clever friend, where would you be, I should like to know? Not only would you be brought to the bar of justice, but you would have to make restitution. You would be beggared and irretrievably disgraced; your life of ease and pleasure would be at an end. As I am a living man, I would bring you to this pass; and I have little doubt, when I wrote to Gerald's wife from my chosen place of exile, that she would listen to the tale of pity I should relate, and would reward me for restoring her husband to her arms, and for restoring the good name which you filched from her by the basest of tricks."

"Enough of this," said M. Felix, "I capitulate. Nothing can be done to-night. Come to me to-morrow, and we will make terms. I can say no more."

"Perhaps not," said Dr. Peterssen. "You will be here to-morrow?"

"I will be here."

"At noon?"

"At noon."

"Then we will go into accounts."

"As you will."

"Attend to me, dear friend. By my blood, by my life, if you deceive me, if you attempt to evade me, if you try once again to escape, I will make the story public through Gerald's wife! Then you may say your prayers--which will be a novel thing for you to do." He raised his hand and swore a frightful oath that he would do as he threatened if he did not find M. Felix at home at the time he had named.

"You will find me at home," said M. Felix, sullenly.

"What noise is that?" asked Dr. Peterssen, as the sound of the shutting of the street-door came to his ears.

"It is the housekeeper going out for liquor. She does so every night."

"She must have a passion for liquor to go out on such a night. An obliging housekeeper, no doubt, dear friend."

"She does as she is directed."

"You have a commanding way with you which goes down with the weak. Are there other lodgers in this house?"

"I am the only one."

"As I have heard."

"You have been making inquiries of me?"

"I have. So, we two are alone. Not a soul on the premises but ourselves. One of us might murder the other, and have time to escape before discovery was made."

"It would not pay either of us to proceed to such an extremity."

"It would not. You are not an affectionate brother, Leonard. You have never inquired after Gerald."

"He is still alive, then?

"He is still alive."

"You might be deceiving me. He may have died years ago."

"That might have been, but it is not so. Would you care to convince yourself? Come down and see him. He might recognize you."

"No," said M. Felix, with a shudder. "I will take your word."

"Do you not wish to know how he is?"

"How is he?"

"In bodily health, better than you would suppose; but his mind"--Dr. Peterssen did not complete the sentence, but watched with some curiosity the effect of his words upon his companion.

"He is really mad?" exclaimed M. Felix, eagerly.

"By no means. It is merely that he is plunged into a chronic melancholy. He passes days in silence, speaking not a word. I give him books, and sometimes he reads, but I am not sure whether he understands what he reads."

"No one sees him?"

"No one but myself and those about me, who know him, as you are aware, as George Street, possessed with an insane idea that he is somebody else."

"Street's father--does he not come to see his son?"

"He does not. Long ago he took the advice I gave him, that it would be best and most merciful for him not to attempt to see his son. Had he not agreed with me, it might have been awkward. Once he came; and I fortunately happened to have in the house a patient absolutely mad, one given to loud raving. It was curious, was it not, that at the time of Mr. Street's visit this patient was in one of his strongest paroxysms? Mr. Street turned pale when he heard the shouts. 'Is that my poor son?' he asked. 'That is your poor son,' I answered. 'I will not answer for the consequences if his eyes fell upon you.' The father went away, with sighs, saying before he went, 'Nothing better can be done for him than you are doing?' 'Nothing better,' I answered. 'He is receiving every kindness here. In another establishment he would be worse off than he is with me.' He came no more, but I send him regular reports, and occasionally go to see him."

"He pays you regularly?"

"Yes; he is a prosperous man." Dr. Peterssen rose. "Good-night. I will be here at noon. I must make my way through this awful storm as well as I can."

"May you perish in it!" thought M. Felix.

"It occurs to me," continued Dr. Peterssen, "that I ought to have some guarantee with me. You have some money about you?"

"Not much."

"Give me what you have."

M. Felix took his pocketbook from his pocket, which Dr. Peterssen seized before he could open it.

"You shall have it back to-morrow, minus the cash."

He caught sight of the desk of sandal-wood which Emilia would have remembered so well. It was open, and by its side lay the dagger with its handle representing a twisted snake and its ruby eye. With a swift motion Dr. Peterssen closed the desk and lifted it from the table. "I will take this with me as a guarantee."

"I will not allow you," cried M. Felix.

"It is not for you to allow," said Dr. Peterssen, coolly. "With me it goes, and to-morrow shall be returned. It contains private papers perhaps; all the better." The key being in it, he turned it in the lock, and threw it to M. Felix. "You cannot object now, and it would make no difference if you did. My locking it proves that I do not intend to pry into your secrets unless you force me. Good-night."

He spoke with an air of fierce determination, and M. Felix felt himself powerless. Sitting almost helpless in his chair, he saw the man who held his fate in his hands pass out of the door, and heard his steps descending the stairs.

CHAPTER XLII.

EMILIA AND M. FELIX.

Emilia, watching in the snow-clad street, saw Mrs. Middlemore issue from the house with a large jug in her hand. She dared not go up to the housekeeper while Dr. Peterssen was in the house, and with a sinking heart she recognized that the hope she had entertained of obtaining entrance by means of the story she had mentally rehearsed was lost. But she would not leave the spot until Dr. Peterssen appeared. She had no intention of accosting him, for that she felt would be disastrous, but she would follow him, if she could do so safely, to see where he lived or lodged. It might be a point gained, although she did not at that moment see how it could be used to her advantage. She had not long to wait. About ten minutes after Mrs. Middlemore left the house, the street-door was opened again, and Dr. Peterssen appeared. He carried beneath his right arm that which would have sent a thrill of passionate emotion to Emilia's heart, but she was too deeply observant of his personal movements to see the desk which he had taken away with him as a guarantee. He made no pause, but plunged immediately into the snow, and Emilia was about to follow him when she suddenly observed that he had not closed the door behind him. Her attention was instantly diverted from the man. Here was the opportunity for which she had disguised herself, for which she had been waiting. Without thinking of the consequences, she glided into the house and shut the door. Emilia would have scarcely known how to proceed now had it not been that M. Felix, hearing the street-door closed, rose to close his own, which Dr. Peterssen had left ajar. Before putting his intention into execution he opened it a little wider, and inclined his head to the stairs, as if in the act of listening. The stream of light which this action threw into the passage was a guide to Emilia, who, without hesitation, ran up the stairs and confronted him. Startled by her appearance he fell back a step or two, which afforded Emilia space to enter the apartment.

"Who are you? What do you want?" gasped M. Felix, dreading at first whether this was not part of a plot which Dr. Peterssen had devised for his injury. But his doubts were immediately dispelled.

"I am Emilia Paget," said Emilia, "and I want justice."

With a face of terror he retreated farther into the room, and Emilia followed him. His heart almost ceased to beat, and a singular numbness of sensation came over him.

"Through all these years," said Emilia, "I have left you in peace, if peace can ever be the portion of a man like yourself. I come now to force a confession from your lips. I want nothing from you in the shape of money. All that you have, and that once was your brother Gerald's, is yours, and shall remain yours. I do not desire it; if I have any right to it I renounce it; I am here to demand justice."

This speech gave M. Felix time to recover himself somewhat. Though still conscious of a strange deadness of feeling at his heart, he saw the situation, and asked in a faint voice--

"What kind of justice?"

Emilia put a wrong construction upon the low tone in which he spoke. Deeming it a sign of relenting on his part, the defiant air she had boldly assumed gave way to one of imploring.

"When we last met in Switzerland," she said, bending toward him, "you told me that your brother, my dear Gerald--who, in my innermost heart, I believe never did harm to woman--had imposed upon me by a mock ceremony of marriage. At that time I was so overwhelmed by despair and so persecuted by injustice, that I did not dispute your statement. I thought only of the present; I wished only to escape from the cruel eyes and tongues of those to whom I had been maligned; I wished only to fly to a spot where I was unknown, and where I might live out my days in peace. What I yearned for was accomplished. God was good to me; He raised up a friend who took me to her bosom, and who conducted me to a haven of rest. For eighteen years I have lived in a foreign land, contentedly, even happily, with my child, Gerald's child. But circumstances have occurred which render it vitally necessary for our happiness that the proof should be forthcoming that I am a married woman. To obtain this proof I have come to England to find you, and by a happy chance have so far succeeded. I beg, I entreat of you, to give me means to establish my marriage with your brother. That done, I will leave you in peace, as Heaven is my judge. I will bind myself to this in any way you wish. I will swear the most solemn oath, I will sign any document you may draw up. Give me the means of preventing a shameful exposure which will ruin my child's life and mine. Think of what I have silently suffered, and have pity for me. I will pray for you--I will bless you----"

But her voice was broken by emotion, and she could not proceed. M. Felix gazed at her sternly; as she grew weak, he grew strong.

"I cannot give you what is impossible," he said. "You and Gerald were never married."

"I will not use hard words," said Emilia, restraining herself. "It may be as you say; but give me at least the information that will enable me to establish the truth. You cannot deny me this--you cannot, you cannot!"

"What kind of information do you desire?" asked M. Felix.

"When I was ill and very near to death," she replied; "when reason had forsaken me and I was lying stricken down, Gerald and you came to me in the place where afterward a civil ceremony was performed which I had every right to believe made me an honorably married woman. Tell me the name of that place. It is little to ask, but I ask no more. If you have a spark of compassion in you, tell me this, and I will go away blessing you."

"You do not remember it?" said M. Felix, with triumph in his eyes.

"God help me, I have not the least remembrance of it, nor of the roads I took which led me to it."

M. Felix stepped to the window and threw it open. Then he cried in as loud a voice as he could command:

"Help!"

"Why do you cry for help?" asked Emilia, advancing toward him.

"Do not come nearer to me," he replied, "or I will strangle you. Why do I cry for help? To bring the police here--to give you into custody--to expose and brand you as you deserve to be exposed and branded. How you forced your way into this house I do not know: perhaps you have been in hiding until you were assured I was alone. You come here to rob and murder. I will swear to it." Again he called from the window,

"Help!"

Frozen with terror Emilia stood like a statue, white with the fear of a horrible exposure which would blast her and her child forever in this world.

"You talk of ruin," snarled M. Felix. "It is upon you now. Disguised as a man you steal upon me here for a vile purpose. You will go away blessing me, will you? What do I care for your blessing or your curse? I will make your name a byword of shame, as it has been made before!" For the third time he sent out into the night his cry for "Help!"

Emilia's strength returned to her; she was able to speak once more.

"I will go," she said. "You shall not have the opportunity of still further disgracing me. But I will not rest till the truth is made clear to me--not with your help, but with the help of"----

"Of whom?" asked M. Felix, with a sneer.

She had intended to say "with the help of God," but an inspiration fell upon her which impelled her to utter a name almost as hateful to her as that of Leonard.

"With the help of Dr. Peterssen. If you can ruin me, he has it in his power to ruin you."

"Ah!" cried M. Felix, and in a sudden frenzy he snatched the snake dagger from the table and hurled it at her. It struck her in her left arm, and she caught it in her right hand. As she held it thus, dazed with pain, for a moment, M. Felix was struck with partial blindness. He saw, through the mist which fell upon him, the dagger with blood dripping from it, and thought that it was Emilia's intention to use it against him. He had a revolver in his bedroom. Blindly he staggered thither, and fell, motionless, into a chair by the side of the bed. The pain of the wound and the horror of the situation deprived Emilia of her senses, and she sank to the ground. How long she remained in that condition she did not know, but when she opened her eyes all was silent. M. Felix was not present. Had he gone to carry out his threat and to bring the police to his aid? The dagger was still in her hand and the wound in her arm was still bleeding. Shudderingly she threw the weapon behind the sideboard, and intent now only on escaping from the shame with which she was threatened, she bound her handkerchief tightly round the wound, and fled down the stairs. Constables Wigg and Nightingale were outside the door as she threw it open, but she scarcely saw them, although she knew that they were the forms of men. Terror lent wings to her feet, and in a moment she was out of sight, flying for her life.

BOOK THIRD.

WHAT BECAME OF M. FELIX, AS RELATED IN THE FIRST PERSON BY ROBERT AGNOLD, ON THE REPORTING STAFF OF THE "EVENING MOON."

CHAPTER XLIII.

ROBERT AGNOLD TAKES UP THE THREADS OF THE STORY.

In setting forth the incidents narrated in Book Second of this story, under its heading "A Life Drama--Links in the Mystery," I have had no occasion to speak of myself, my acquaintance with Emilia beginning after the 16th of January, on which night the Book fitly ends. In what has now to be told, however, I played a not unimportant part, and it is proper, and will be more convenient, that I should narrate what followed in the first person. I think my name, Robert Agnold, has been mentioned only once or twice in these pages, and it is not for the purpose of making myself better known to the public, but simply for the sake of clearness, that I depart from the journalistic method (with which in other circumstances I am very well contented) in what I am about to write. I do so with the full approval of the conductors of the newspaper with which I have the honor to be connected. It is perhaps unnecessary for me to state that in the preparation of Book Second I have been guided both by what I have heard from the lips of its heroine, Emilia herself, and by what subsequently came to my knowledge; but it is as well to state this, in order to prove that I have not drawn upon my imagination.

I now take up the threads of the story.

When Emilia made her escape from M. Felix's house on the night of the 16th of January, she was, as may be supposed, in a state of extreme agitation. Her errand had failed, and she had nothing to hope for at the hands of Gerald's brother, whom I shall continue to speak of as M. Felix. She hardly dared to think of the future, and indeed the pain of her wound and the personal danger in which she stood were sufficient occupation for her mind at that juncture. As quickly as she could she made her way to the one room she had taken unknown to her daughter, and there she bathed and dressed the wound--throwing the stained water out of the window, so that it might not betray her--and effected the necessary change in her attire. In woman's clothes she left the house, and proceeded to her lodgings in Forston Street, Kentish Town. She was thankful that her daughter was asleep when she reached home; it saved her the necessity of an immediate explanation, and gave her time to make more plausible the story she had thought of to account for the injury to her arm. Creeping into bed without disturbing Constance she lay awake for hours, and sank into slumber only when daylight was beginning to dawn. She slept till past noon; fortunately for her, Nature's claims were not to be resisted, and she arose strengthened if not refreshed, and with still a faint hope that she might yet succeed. She would make one more appeal to M. Felix, this time in daylight. She would go to him this very afternoon, and endeavor to soften his heart by offering to bind herself to any terms he might dictate, if he would but furnish her with the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony had been performed. The echo of the statement he had made in Switzerland that she and Gerald were never married, although it struck a chill to her heart, found no lodgement therein. Most firmly did she believe that she had been honestly and honorably married, and until she was convinced to the contrary by absolute evidence she would continue to believe it. If M. Felix failed her she would set a watch upon Dr. Peterssen's movements, and endeavor by some means to gain her end through him. She had not the remotest idea how she should proceed with this man, but she trusted in God to guide her.

Constance, as was natural, was in great distress at the wound her mother had received, but Emilia made light of it, although it caused her exquisite pain. It was an accident, Emilia said; she had slipped, and fell upon some broken glass; and Constance did not dream that the story was untrue. The young girl was very anxious on this morning; she expected a letter from her lover, Julian Bordier, and she told her mother that in her last letter to Julian she had given him the address of their lodgings in Forston Street. Emilia could not chide her for doing so, but she was inwardly distressed by the idea that the Bordiers might present themselves at any unexpected moment. M. Bordier would almost certainly make some inquiries as to the nature of the business that brought her to England. How should she reply? He was a penetrating man, and she could foresee nothing but calamity from a renewal at present of close relations with him. She could do nothing, however, to avert the dangers by which she was threatened. All she could do was to wait and hope.

She went to the post office for letters, and received one for Constance and one for herself. She rode back immediately to Forston Street to give Constance her lover's letter, and in the cab she read her own. It was short but most affectionate and tender, and it confirmed her fears. There was every likelihood that the Bordiers would be in London within the next few weeks.

Delivering Julian's missive to the eager girl, Emilia left her once more with the intention of proceeding to Gerard Street. She rode only part of the way, getting out of the cab at Regent's Circus. It was bitterly cold, but in this city of startling contrasts there are wheels that never stop. Though darkness enveloped the streets for weeks together the newspaper boys would still perambulate the thoroughfares with the last editions of the newspapers; would still bawl out at the top of their voices the tempting news they had to dispose of. Emilia had scarcely alighted from the cab when her ears were assailed by cries from these venders of the afternoon journals: "Murder! murder! Sudden Death in Gerard Street, Soho! Mr. Felix Murdered! Escape of the Murderer!" The shock which these startling announcements caused her was so great that she stumbled and would have fallen had not a policeman caught her by the arm.

"Be careful how you walk," said the officer. "The streets are awful slippy."

She murmured a frightened inarticulate expression of thanks and staggered on, the iteration of the news-venders' dreadful cries sounding in her ears like the clanging of a thousand bells proclaiming her doom. Her terror was so great that she would have succumbed under it if there had not risen in the white space before her the vision of a young girl at home reading her lover's letter. She saw the lovely lips form the words, "Mamma, listen to what Julian says." This fancy was her salvation. Her daughter was in this terrible city, dependent upon her, with no supporter, with no friend but the mother whose heart was charged with woe and despair. She must be strong for her child's sake. Her strength came back to her; the policeman who had saved her from falling was still looking at her, and now, seeing that she had recovered, passed on. Controlling her agitation, she bought a copy of the Evening Moon, and walked mechanically toward Gerard Street. When she was within a short distance of it she wavered in another direction. Dared she go there? Dared she be seen there? Why not? It was hardly likely that she would be noticed; it would depend upon herself whether she attracted attention. She turned her face toward Gerard Street. A magnetic current drew her on, and she could no more have effectually resisted it than she could have changed day into night by closing her eyes. She must go and see for herself.

The street was busy with people, drawn there as she was drawn, but, as she shudderingly confessed to herself, with a different knowledge of the truth. Outside the house in which M. Felix had lived there was a throng of people gazing up at the windows.

"That's the window of his sitting-room. Is he there now? Yes, stretched out, dead and done for. He was a gentleman, wasn't he? Yes, with heaps of money. He always kept a pile of gold and bank notes in his room. What's become of it? Ah, what? When was it done? About midnight, when there was no one but the murderer and the murdered gentleman in the house. The housekeeper had gone out for her supper beer. They forced the door open, and there he was, murdered. Who did it? A man, of course? Maybe--maybe not. Just as likely it was a woman. It doesn't matter to him now. He's dead, and won't come back to tell. Have they caught the murderer? Not yet, but they've got a clew, they say. Ah, they always say that. But it's true this time. They'll catch him, never fear, and when he's caught, the Lord have mercy on him!"

Thus the chatter ran, and for a time Emilia, glued to the spot, stood and listened. Then a spiritual whisper fell on her senses and set her in motion again. "The suit of clothes you dressed in last night. Get rid of it. Destroy it." She walked swiftly from the street and proceeded in the direction of her room. She did not waver now; suggestions of a frightful nature came to her, but she walked on, as if impelled by a hidden force. She reached the street in which the room was situated. It was quiet and deserted. There was comfort in that. Then the police had not been there. If they had there would have been as many people there as in Gerard Street. With desperate courage she opened the street door with her latch-key, and went up the stairs unobserved. She turned the key in the lock and entered the room. The clothes she had worn were in a corner, where she had left them the previous night. She breathed more freely. All this time she had kept in her hand the copy of the Evening Moon she had purchased, and now, in the solitude of her chamber, she nerved herself to read the particulars of the tragedy in which she was involved. Gerald's brother was dead; that was the end; all hope was gone. She no longer thought of appealing to Dr. Peterssen; she felt instinctively that by so doing she would be digging a pit for herself. She could throw herself on the mercy of M. Bordier--that course was open to her. She could tell him her story, strengthening her statements by most solemn assurances of their truth, and leave it to him to decide. She had but little hope in the result. She knew it was exactly the kind of tale which a guilty woman would relate, and that, without a shadow of proof, few men would accept it. There was no time, however, to determine upon any definite course at present. The suit of clothes she had worn when she visited M. Felix must be destroyed; until that was done her position was one of extreme danger. She folded them carefully, and inclosed them in the copy of the Evening Moon, and with the bundle under her arm proceeded to Forston Street. She went at once to her bedroom, and locked the clothes in her box. Already the plan had suggested itself of throwing the clothes into the river in the dead of night, when she could make sure that she was not being watched. After that she would come to some decision as to her future movements. What transpired on the night she made the attempt is known to the reader, and I now take up the sequence of events of which I may claim to be the originator.

CHAPTER XLIV.

EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS.

After I had learned all that Emilia had to tell me, I informed her that I would take a day or two to decide upon my plan of action. In the meantime she was to make no movement whatever, but to keep herself and daughter in absolute privacy. She placed herself entirely in my hands, and promised not to deviate by a hair's-breadth from the instructions I gave her.

"Be sure of that," I said, "and I feel that I shall be able to further your heart's wishes."

On the third day certain ideas had taken some kind of practicable shape, and I determined to set to work. I must mention that I visited Mrs. Middlemore regularly during my deliberations, and had taken the rooms which had been inhabited by M. Felix. She had no news of the slightest importance to communicate to me although she was in the mood to make mountains out of molehills. Nothing further had transpired in the Gerard Street house; no person had called to make inquiries, and she had not been upset by any more false messages. I saw my little friend Sophy also. She was as cheery and sharp as ever, and she informed me that "Aunty was ever so much nicer than she used to be," and I expressed my delight at the good report.

"But I say," remarked Sophy, "ain't yer got nothink to give me to do for yer?"

"Not just yet, Sophy," I replied. "Presently, perhaps."

"The sooner the better," said Sophy. "I likes to be busy."

"You will not go away, Sophy? I may want you at any moment."

"I shall be ready for yer. I'll do anythink for yer, never mind what it is."

I explained to her on my last visit that I should not see her for a week or so, as I was going out of London upon particular business, and that while I was away she was to keep her eyes open. If she happened to see the man who had sent her aunt on a false errand to the Bow Street Police Court she was to follow him secretly and find out where he lived, and upon my return to London she was to tell me everything that had happened. Satisfied with her assurances of obedience I left the grateful little creature, and an hour later was closeted with Emilia. I had not yet informed her of the trick which had been played upon Mrs. Middlemore, and of the disappearance of the revolver; I did so now, and asked if she had any suspicion who the man was.

"No," she replied, "I cannot imagine."

"Describe Dr. Peterssen's appearance to me," I said, "as you last saw him." She did so, and I continued, "It is as I supposed. He is the man who gave Mrs. Middlemore the false message, and got her out of the house to afford him the opportunity of obtaining what he wanted. Money, of course, if he could lay his hand on any, but chiefly papers and documents which might be valuable to him in the future--documents probably connected with your story."

"Why should he wish to obtain possession of such things?" asked Emilia. "They can be of no use to him he dare not appear."

"Publicly he dare not; privately he may. You know of his visit to M. Felix; he does not know of yours. Say that he succeeded in obtaining possession of something which would establish your marriage." Emilia clasped her hands. "He would surely conceive the plan of discovering where you were, and coming to you privately for the purpose of making a bargain for these proofs."

"I would give him anything--everything," exclaimed Emilia.

"That is certain," I said, "and it might be worth while to come to terms with him; but I should not allow him to rob you. M. Felix, so far as we know, did not make a will. Doubtless he has left property of some kind, and should your marriage be proved the property would be yours. Indeed, in that case it would be yours if M. Felix were living and in this room at the present moment."

Emilia shuddered, and looked around timorously.

"Have you any idea what can have become of his body?" she asked in a whisper.

"No; I can form no theory upon that mystery. I would give a great deal to unravel it."

"Is it possible that Dr. Peterssen can have taken it away?"

"It is more than possible, it is probable; but his motive for doing so is as great a mystery as the disappearance of the body without his intervention. A deliberate act of that kind is done with a deliberate motive, and I can think of none which would prompt him to carry into execution a scheme so full of risk. And now listen attentively to what I say. Setting aside the danger attendant upon your nocturnal visit to M. Felix--a danger which I trust will in time entirely disappear--it is of the highest importance to you that you should obtain proof of your marriage with Gerald Paget."

"It is all I desire," said Emilia. "That obtained, I should be content to die."

"It will be better to live, to draw happiness from the union of your daughter and Julian Bordier. My plan is this: That you and I go to your native town, and starting from the house of the maiden ladies who were so good to you on the night of the fire, endeavor to trace the road you took when you flew from the shelter they gave you. You remember the river----"

"I can never, never forget it," said Emilia, "nor the fearful thoughts which seemed to force me toward it."

"There will be little difficulty in ascertaining your route thus far on your journey. From that point we will make inquiries, and it may be that we shall succeed in discovering the road the kind old wagoner took toward his home. That done, all the rest is easy."

"Dear friend," she said, pressing my hand, "how can I thank you?"

"Thank me when success crowns our efforts. Are you ready to take the journey? We will start to-morrow morning."

"But Constance!" she exclaimed. "She cannot go with us. She is ignorant of my sad story."

"Let her remain so. I have provided for her comfort while we are away. I have spoken to my mother--a lady in whom you can place implicit confidence--and she will be glad if your daughter will accept her hospitality during our absence. You may trust her; your daughter will be well cared for."

"I know that, I know that," said Emilia, her tears overflowing. "But what have I done to merit such goodness? What claim have I upon you?"

"The claim of a helpless, persecuted lady," I replied, gently. "What I do is willingly, cheerfully done. Accept my offer, and you will make me your debtor. It will be ample reward if I succeed."

"God is very good to me," she murmured. "Thankfully, gratefully do I accept it."

"That is well. You had better arrange to retain these rooms, and we will leave my mother's address with the landlady, in case the Bordiers should come and make inquiries."

"You think it right that they should see us?" inquired Emilia.

"You will be acting injuriously to yourself if you affect any secrecy. Certainly they must see you and your daughter; their first inquiries will be for you and you will lay yourself open to the worst construction if you keep out of their way. Be advised by me."

"I will, in all things."

"My sister will accompany us on our journey. It will be pleasant for you to have a lady companion, and it will leave me free to make any inquiries that may suggest themselves."

She appreciated the delicacy of the act and it was arranged that I should call for her and Constance in the evening to conduct them to my mother's house. This was done, and in the morning Emilia, my sister, and I started on our journey.

I will waste no words in a description of our proceedings. There was no difficulty in finding the house in which the kind maiden sisters had resided, and from the street in which it was situated there was but one outlet to the open country. From the time occupied by Emilia in her flight on that never-to-be-forgotten night I judge that she must have walked some eleven or twelve miles, and at about that distance from the town lay the river Arbor. There we halted on the second day of our journey, and from that spot our real difficulties began. There was the hill Emilia had mounted, on the crown of which she had fallen in a state of exhaustion, with the river stretching to the left of her. It was inevitable that my sister should be taken into our confidence, and in the distressing reminiscences which the scene recalled to Emilia she was a true solace to the poor lady. I gently wooed her to describe the impressions of that terrible night's wanderings, and had any doubts been in my mind as to the truth of her story the pathos of that recital would have effectually dispelled them. But I entertained no doubts, and more strongly than ever did I resolve to champion her cause and not to relinquish it till success rewarded me, or absolute failure stared me in the face. As Emilia's suffering tones fell upon my ears I could almost hear the tinkling bells of the horses in the wagon and the driver's kindly exhortations to his cattle. He came in view, in my fancy, and spoke to Emilia, and receiving no encouraging answer, passed down the hill with his team. He returned and addressed her again, and she implored him to save her from the river. Supported by him, she descended the hill, and was lifted into the wagon, where she lay in a blind stupor of forgetfulness and insensibility. I declare that I saw the pictures of this human agony as if they were actually presented to my sight. As for my good sister, she was continually wiping the tears from her eyes, and when we reached the bottom of the hill, and Emilia said, "It was here the wagon stood, I think," she pressed the unfortunate lady in her arms, and they mingled their tears together.

It was at this spot, I repeat, that our real difficulties began, for at about a couple of hundred yards along the road the wagon must have taken (there being no other) it branched out in three directions, north, south, and east. Now, which road led to the wagoner's home?

Emilia could not inform us. We took one, the broadest--though why he should have selected the broadest instead of the narrowest I cannot explain, all three roads being equally available for horse traffic--and pursued it for a mile or so, and were confronted by four cross roads, which multiplied our difficulty. I will not enlarge upon the labor of this perplexing enterprise. It is sufficient to say that at the end of the twelfth day I was compelled to confess that we were as far from success as on the first day of our journey. Of course I made innumerable inquiries, but I was speaking of eighteen years ago, and I could not elicit the slightest information of a reliable nature to guide me in the search we were prosecuting. I spared no labor, and although I was greatly discouraged I did not allow my companions to observe my despondency. At length I came to the conclusion that it would be useless to employ further time in the quest, and I told Emilia and my sister that we should return to London on the morrow. Emilia looked at me mournfully.

"Don't feel down-hearted," I said, with a cheerful smile. "This is the smallest arrow in my quiver. I have a surer one to adjust when we reach town."

It was touching when we arrived at my mother's house, to see the meeting between Emilia and her daughter. We left them to themselves awhile, and when they joined us I conveyed to Emilia a pressing request from my mother that they would stop with her as long as they remained in London. It needed persuasion to induce Emilia to comply, but she saw that Constance wished her to accept, and she did so with much grace, but with a humbleness of manner which powerfully affected me. Constance had some news to communicate. The Bordiers had arrived in London, and had visited her. I was impressed by a certain tremulousness in her voice as she spoke of them, but I made no comment upon it, not feeling myself warranted to intrude upon her confidence.

"My mother's house is open to your friends," I said. "They will be always welcome here."

She thanked me, and shortly afterward I was hurrying to the W. C. district, first to present myself at the office of the Evening Moon, and afterward to go to my chambers, where, in response to a telegram I had forwarded from the country, I expected a visitor.

CHAPTER XLV.

DR. PETERSSEN IS TRACKED.

The name of the visitor I expected, and who hopped up the stairs which led to my chambers half an hour after I entered them, was Bob Tucker. He is a friend of mine, with plenty of money at command, and has no need to work for a living; but he has a fad, if I may so express it. This fad lay in the detective line, and to give him a job in that direction was to bestow a favor upon him. He entered upon it con amore, and pursued it with a zest never to be found in the professional, who works by the job, or the hour, or the day. He has often said to me that if he were to lose his money he would start an office of his own and lead a jolly life. Whether that meant a jolly life to others is a doubtful point. Anyway, he is an enthusiastic young fellow of about six and twenty, and is never so happy as when he can adopt a disguise and hunt something or somebody down. He objects to be called Robert, which he insists is not his proper name. He distinctly remembers, he avers, being christened Bob, so Bob Tucker he is to all his friends. So far as I am personally concerned, this is convenient to me, my name being Robert, which I prefer to Bob.

I had foreseen the likelihood of the failure of the search upon which I had entered with Emilia, and the surer arrow in my quiver to which I referred when I spoke to Emilia about returning to London was Dr. Peterssen. It was my intention, if all else failed, to break a lance with him, directly or indirectly, and with this object in view I had instructed Bob Tucker to find out where he lived, what kind of establishment he kept, what his neighbors thought of him, the character he bore, and, in short, anything and everything about his establishment which could possibly be learned. Bob was delighted with the task, and undertook it eagerly.

"Does he live in London?" he asked.

"Don't know," I answered.

This increased Bob's delight, and he said he would show me something when he made report to me. Of course I told him all I knew of the man, and that he had charge of at least one patient who was not in his right mind.

"Well, Bob?" I said, on this evening.

"Give me a drink first," was Bob's rejoinder.

I gave him one, and took one myself. We clinked our glasses and emptied them. Then Bob lit a cigar, and so did I.

"Ready?" said he.

"Quite ready," said I.

"Keeps a private madhouse," said Bob.

"Queen Anne's dead," said I.

"Has more than one patient."

"Has three. A man, or gentleman, and two children."

"Children?"

"Children. Prefers them. Less trouble. Besides, longer expectations with young 'uns. More time for them to grow old."

"True," said I. It will be observed that it was a speciality of Bob's to speak in short sentences.

"Man, or gentleman," continued Bob, "harmless. Gentle as a dove. Greengrocer's boy told me. Sees him sometimes. In the grounds. Pities him."

"How old is this poor gentleman, Bob?"

"Forty, perhaps. Forty-five, perhaps. Not more than fifty at the outside. Hair quite gray, but youngish face."

"Where is this private madhouse, Bob?"

"Sheldon. Forty-three miles from London. Population seven hundred and thirty. Two beerhouses. Shut at ten."

"Has the establishment a name?"

"Tylney House. Enclosed. Stone wall all round it. Easy to get over in one part. All the other parts, broken glass at top."

"Character?"

"Difficult to get at. Population has no opinions. I should say, damned scoundrel."

"Why should you say so?"

"Impression."

"Is Dr. Peterssen always at home?"

"Seldom. Away for days together. Comes back. Stops for a day and a night. Goes away again next morning."

"Who takes care of Tylney House in his absence?"

"Keeper, with only one idea. Liquor."

"Does he take it at the beershops?"

"No. Private stock. Keeps a dog. Savage."

"Is anyone admitted to the house?"

"No admittance except on business."

"Do many people go there upon business?"

"None. House like a prison."

"Is it a large house, Bob?"

"Largish. Room for more."

"More patients?"

"Yes."

"Look here, Bob. I want to tackle this Dr. Peterssen in some way as yet unthought of, but before I do so I should like to make sure of a certain point. How is it to be done?"

"Don't understand you."

"Well, this is how it is. I am morally convinced he has something in his house to which he has no claim, and which I would pay a good price to get hold of."

"Property?"

"Yes."

"Portable?"

"Yes."

"Any objection to say what it is?"

"We're tiled in, Bob?"

"Honor bright and shining. Unless you give consent, not to be mentioned outside this room."

"Thank you, Bob. The property is a desk."

"Buy it of him. My opinion he would sell anything. His own mother if he had one."

"He would not dare to sell it. He would deny that he had ever seen it."

"Might bring him into trouble?"

"Yes. There are a lot of things hanging to the possession of this desk."

"Spirit it away."

"How?"

"Get a patient in--a friendly patient. A child for choice. A sharp one it would have to be."

"By Jove, Bob, you put an idea into my head."

"Glad to hear it. Act on it."

"You wouldn't mind assisting me?"

"Anything in my power."

"You are a trump. But you have been making personal inquiries in the village. If you went down again--supposing you consent to do what I want--you would be recognized."

"Not at all. Disguise. I'd take Old Nick himself in, much less Dr. Peterssen and a parcel of clod-hoppers." (This was a long sentence for Bob.) "Try me."

"Supposing I could find such a friendly patient--a smart little girl who knows her way about--would you go down and arrange that she should be taken care of in Tylney House?"

"Delighted."

"You've not heard of any cruelties being practised there?"

"No. Besides, I should be on the spot. Could arrange a system of signals. Piece of white paper, with a stone in it, thrown over wall. All's well. Piece of blue paper, with a stone in it, thrown over wall. Getting frightened. Come and take me away. No paper at all thrown over wall. Ring the bell and demand to see friendly patient."

"Bob, you're a genius."

"Thanks. When shall it be?"

"Come and see me to-morrow at one."

"I shall be here; to the minute."

He gave me a wink, and after another drink took his departure. He would have stopped longer had I not told him that I had business of importance to attend to, to which he responded, "A wink's as good as a nod," and hastened to say good-night.

The idea he had put into my head was that he should take Sophy down to Sheldon as a relative of his own, and arrange for her admission to Tylney House, and the desk I wished to get hold of was the Indian desk of sandalwood, inlaid with silver, which Mrs. Middlemore had informed me was in M. Felix's apartment on the morning of the 16th of January, but which was not there when we searched the rooms a couple of days after. The housekeeper was positive that she saw it on the 16th, and was almost as positive that the police had not removed it. If not they, who? Why, Dr. Peterssen in his interview with M. Felix, on the night of the 16th, leaving behind him the snake-shaped dagger which M. Felix had thrown at Emilia a few minutes later. Emilia had repeated to me Gerald's words to her with reference to this desk, during their honeymoon in Switzerland--"There is a secret drawer in this desk, Emilia, and in the desk something which concerns you nearly." What if this should mean the copy of the marriage certificate? In my mind I set it down as meaning it, and I thought, also, that there was a fair chance of finding it in the desk even at this length of time. The secret drawer was known to Gerald; Emilia, who had used the desk, was not aware of this secret drawer until Gerald spoke of it. It might be that Gerald's brother did not know of it, and that it had remained all these years undiscovered. Granted that the chance was a slender one, still it should not be neglected. I had no compunction in enlisting Sophy in the plan I had devised. My moral sense was not blunted, and I felt myself perfectly justified in fighting Dr. Peterssen with his own weapons. Before I sought Sophy I thought it necessary to have a few private words with Emilia, and I drove at once to my mother's house for that purpose.

"I can stop only five minutes," I said, in excuse of my hurried arrival and departure; "I have a hundred things to attend to to-night." I beckoned to Emilia, and she followed me to an unoccupied room. "I wish you," I said to her, "to bend your mind most earnestly on the night of the 16th of last month. Don't tremble; there is nothing to be frightened at; I am hard at work in your interests, and I am full of hope. Are you quite calm?" She nodded, and I continued. "You saw Dr. Peterssen go into the house in Gerard Street; you saw him come out of it. When he went in did he carry a parcel with him?"

"No."

"You are sure of it?"

"I am sure I should have noticed it. I had perfect control over myself, and nothing escaped my attention."

"When he came out of the house did he have a parcel with him?"

"Yes, now you mention it, I remember that he did. I attached no importance to it at the time, my mind being bent upon my own errand."

"That is all I wish to know at present. Keep a stout heart. All may yet be well."

So, with a bright smile, I left her, and bade the cabman drive to Gerard Street, Soho.

CHAPTER XLVI.

I ENTER INTO AN ARRANGEMENT WITH SOPHY.

At the corner of the street I dismissed the cab, and hurried after a familiar figure. It was Sophy, who seemed to be literally flying along the pavement, now on one leg, now on the other, and had she not suddenly wheeled round in my direction I should have had to run at the top of my speed to catch her. Seeing me she pulled up, and, with her face scarlet with excitement, greeted me boisterously.

"Why, what on earth are you doing, Sophy?" I asked, laughing and wondering at her.

She lifted her feet, one after another, for my inspection; she was skating on wheels.

"I'm the champion skater," she said, triumphantly; "I shall git a turn at the music halls before long. Look 'ere; I can beat the lot of 'em."

Away she flew with marvellous swiftness for a space of fifty yards or so, then wheeled round and round and reached my side by executing a series of circles in the cleverest manner possible. I have no doubt that there are technical terms to describe her feats, but I am not acquainted with them.

"There!" she cried. "What do you think of that?"

"You'll break your neck if you don't mind," I said.

"Break my neck!" she exclaimed. "Not me! That's nothink to what I can show yer. I am glad to see yer back, I am? Aunty sed you'd give us up. 'Not 'im,' sed I; 'he ain't one of the giving-up sort.' You look tired out; ain't yer been well?"

"Quite well, Sophy, but, like you, very busy. Is your aunt at home?"

"Yes," said Sophy, bursting into a fit of laughter; "she's down in the kitching, with a pore man's plaster on 'er side. I got 'er to put on the roller-skates--leastways I put 'em on for 'er--and the minute she stood up in 'em she toppled over and fell agin the dresser. She ain't 'urt much, but she likes to make a lot of a little. I'm all over bruises, I am, but I don't fuss over 'em."

"You shouldn't play tricks on her," I said gravely; "she has been a good friend to you."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Sophy, with a rebellious toss of her head. "She makes me pay for it, nagging at me morning, noon, and night. But there, I ain't going to say nothink agin 'er. She's got a temper, and so 'ave I."

"She has been greatly worried, Sophy; you must be gentle with her."

"I'll do anythink you tell me; you don't bully a gal, you don't. If you told me to go and jump off the top of the Monument I'd do it--yes, I would, though you mightn't believe me."

"I shall not ask you to do anything so stupid, but you can render me a service, if you have the will and the pluck."

"Can I?" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I ain't much to look at, but I've got the pluck of a big 'un. Only you tell me what it is."

"It will first depend upon whether your aunt can spare you. We will go in and see her."

"She'll 'ave to spare me, and if she don't like it she may lump it. Now I know yer want me, I ain't going to let yer off."

"You appear anxious to serve me, Sophy."

"I'm going to serve yer," she said, with emphatic nods. "There's nothink mean about you. When a gent makes a promise he sticks to it."

"A promise, Sophy!"

"Didn't yer promise yer'd give me somethink to do for yer--and didn't yer say jest now it depends upon whether I've got the pluck to do it? That settles it. I've got the pluck, and the thing's as good as done. Nobody in all the world 'as been as good to me as you've been, and it ain't likely I shall ever forgit it. You'll see. One day when I'm Somebody," and here the grateful girl gyrated round me gently, and really with grace--"yer'll be proud of 'elping me on, and then I'll show yer I can remember."

"Your aunt can't be left alone," I said, after a moment's consideration. "Do you know of any girl or woman who would take your place here while you are away for a week or two?"

"I know twenty that'll be glad of the job. I'm to go away, am I?" Her eyes glittered at the prospect of an adventure. "I'm ready this minute Where to?"

"I'll tell you all about it after I've spoken with your aunt. It isn't an easy task I shall set you, Sophy."

"The 'arder it is the better I shall like it."

"Do you think you could play a part?" I asked.

"On the stage?" she cried, eagerly.

"No; off the stage."

"On or off," she said, with a shade of disappointment, "it don't matter. I'm game for anythink. Let's git aunty settled fust."

Sophy, being now provided with a latch-key, opened the street door, and taking off her roller skates in the passage, preceded me down-stairs. Mrs. Middlemore was darning stockings, and seemed cheerful enough, but when she looked up and saw us her face assumed a colorless expression, and she pressed her hand to her side. Sophy winked at me, and said, in a whisper, "She's putting of it on; she ain't 'urt a bit, no more than you are."

"Oh, good evening, sir," said Mrs. Middlemore, mournfully. "What are yer whispering about, Sophy?"

"Only telling the gent," replied the unblushing girl, "not to speak too loud, 'cause of yer nerves, aunty."

"It's all Sophy's doings, sir," moaned Mrs. Middlemore. "She made me put on a pair of rollers that's going to break 'er legs afore she's done with 'em. She's a double 'andful, sir; I can't manage 'er."

"She has told me of the accident," I said, "and is very sorry for it. Sophy means well, Mrs. Middlemore."

"I won't dispute with you, sir, but she'll be the death of me if she goes on as she's a-doing of now. You've been away a long time, sir."

"Not so very long; I had important business in the country to attend to. Nothing has happened, except your accident, during my absence, I suppose?"

"Nothink as I can think of, sir."

"No more visitors in disguise; no more false summonses to the police court?"

"No, sir--only I've got my fancies."

"What kind of fancies?"

Mrs. Middlemore looked timorously around, and Sophy answered for her. "There's a sperrit in the 'ouse, she ses. She 'ears it moving about, and she's ready to swear in the middle of the night that it's a-standing at the foot of the bed."

"Do you also hear and see it, Sophy?" I asked.

"Not me," replied Sophy, contemptuously. "It's a wide-awake sperrit, and makes itself scarce when I'm about."

"Ah, well," I said, "there's no accounting for fancies. Let us get to business, Mrs. Middlemore. I intend to rob you of Sophy for a little while."

"Rob me of Sophy, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore. "What on earth am I to do without 'er?"

"Oh, you will get along very well without her----"

"But you don't know what a 'elp she is to me, and 'ow good she's been. I've got that fond of 'er that I don't like 'er to be out of my sight. You're joking, sir, ain't yer?"

"Not at all," said I, smiling at this sudden display of affection. "I have something for Sophy to do, and if she undertakes it she will get well paid for the job."

"Never mind about my being paid for it," interposed Sophy; "I'm going to do it, whatever it is."

"And leave me 'ere all alone!" whimpered Mrs. Middlemore.

"You will not be alone. The first thing in the morning a girl shall be engaged to keep in the house with you, and I will pay her wages; and you shall have an allowance while Sophy's away. Remember what I have done for you, and don't make any further objections."

"I'm sure you've been very good, sir," said Mrs. Middlemore, her trouble lessened by the prospect of gain; the virtues of golden ointment are not to be excelled. "Might I take the liberty of arksing whether it's got anythink to do with Mr. Felix?"

"I cannot answer you," I said. "What Sophy will do will be a secret between her and me for the present. By and by, perhaps, she will tell you all about it."

"You've got a way with you, sir, that nobody can't resist. You'll come back to me, Sophy?"

"Course I will, aunty," said the girl, "when the job's done."

"And now, Sophy," I said "if you will come upstairs with me we will have a little chat. Then you can decide."

"I've decided already," said Sophy, and she followed me to the sitting-room which had been occupied by M. Felix.

Everything apparently was the same as on the night of the disappearance of M. Felix's body. I was aware of only one article which was missing after Dr. Peterssen's visit to the house, and that was the revolver which M. Felix kept under his pillow. I had no doubt in my mind that Dr. Peterssen had taken advantage of his being alone in the house, on the occasion of Mrs. Middlemore's unnecessary visit to the Bow Street Police Station, to appropriate other articles, but only the revolver and the desk--which he had taken away on the night of his interview with M. Felix--were within my knowledge. It is true that even this knowledge was gained by means of circumstantial evidence which would scarcely have been admitted in a court of law, but I was quite satisfied on the point, and I had the strongest moral conviction that time would prove the correctness of my conclusions.

"Sit down, Sophy," I said, "and think of nothing else but what I am about to say to you."

"I'm a-doing of it," said Sophy, with a look of absolute concentration that strengthened my confidence in her, and spoke volumes in favor of her being, as she hoped, somebody one day.

"You remember the day on which your aunt was sent to Bow Street Police Court by a man whom she left in the house alone?"

"Yes, I do."

"You said you saw the man. Would you know him again?"

"I'd swear to 'im."

"On the night that Mr. Felix's body disappeared you were the only person in the house who knew anything at all of the matter. You behaved like a little heroine on that occasion, Sophy."

"That's something good, ain't it?"

"Something very good. There is no possibility, I suppose, of your being able to give me a description of the man who, by some strange means, got into the house on that night?"

"I can't tell you nothink more about 'im. It was in the dark, yer know, and when he spoke it was under 'is breath."

"The question was an idle one, but I was bound to ask it. It may or may not have been the same man who deceived your aunt. Sophy, the man you saw and can swear to is an infernal scoundrel, and I look upon him as my enemy."

"That's enough for me; he's mine, too, and I'm 'is."

"You can keep a secret, Sophy."

"You tell me one, and wild 'orses sha'n't tear it from me."

"You are a faithful little soul, and I put great trust in you. Everything I am saying to you is a secret."

"That's enough," said Sophy, touching her lips with her fingers. "Red 'ot pinches shouldn't git it out of me."

"The man you saw was in this house, to my certain knowledge, once before--while M. Felix was alive. Your aunt did not know it; M. Felix opened the street door for him. It was the night M. Felix was found dead, and when the man went away he took a desk with him that belonged to M. Felix."

Sophy nodded. "Aunty's spoke to me about that desk. She never could make out, she ses, what 'd become of it."

"I will describe it to you, Sophy." I did so, and she listened attentively, nodding from time to time with surprising intelligence. "If you happen to see this desk in the possession of the man whom I look upon as my enemy, do you think you could identify it?"

"Know it again? Yes, I should. But 'ow am I to git to the man?"

"I have thought of a plan, or rather a friend of mine has, which requires courage to carry it out successfully. It requires something more than courage; without great good sense and coolness the plan would fail. The question is whether you possess those qualities."

"It ain't no question at all; I've got what you want, and can do what you want."

"There is something in the desk, Sophy, that is of the utmost importance to me."

"And I'm to git it for yer. All right. Smuggle me into the 'ouse, and consider it done."

"But you don't know what kind of a place it is, my girl. It's a private madhouse." Sophy did not blench; she simply nodded, and fixed her large brown eyes on my face. "The man's name," I continued, "is Peterssen, Dr. Peterssen. If he wanted a young girl as a servant you should apply for the situation, but I don't think there is a vacancy in his establishment. He is ready to take more patients, though, and he likes young patients better than old ones."

"You're going to put me in there as a mad gal," cried Sophy, in a tone of irrepressible excitement, which lasted, however, only for a moment. She cooled down instantly, and said in her usual tone, "Crikey! That's a good move. I'm game! It's a good part to play, and no mistake."

"You'll do it, then?"

"Do it? Won't I do it? Why, I never thought I'd 'ave sech a chance."

"You will have to be respectably dressed, Sophy, hands and face nice and clean, and hair very tidy. How long in the morning will it take you to do that?"

"You git me the clothes and I won't keep yer waiting. I'll give myself a good scrub to-night."

"I've only one fear for you," I said, "which you won't mind my mentioning. Going as a girl in a respectable position, your language might draw suspicion upon you. I can't see a way out of that difficulty."

"I can," said Sophy, with a merry twinkle. "Why should I speak at all? Let me go as a dumb gal. It'll be more than ever they can manage to git a word out of me if I was there for a year."

I looked at her admiringly. Her sharp wits had solved a problem which had greatly perplexed me.

"You are sure you will not be afraid, Sophy?"

"Not a bit afraid; I shall enjoy it. It'll be a reg'lar game."

"Very well, then. You can sleep upon it to-night, and if you alter your mind you can let me know. I shall sleep here myself, and shall be up early in the morning. There will be a great deal to do, and no time must be lost. Goodnight. Say nothing to your aunt."

She nodded smilingly, bade me good-night, and left me to my reflections.

CHAPTER XLVII.

I RECEIVE A STRANGE VISITOR.

Before I went to bed a little incident occurred which it may be as well to mention. It will be in the remembrance of the reader that when I discovered the dagger which M. Felix had thrown at Emilia on the occasion of her visit to him, I placed it behind the massive sideboard in the sitting-room, my purpose being to conceal it from prying eyes. Curious to see whether the weapon had been disturbed I took a candle and looked. It was still there, and I was about to move away when my attention was attracted to another object which lay edgewise by its side. This object was a photograph, which had evidently dropped behind the sideboard, and had lain there neglected for some time. Thinking it might be the photograph of M. Felix I managed to nick it forward, and presently was able to reach it with my hand. It was covered with dust, which I blew away, disclosing the picture of a young man with a handsome, prepossessing face. "If this is a likeness of M. Felix," I mused, "it proves how little the features of a man are an index to his character." There was something peculiarly winning in the expression of the face; and there was a smile in the eyes and on the lips. The picture had faded with time, but was still distinct and clear in its outlines. I determined to ask Mrs. Middlemore in the morning whether it was a likeness of M. Felix, and I put it on the table and retired to bed. I had had a long and tiring day, and I slept soundly. At eight o'clock I jumped up, ready and eager to resume the task upon which I was engaged. I had almost finished dressing when my eyes fell upon the picture I had found upon the previous night, and I took it again in my hand and examined it by the morning's light. Looking at the back of the card I saw some writing there, the name of a man and a date which fixed the time at nineteen years ago. The name was "Gerald Paget."

I was inexpressibly relieved. The picture, then, was not that of M. Felix, but of Emilia's husband. I was glad to possess it, and glad also of the mute evidence it presented, denoting that the original must have been of a frank and honest nature. I put it in my pocket without scruple; intrinsically the portrait was of no value, and I considered myself entitled to appropriate it. To make sure, however, that the likeness was not that of M. Felix, I showed it to Mrs. Middlemore, without informing her how I had become possessed of it. She had never seen it, she said, and it was not a portrait of M. Felix, who was a different kind of man. Satisfied on this point I went out with Sophy to hire a servant to take her place in her absence. We had no difficulty in obtaining one; as Sophy had said, we could have obtained a score, and we picked out the nicest and most amenable, the choice being Sophy's, upon whose judgment in this selection it was safest to depend. The new domestic being officially installed in Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, I gave that worthy woman "something on account," and bade her good-morning, and told her that Sophy and I would probably be absent for two or three weeks.

"You'll take care of 'er, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Middlemore.

"You need have no anxiety," I replied. "She will be quite safe with me."

Before these words were exchanged I had asked Sophy whether she was still of the same mind as she had been on the previous evening.

"'Course I am," said Sophy. "I wouldn't give it up for nothink you could orfer me."

She had given herself "a good scrub," and had tidied her hair, and I was surprised at the difference this made in her appearance.

"Now, Sophy," I said, after I had bidden Mrs. Middlemore good-by, "here are four sovereigns. Go to some wardrobe shop where you are not known, and buy a complete outfit of second-hand decent clothes, stockings, petticoats, boots, and everything you wear, and come to my rooms in them at half-past one. Be careful that you choose neat clothing, nothing showy or conspicuous; the way you are dressed the next time I see you will prove whether you understand what it is I wish you to do."

"You sha'n't find fault with me," said Sophy, with tears in her eyes. "I never thought I should 'ave sech a slice of luck as this."

At noon I was in my chambers, having arranged with the editor of the Evening Moon for another absence from duty. Bob Tucker was to come at one, and I employed the intervening minutes in setting things right in my rooms. I should have liked to go to Emilia for the purpose of showing her the picture I had found, and of receiving confirmation that it was a portrait of her husband, but I had not the time. The chimes of Westminster had just proclaimed the half-hour when I heard a knock at the outer door of my chambers. "Bob is early," I thought, and I went and opened the door. A stranger confronted me, a middle-aged man, with sandy hair and light fluffy whiskers, and of a rather ponderous build.

"I have come to see Mr. Agnold," said the stranger.

"He is busy," I replied, testily, "and cannot be seen." I did not know the man, and the business I had to transact was too important for interruption.

"I will wait," said the stranger, coolly.

"It will be useless waiting," I said. "Mr. Agnold cannot be seen to-day."

"I will wait till to-morrow," said the stranger, pulling his fluffy whiskers, and gazing at me with more than warrantable attention.

"Yes," I said, "call to-morrow, and unless your errand is urgent and personal do not call at all. Mr. Agnold's time is valuable."

I closed the door unceremoniously in his face and re-entered my sitting-room. My behavior is open to an unfavorable construction, I admit, but bachelors living in chambers in the houses roundabout are much annoyed by persons who intrude at all unseasonable hours, and who for the most part turn out to be commercial travellers desirous to show you samples of goods you do not want. But there was another reason in this particular instance for my unceremonious treatment of the uninvited visitor. All the time he was speaking to me I was conscious that he was observing me in a manner which I resented. There was an intentional rudeness in his pertinacious scrutiny which aroused in me a certain anger, which, reasonably or unreasonably, was a guide in my conduct toward him.

I resumed my employment, but my mind was disturbed by the incident, and I could not drive it away. The man could not be a commercial traveller, I reflected, for those individuals are models of pleasantry and politeness, and do everything in their power to win your good graces. What, therefore, could be his object in paying me a visit? Had I done wrong in sending him away without inquiring its nature?

"Confound the fellow!" I said. "He has got into my head and is likely to remain there, a fixture. I suppose he has gone."

I went to the door and threw it open. On a little bench in the lobby outside sat the man, quietly and patiently.

"Not gone!" I cried.

"Not gone," he replied.

"You heard what I said, did you not?"

"Perfectly. You said Mr. Agnold cannot be seen today. Upon which I replied that I would wait till to-morrow."

"To wait here?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, to wait here till to-morrow, or the next day, or the next. In point of fact, to wait till I have had a few minutes' chat with Mr. Agnold."

"I am Mr. Agnold," I said, angrily.

"I knew that all along," he said, with irritating politeness.

"What is it you want with me? Will you detain me long?"

"Not very long; it will depend upon yourself. I come on behalf of Dr. Peterssen."

My anger instantly subsided; I became as cool as my visitor.

"Enter," I said, "and let us get it over. Who is Dr. Peterssen, and what has he got to do with me, or I with him?"

These last words were spoken when my visitor and I were standing face to face in my sitting-room.

"Oh, I am not here to answer questions," said my visitor. "I have a commission to execute, and a question or two myself to ask on behalf of Dr. Peterssen."

"Which I shall answer or not, as I please."

"Of course it is entirely within your discretion; I cannot force you; I am merely an instrument."

"I must know with whom I am conversing," I said, "before we proceed further."

He handed me a card, on which was printed, "Mr. Nettlefold, The Elms, Ealing."

"I never heard of you," I said, putting the card on the table.

"I can't help that," he responded. "Perhaps it will expedite matters if I inform you that I do not come from Dr. Peterssen direct. Before presenting myself to you I paid a visit to Mr. Bob Tucker."

I was confounded. Was the cunning scheme suggested by Bob, and to carry out which I had enlisted Sophy's services, to be nipped in the bud?

"Mr. Tucker," continued Mr. Nettlefold, "refused all explanations, and referred me to you, who, it seems, are the prime mover in this affair."

"In what affair?"

"As you are aware, Dr. Peterssen resides at Tylney House, Sheldon. He desires this fact to be widely known, having no motives for secrecy. Mr. Bob Tucker has been prowling about this neighborhood lately, making inquiries concerning Dr. Peterssen, and prying into his private affairs in a manner to which Dr. Peterssen does not propose to submit."

"A nice mess Bob has made of it," I thought. "What a fool I was to trust to him!"

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Nettlefold, "did you speak?"

"I did not."

"I thought I saw your lips move. To continue. Mr. Bob Tucker could not have been aware that while he was thus clumsily playing Paul Pry, he was himself being watched, and that all the information given to him of Dr. Peterssen's affairs was false. When Mr. Tucker left Sheldon he was followed and his address in London discovered. He paid you a visit last night, and your address was discovered. I am commissioned by Dr. Peterssen to inquire your motive for your proceedings?"

"I shall answer no questions. Finish your commission, and go."

"Very well. I am instructed to say that should Mr. Bob Tucker, or you, or any person in your employ, come again to Sheldon for the purpose of making injurious inquiries, he, you, or the other person will receive a sound horsewhipping, and after that a ducking in a convenient pond. That is all. Have you anything to say?"

"Just one observation. You can tell Dr. Peterssen in the plainest possible terms that I know him to be an infernal scoundrel, and that it is my intention to expose him. I shall visit Sheldon very soon, and he will have an opportunity of putting his threats into execution; it will then be seen who has the most to fear, he or I. There is the door, Mr. Nettlefold. Remove yourself quickly, if you do not wish to be removed."

To my astonishment, my visitor, instead of hurrying to the door, threw himself into my most comfortable arm-chair, and burst into a loud fit of laughter. I had not recovered from my astonishment before he spoke.

"Capital. Capital. Settled my disguise last night. Carried it out this morning. Took me about an hour. Altered my voice. Altered the way I speak as Bob Tucker. Changed my clothes. And my hair. And my manner. Rather good isn't it? Compliment me."

And there in my chair sat, not Mr. Nettlefold, but my old friend Bob Tucker, laughing and wagging his head at the trick he had played me.

"Upon my word, Bob," I said with a feeling of great relief, "you gave me a turn. I should never have known you."

"Thought you wouldn't. When I looked in the glass didn't know myself. Thought I was another fellow. Thought I'd try it on you first, to make sure, you know."

"Bob," I said, shaking hands heartily with him, "you're splendid. Scotland Yard's a fool to you. I would trust you with my life."

"You might. It would be quite safe with me. So long as you kept your breath. Think I'm a match for Peterssen?"

"For a dozen Peterssens. You're a gem of the first water. I've hardly got over it."

"Don't think any more of it. Plenty of time by and by. Always knew I was cut out for this sort of thing. Let's to business. You see what I've done. What have you done?"

"I have got the girl."

"Good. Sharp! Clever! Cool!"

"You shall see her; she will be here soon."

Then I related to him everything I knew of Sophy, and dwelt especially upon her behavior on the night of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix, which I could see made a powerful impression upon him.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Got pluck, that girl. Seems just the article we want."

His admiration increased when I told him of the expedient suggested by Sophy to keep her lack of education from the knowledge of Dr. Peterssen's people.

"She's a nugget," he said. "Take quite an interest in her already. Possibilities in that girl. She will come through this affair with flying colors."

"That is my opinion, Bob. She will be a relation of yours, I suppose."

"Step-daughter," he said, with a wink. "By my first wife. The girl in the way then. Much more in the way now. Why? Her mother's dead, and I'm married again. Conundrum. What relation is she to my second wife? Work it out. Name, Maria. A perfect encumbrance. Dumb from her birth. And silly. Horrible nuisance. No vice in her. Not dangerous in the least. Therefore, friendly patient. No restraint or punishment. To be allowed to go about the house and grounds. Do as she likes. Must sleep in room by herself. Will give no trouble. Quarter paid in advance. Make her happy, and she shall remain for years. Must be kindly treated. Will programme do?"

"It is excellently arranged."

"I go down as Mr. Nettlefold, The Elms, Ealing. Cousin of mine lives there. Should letters addressed Nettlefold arrive, will forward them on to me wherever I am. As I say, go down as Mr. Nettlefold. Leave Sheldon as such. Return to Sheldon as another man. To watch over Sophy, otherwise Maria. Got danger signals ready." He produced a number of small pellets, some blue, some white, weighted, and attached to thin cords. "Sophy," he continued, "otherwise Maria, ties these to underclothing. Stays. String of petticoat. Anything. Detaches one when required. I'll instruct her. Every day one thrown over wall. None thrown, go in and see her. Quite safe. Will she remain long?"

I answered that I thought she would be able to get hold of the desk in less than a week, and that under no circumstances should she remain longer than a fortnight. If she could not accomplish her task in that time it would be useless to keep her there. We continued talking about the arrangements till half-past one, when my faithful and punctual Sophy made her appearance. She looked the picture of neatness, and her eyes beamed when I expressed approval of her attire. Bob gazed upon her with satisfaction.

"She'll do," he said. "You keep quiet. I'll take her in hand."

I left it to him to explain matters and to teach her her lesson. He could have had no apter pupil; in less than half an hour she was proficient.

"We start, the three of us," said Bob, "at three o'clock. Not for Sheldon. Four miles from there is a large village, Nutford. We put up there. Arrive six-twenty. Have dinner. Dark night. Walk to Sheldon. Reconnoitre. Show you the wall, where you can get over. If you want to. Show you where to throw pellets. Four o'clock every afternoon. Convenient time. Dr. Peterssen probably away. Feel all right?"

"As right as a trivet," said Sophy.

"You're a girl--after my own heart. Have something to eat before we start. Tuck away."

At three o'clock we were in the train which was to convey us to our destination.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

SOPHY ENTERS DR. PETERSSEN'S ESTABLISHMENT AS A FRIENDLY PATIENT.

Having engaged comfortable quarters at the Bell and Horns, Nutford, we had a tea-dinner, and started to walk to Sheldon. It was a fine night, and Sophy distinguished herself as a pedestrian; the four-mile walk was accomplished in an hour and twenty minutes by the watch. The one narrow street of which the village could boast was still and quiet; not a soul was to be seen in it.

"After seven o'clock at night," said Bob, "place like a churchyard. Sleepy Hollow a paradise compared to it."

There was something inexpressibly depressing in the aspect of the street; the two or three poor shops were closed, and neither in them nor in the cottages was there a sign of life. The suggestion of a grave came to my mind.

"Remember Eden?" asked Bob, who was in the best of spirits. "Mark Tapley would have grown fat here."

At the end of the street we crossed a common, and then traversed an avenue of mournful trees, bounded by a stone wall.

"The outskirts of Tylney House," said Bob, with the air of a professional guide. "House can't be seen from this point. Nor from any point in particular. Lies in a valley. Observe the jagged glass at top of wall. Just here there's a bare spot. Think you could climb over it, Sophy, otherwise Maria?"

"Git over it like a bird," said Sophy. The conversation was carried on in low tones, Sophy's voice being sepulchral, in view of the part of the dumb patient she was presently to enact.

"Good girl. Prove yourself. There's a tree. Show us a climb."

It was a branchless tree, with scarce a knob on its straight trunk, and with nothing to hold on by, but Sophy tackled it unhesitatingly, and was a dozen feet above our heads in a twinkling. There she perched, peering over the wall into the grounds of Tylney House. Presently she scrambled down, and nudging Bob, said,

"Will that do?"

"You've got the heart of a lion," said Bob, admiringly. "I've no fears for you. Can you read?"

"No."

"Write?"

"No."

"Tell the time?"

"Oh, I can do that."

"That's a blessing. Here's a silver watch. A stem-winder. When we get back to Nutford I'll show you how to wind it up. What's the time now?"

"'Arf past eight."

"Correct. That tree is thirty feet high. Or thereabouts."

"What of that?"

"I should say it could be seen by anybody inside that stone wall. By you, when you're inside them. Now, Sophy, otherwise Maria, you have peculiarities. One, that you're dumb."

"Inside them walls," said Sophy, "I am. Dumb as a fish."

"Another, that you've an unconquerable habit of shying stones."

"I'm a dab at that," said Sophy.

"As a friendly patient," continued Bob, "you must be indulged. When you get it into your head to shy stones you're to be let alone. That's one of the conditions of your becoming a friendly patient."

"I twig. I'm to shy stones at that tree."

"You are. At certain times of the day. At twelve o'clock by the silver watch. At four o'clock by the same."

"Crikey!" exclaimed Sophy. "Yer don't mean to say I'm to have the ticker?"

"I do. Bought it for the special purpose. And it's not to be taken from you. When you shy stones at hours already stated I shall be outside. You don't shy many. Three, or four, or five. One of the stones is made of lead. I supply you with them. Here they are." He produced the pellets. "I give you some paper that you'll keep in your pocket. Lead stone wrapped in white paper means that you're quite comfortable. Lead stone wrapped in blue paper means you want to be taken away. Things not as they ought to be. That provides for your safety. We'll see you're not hurt, Sophy, otherwise Maria. I shall understand signals. An idea. Can you whistle?"

"Rather."

"Another of your peculiarities. As a friendly patient you're to be allowed to whistle. At twelve o'clock and at four I shall be in this neighborhood. I hear you whistle. I see the stones you shy, and the bit of lead wrapped in white paper. She's safe, I say to myself. Sophy, otherwise Maria, is quite comfortable with her weather eye open. Do you take all this in? Or shall I go over it again?"

"I know it by 'eart," replied Sophy. "It's a reg'lar game, that's what it is."

Here I thought it necessary to say a word.

"Suppose no stones at all are thrown, Bob?"

"In that case," said Bob, "without one minute's delay I ring the bell. I insist upon seeing my stepdaughter, Sophy, otherwise Maria. Leave it to me. I'll undertake that she comes to no harm. Time to get back to Nutford."

We left Sheldon without having been observed, I a little doubtful now that the adventure was to be seriously commenced, Bob very confident, and Sophy very bright. Before we went to bed we had a great deal of conversation, and Sophy convinced us that she perfectly understood Bob's instructions; then the silver watch was delivered to her as a prospective gift in the event of her success, and we retired to rest. Bob and I had each brought a Gladstone bag down with us, and Bob gave me another instance of his thoughtfulness by producing from his a small handbag, furnished with certain necessaries for a girl of Sophy's age, which he had purchased in London.

"You have really no fears for her, Bob?" I said as we undressed. He and I occupied a double-bedded room.

"Not the least," replied Bob. "She's a gem. Of the first water. Wash and comb her regularly--dress her decently--teach her to read and write--give her two or three years to grow up in--and there's no telling what she may become. Much obliged for the introduction. Much obliged also for the business in hand." He said this with perfect sincerity. Bob Tucker was in his element.

On the following morning he and Sophy set off for Tylney House. By Bob's advice I remained behind in Nutford. It would be best, he said, that Dr. Peterssen should not see me.

I waited in great anxiety for his return, and at three o'clock in the afternoon he was with me again.

"All arranged," he said. "Sophy is now a friendly patient in Tylney House. Did not tell you, did I, that I telegraphed to Peterssen from London yesterday afternoon?"

"No," I replied, "I was not aware of it. You lay your plans well, Bob."

"No use undertaking a job unless you do. I sent him telegram--'Coming to your establishment to-morrow with young patient. SILAS NETTLEFOLD.' We arrive in a fly--ring the bell--man appears. I ask, 'Dr. Peterssen at home?' 'Name?' inquires the man. 'Silas Nettlefold,' I answer. 'Dr. Peterssen is at home,' says man. 'Walk in.' I do. Sophy slouches by my side--good actress, that girl. Man eyes her. She doesn't notice him apparently. All the same she sees him--and reckons him up. In the grounds she picks up stone--looks at it--turns it over in her hand--shies it over the wall. 'A way she's got,' I say to man. Slip two half-crowns into his hand. He grins, and leads the way. Peterssen--damned scoundrel--receives us. I introduce myself--and my stepdaughter Maria. He shakes hands with me--no suspicion in his manner. I was looking out for that. Puts his thumb under my step-daughter's chin--raises her face. She gives a silly laugh, and turns away. I explain matters, saying first, 'Can I speak plainly to you?' 'I am a man of the world,' he says. 'So am I,' I respond. I give him a sly look; he gives me one. I motion Sophy, otherwise Maria, out of the room. He rings for man to take her into the grounds. 'Not my daughter,' I say; 'my first wife's. Widow when I married her. Now, dead. Six weeks ago I married again. Second wife wants her out of the house. So do I. More comfortable for all parties. Dumb from her birth; quite silly, but has, or will have when she's of age, property. Meanwhile I am her guardian. Willing to pay well to have her well taken care of. Must not be ill-treated. Am a Christian--so are you.' Peterssen smiles; I smile. I continue: 'It is to my interest that she shall be happy. I wish her to live a long life--in such an establishment as yours--at so much a year, paid in advance. I should like her to get fat. The longer she lives, the better for me. If she died her property would pass out of my control.' And so on, and so on. Peterssen comprehends--grasps the situation. Promises everything I ask. Shall be treated as friendly patient, but of course the charge will be proportionate. 'Quite so,' I say. Everything then is arranged. She will have perfect liberty inside the stone walls. Will be kindly treated. Will be allowed to walk freely about the grounds, and to indulge her harmless habit of occasional stone-throwing. So far, all plain sailing. Then comes question of terms. 'Two hundred a year,' says Peterssen, rather stiff. 'We'll not haggle,' I say. Peterssen much relieved. He's devilish hard up. Saw it with half an eye. His hand stretched out to clutch the money. Took advantage of his eagerness. Gave him twenty pounds on account of first quarter. Promise to pay the other thirty in a month. After that, regular quarterly payments in advance. Peterssen made lame attempts to hold out for larger sum down on the nail. I stood my ground. Peterssen gave way. If he'd been flush of money would have seen me further first. Interview terminated. We go out to Sophy, otherwise Maria. Girl very happy, playing with two stones. 'Let her have her way,' I say, 'won't give you a bit of trouble.' I wish her good-by. She takes not the slightest notice of me. Begins to whistle. Clever girl, Sophy. Gives me a silly look, that's all. I speak to man, otherwise keeper, aside. 'Don't bother her,' I say, 'and she won't bother you. Treat her kindly, and you get a crown a week. Here's first fortnight in advance.' Keeper promises to be good to her, and not to interfere with her. A crown a week buys him body and soul. Sophy all right. Shake hands with Peterssen, pat Sophy on the head, and make my way here. Not in a straight line. Hired fly some distance off in another direction. Leave Bob Tucker alone for putting people off the scent."

There was nothing to find fault with in Bobgs description; all that I had wished for had been cleverly carried out, and everything seemed now to depend upon whether the desk of Indian wood was in Dr. Peterssen's establishment and whether Sophy would be able to obtain possession of it. But it was not without an uneasy feeling that I thought of Sophy being at the mercy of such a man as the master of Tylney House. Bob did his best to dispel my uneasiness. He was positive that Sophy was quite safe. Dr. Peterssen was seldom in the house, his inclinations and pleasures lying elsewhere, and the management of the establishment was left almost entirely in the hands of the keeper who Bob said he had bought for five shillings a week.

"Doesn't get a tip once in a blue moon," said Bob. "That was evident from his manner of accepting mine. It was such a novelty that it almost knocked him over. Doesn't get too well paid, either. There's a tumbledown air about Tylney House which made me think of a man on his last legs. One thing is certain. Peterssen's heart is not in it. Mind occupied by matters more engrossing. Generally savage look upon his face. The fellow's ripe."

"For what, Bob?"

"For any kind of villainy, from pitch and toss to manslaughter. Wouldn't stop short of manslaughter. Oh, I know my customer."

"Did you see any of the other patients?" I asked.

"No," answered Bob. "Kept out of the way, most likely. Looked about for harmless patient green-grocer's boy spoke of. Didn't catch a glimpse of him."

We left Nettlefold that evening, and went to another village on the other side of Sheldon. This was done to enable Bob to assume a different disguise, in which he was to pay his daily visits to the tree outside the stone walls of Tylney House, which was to serve as a target for Sophy's stones twice a day; and he told me that he had given Sophy explicit instructions how to reach us at our new address. It seems that he had the removal in view when we were at Nettlefold, and had let Sophy into the secret; and I commended and admired his thoughtfulness.

The change of quarters safely made, I had nothing to do but to await the course of events. I considered it expedient to keep Bob company, so as to be on the spot in case Sophy should make an unexpected appearance. Bob's proceedings and methods afforded me some amusement. At a quarter to eleven every morning he started for Sheldon, returning at a quarter to two. An hour afterward he started again for the same place, returning at a quarter to six. He was punctuality itself, and his movements resembled those of a well-regulated clock. Every time he returned he said, "Sophy quite safe. Three stones, and a pellet wrapped in white paper. Whistling like a bird. Sophy getting fine markswoman. Two of the stones hit tree. Capital exercise for muscles this stone-throwing. Pity Sophy can't write. She would be able to tell us news." He kept an exact record of all his proceedings, and devoted a separate page, more than one, if necessary, to each entry. "In matters like this," he said, "avoid confusion. Be precise. My diary saves a world of trouble in deciding absolutely what was done at such an hour on such a day." The time, I must confess, hung heavily on my hands, and I would much rather have been an active worker in the task upon which we were engaged. However, I had no choice. I wrote regularly to my people at home and to Emilia, who thus became acquainted with my country address, and it was to Emilia's knowledge of my whereabouts which led to unforeseen diversions in the plans I had so carefully mapped out.

CHAPTER XLIX.

M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT.

On the twelfth day I said:

"Bob, I think I shall run up to London."

"By all means," said Bob, cheerfully, a sign that my society was not indispensable to him, and that he was not wearying of his task. "Should anything occur I will telegraph to you. To which address, though?"

"Repeat your telegrams," I said, "to my chambers and my mother's house. I shall be back in two days, and if by that time things are still in the same position I think you should pay a visit to Sophy, and contrive somehow to speak to her. This inaction is intolerable."

"You have no patience," said Bob. "The train is laid. What more do you want?"

"Movement, Bob, movement." I looked at my watch. "Mustn't lose the train. I'm off."

And off I was, and in a few minutes whirling toward London. It was destined, however, that I should not reach there as early as I expected. We were midway when the train slackened, crawled along a few hundred yards, then came to a standstill.

"What's the matter?" I called to the guard, thrusting my head out of the window.

"Engine broke down, sir," was the answer. "Can't get on."

"Confound it!" I cried. "How long shall we have to wait?"

"There's no knowing, sir. Not till to-morrow morning, perhaps."

"But it is impossible for me to remain here all night."

"Very sorry, sir. It doesn't depend upon me. Accidents will happen."

Fretting and fuming would not mend matters, and I was compelled to submit. It turned out as the guard had indicated. Something else had occurred on the line which rendered it out of the question that another engine could be sent to our aid, and we did not arrive in London till the afternoon of the following day. I hastened at once to my chambers, then visited the office of the Evening Moon, and then proceeded to my mother's house, which I did not reach till six o'clock in the evening. The moment the street door was opened Emilia ran into the passage to greet me.

"You have seen him," she cried, "and he has explained all."

"Seen whom?" I asked, very much astonished, "and what is there to explain?"

"You have not met M. Bordier, then," she said, falling back.

"No," I replied. "I left the country suddenly yesterday, and an accident happened to the train. I was detained all night."

"I sent you a letter also," said Emilia, "it was posted yesterday morning."

"That accounts for my not receiving it. It must have arrived after my departure."

I saw that she was agitated, and I led her to the sitting-room, where, after exchanging a few words with my mother, we were left alone. Then I learnt what had taken place.

M. Bordier, it appears, had visited Emilia every day during my absence, and had observed in her signs of suppressed excitement which had caused him deep concern. At first he made no comment upon this change in her, but at length he questioned her, and, receiving no satisfaction, told her with delicate pointedness that he deemed it her duty to confide in him if she were in any trouble. Still she evaded his inquiries, and this with marks of such extreme distress that he became more pressing in his desire that she should be candid and straightforward with him. I will give what afterward transpired in Emilia's own words.

"He came the night before last," she said, "and asked to speak privately with me. I could not refuse him; it appeared to me as if my refusal to appease his natural curiosity had aroused suspicions which might be fatal to my daughter's happiness. He spoke very kindly, but very firmly. Considering the relations in which we stood to each other, he had come to a decision which it was right should be communicated to me. Before doing so he would ask me a question or two to which he expected frank answers. He asked me how long I had known your family. I replied, about two weeks. Had I any previous knowledge of them? I said no. Through whom had I become acquainted with them? I said, through you. He then asked who and what you were; I told him, trembling all the time, because his questions were leading straight to the secret I was hiding from him. Had I any previous knowledge of you, he asked; were you related to me in any way? I answered that you were not related to me, and that I had made your acquaintance only since my arrival in London. Were you acquainted with the cause of my trouble, he asked. I said yes, you were, and that you were endeavoring to befriend me. He reflected a little before he continued, and when he spoke it was in the same kind and gentle voice, but more firmly than before. 'It amounts to this,' he said, 'that you have a secret which has brought grief upon you, and that you confide this secret to a stranger and deny it to me. I draw from this a reasonable inference--that you have a trouble of a private nature which you are deliberately concealing from those who have a right, if anyone has the right, to share it with you. Is it a pecuniary trouble?' I answered that it was not, and he said that he regretted it, as then it might be easily got over. He then referred to the conversation we had in Geneva, when he came to speak to me about Julian's attachment to my dear child, and to a remark he had made that the time would arrive when it would be necessary that he should become acquainted with certain particulars of my past life. My heart fainted within me when he bluntly inquired whether my secret was in any way connected with my past history. I could make but one reply, yes. 'Do you not see,' he said, 'that you are creating suspicions in my mind, and that I am beginning to ask myself whether I should be doing my duty as a father if I allowed the engagement between our children to continue? Be advised for your own sake, for theirs. Tell me everything; accord to me at least the privileges you have accorded to a stranger. I have the reputation of being a just man, and I know that I have none but kindly feelings toward you. There are difficulties, I admit, in many human lives which need the skill of a strong man to surmount. I place my knowledge of the world and my goodwill at your service, and if you refuse to avail yourself of them your conduct will inspire me with very grave doubts.' Thus driven, what could I do? It seemed to me that it would be the wisest course to confide implicitly in him, and I did so. I laid bare the story of my life, from my earliest remembrance to the hour the disclosure was made. The errand upon which I came to England, my adventures here, my meeting with you, my interview with Gerald's brother--nothing was concealed; I even searched my mind to be sure that not a detail was omitted. And then I threw myself upon his mercy. I swore solemnly to the truth of my story, and to my belief that the marriage ceremony was genuine. 'To part from your son now,' I said, 'will break my daughter's heart. In mercy to her, have pity!' 'From my inmost soul I pity you,' he said. 'I believe your story; I believe you to be honestly married; but it must be proved; we must be able to hold up our heads in the face of the world. You say there is a chance of the copy of your marriage certificate being hidden in the secret drawer of the writing-desk you have described, and that a scheme is in operation which holds out a hope that the desk may be found. Julian loves your daughter; his happiness is bound up in her; and because I am his father and love him most sincerely I will do all that lies in my power to set this crooked matter straight. I will go down to your friend Mr. Agnold as your representative and champion. Give me a letter to him which will confer upon me the right to act for you. There are means in my hands which Mr. Agnold may not possess, or would not naturally be willing to employ, by which we can attain our object. I can go myself to this Dr. Peterssen, and offer to purchase the desk from him, supposing it to be in his possession. To such a man a large sum of money would be a temptation; I would not stop short of five thousand pounds; and this, with a guarantee that he shall not be molested, and time afforded him to reach another country, may be the crowning inducement. Even if he has not the desk, he is pretty sure to have learnt from Mr. Gerald Paget the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony was performed, and would be willing to sell the information for the sum I have named. The proof then would be easy. Write a letter at once; I will start to-morrow.' His words, his voice, gave me hope. I wrote the letter, and yesterday he left London to present it to you."

This was the story which Emilia narrated to me, and I could not blame her for acting as she had done. Only I was angry with myself for leaving Bob; had I remained I should have seen M. Bordier, and we might have discussed matters and brought them to a head. In view of what Bob had said of his impression that Dr. Peterssen was very hard up, the temptation which M. Bordier was ready to offer would be too strong for him. Five thousand pounds was a grand bait, and Dr. Peterssen would have accepted it and fled the country.

"You have done right," I said to Emilia.

"How thankful I am that you approve!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me ungrateful that I should take a step so important without consulting you."

"You had no choice," I said, "and M. Bordier is a gentleman. Did his son accompany him?"

"Poor Julian! I do not know. I fear he is scarcely in a fit state."

I inferred from this that Julian Bordier was ill, but before I had time to make an inquiry my mother entered the room.

"A telegram for you," she said, and handed it to me.

I tore it open and read it. "I have strange and important news for you. Sophy is with me. Come down at once. Bob."

There was an A B C in the house, and I turned over the pages feverishly. I had just twenty-two minutes to catch a train, the last of the day, which would enable me to get to Bob at about eleven o'clock. Late as it would be I knew that he would expect me. I rapidly explained to Emilia the necessity of my immediate departure, and ran out of the house. Fortunately a cab was passing. "Drive as if Old Nick was at your heels," I said to the cabby, jumping in. "Treble fare." The driver cracked his whip, and away we rattled.

CHAPTER L.

CLEVER SOPHY.

Bob was waiting for me on the platform. He was smoking a cigar, and did not appear the least flurried. His calm demeanor, being somewhat antagonistic to the tone of his telegram, annoyed me.

"Well, Bob?" I said.

"Well, old man?" said he. "Knew you would come down by this train."

"Of course you did," I said irritably. "Now for your news."

"No hurry," he said, phlegmatically. "Plenty of time before us."

"Don't trifle, there's a good fellow. Have you seen M. Bordier?"

"I have seen a gentleman of that name. Introduced himself to me. Showed me a letter from your lady friend. It was addressed to you, but he made free with it. He had a right to do so perhaps, as it was in an unsealed envelope. Who is the gentleman? Has he anything to do with this affair?"

"He is an important person in our inquiry, Bob," I replied, "and is intimately connected with it."

"Ah," said Bob, dryly. "If I'd been in your place I should have mentioned him earlier. He came like a bombshell upon me, and vanished, so to speak, like a flash of lightning. Any better, Sophy?"

Then for the first time I noticed the girl. She was crouched up on a bench, with her cloak over her head. The words Bob and I had exchanged were uttered at a little distance from her, and she had not heard my voice. I stepped close to her and removed the cloak from her head.

"Sophy," I said, "are you ill?"

She jumped up and took the hand I held out to her, but did not answer. Her face was very white, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.

"Good God!" I cried, with a pang. "Have they been ill-treating her? What's the matter with you, Sophy?"

"Not afore 'im," she said. Her throat seemed to be parched, her voice was so choked.

"No, they have not ill-treated her," said Bob; "I can answer for that. When she came with the desk----"

"You've got the desk!" I cried. Notwithstanding my anxiety for Sophy the news excited me, and my attention was diverted from her for a moment.

"Yes," said Bob, with a laugh in which I detected a shade of bitterness, "we've got the desk. For all the good it's worth. When she hopped into my room with it she was as bright as a cricket. Later on sent her to bed. Supposed her to be asleep, when she tumbled into the room again with a face like--well, look at it. Thought she'd have a fit. She'd had a nightmare."

"I hadn't," gasped Sophy.

"I'll take your word for it," said Bob. "Anyway, she wouldn't open her lips to me. Very mysterious. She will to you, most likely."

"Yes, I will," said Sophy, still clinging to me; she was trembling all over.

"Thought as much," said Bob, who seemed to feel this lack of confidence in him very acutely. "There are things to tell. My proposition--if I may be allowed to make one--is that we begin at the beginning, else we shall get muddled."

"It's the properest way," said Sophy.

"Thank you. Even this slight mark of approval appreciated by yours truly. Do I gather that we are friends, Sophy, no longer Maria?"

"In course we are; but I ain't 'ad no nightmare, I've 'ad a scare." She offered him her hand, and it really put life into him. He spoke more briskly.

"Let us get back to the hotel," he said. "Everything down there in black and white--except Sophy's scare--the reason for which I shall be glad to hear, if permitted."

"If he likes," said Sophy, "he can tell yer everythink when he 'ears it 'isself. It's best it should be led up to." She addressed these last words to me.

"For which purpose," said Bob; "march."

I listened to all this in amazement, but I fell in with their humor to have Sophy's scare properly led up to, and we walked to the inn in comparative silence.

"When did you have your last meal, Sophy?" I asked.

"Two o'clock. Biled beef and cabbage."

"You oaf," I said good-humoredly to Bob, "that's the reason of her being so white. She has been ten hours without food."

Bob clapped his hand to his forehead. "I am an ass," he said.

"You ain't," said Sophy, promptly, "and it ain't what made me white. But I shouldn't turn my back on a bit of grub."

"And a bit of grub you shall have," said Bob, "the moment we are in our room. I've got the right side of the landlady. Cold meat and pickles always on tap for Bob Tucker."

In the room Bob was as good as his word. A cold supper was spread before Sophy, and a glass of weak brandy and water mixed for her. She ate with avidity, and while she was thus employed Bob turned his attention to me.

"My diary comes in handy here," he said, and he pushed the book toward me. "You will find everything entered, saves a world of talk."

I skimmed through the pages till I reached yesterday's date, under which I found my departure for London duly recorded, the brief entry being:

"Agnold restless. Gone to London. For no particular reason--but gone."

Further on the record of the present day:

"Six P.M. Just returned from Tylney House. A surprising number of stones thrown by Sophy, otherwise Maria. She usually throws three or four, never more than five, including pellet in white paper, denoting happiness and safety. But this afternoon, quite a shower, including four pellets in white paper. Counted altogether eighteen. Does it mean anything? Wait till to-morrow. Logical interpretation, that things going on more satisfactorily than ever. Something discovered, perhaps. A thousand pities Sophy, otherwise Maria, cannot read or write. If the latter, could obtain positive information. When this particularly clever girl comes out she must begin to learn immediately. Talents must have a fair chance. Cruel they should be wasted. See to it. Singular no letter from Agnold. But did not promise to write."

Following this was a revelation:

"Sent telegram to Agnold, advising him to come down at once. This is putting cart before horse--in this instance allowable. Begin now at the beginning of exciting chapter.

"At half-past seven was sitting alone, smoking and ruminating. Door suddenly burst open, and Sophy, no longer Maria, rushes in. I cry--'What, Sophy!' 'Yes,' she says, out of breath, 'it's me. I've got it; I've got it. Where's the other?' (meaning Agnold). I briefly explain that he has gone to London, but will return the moment telegraphed for. 'Do you mean to tell me,' 'I said,' as excited as herself, 'that you've brought the desk?' 'It's 'ere,' she says, and she plumps it on the table, also a large door-key. She had carried the desk wrapped in her cloak. There is no doubt about the article; it exactly answers description given by Agnold. Remarkable girl, Sophy.

"This is her tale--and glad she was to set her tongue going after the lock it has had on it for so many days. At Tylney House one day is so like another that a lengthy experience of it must be perfectly appalling. Sophy says it is like a long funeral. As a friendly patient Sophy had the run of the house, and she knows every room in it except one--Dr. Peterssen's private apartment, which he occupies when he is in evidence. He is seldom in evidence. Absent six days out of seven. As there was no sign of desk in any other part of the house, Sophy decides that it is in Peterssen's room, if in the house at all. She was right.

"Peterssen only been at home two days during Sophy's residence as friendly patient. The first time last week. The second time, this. In point of fact, this very day. Last week Peterssen stopped about two hours in private room. Sophy passed door, through passage, while he was within. Couldn't get a peep. Consequently knew nothing of desk. Peterssen came out of room, locked door, went away. Most girls would have been discouraged at the prospect of such small chance of success. Not Sophy. She had made up her mind that the desk was there. There's nothing like moral conviction. To-day at one o'clock Peterssen puts in an appearance. After dinner, Sophy, on her way into the grounds, passes private room. Door ajar. She gets a peep. On the table sees desk, cedar-wood, inlaid with silver. Heart beats. Time not wasted. Discovery made, but not yet utilized. Watches like a cat. Hears keeper say Peterssen going to stop all night. Heart beats faster. Now or never. But how is this to be accomplished. This explains meaning of such a number of stones thrown over wall. Symbolical, but at the time undecipherable to present writer. Quite clear now.

"At ten minutes past five by Sophy's silver watch (her own property now), letter arrives for Peterssen. Delivered to him by keeper. Evidently unexpected. Evidently of an exciting nature. He reads it, and hurries out of house. What has he done with the key of the private room? Sophy hears a bunch rattle in his pocket as he rushes past her. Almost despairs, but not quite.

"Sophy creeps into passage again. The door is closed. She tries to peep through keyhole, but it is blocked. By what? A key. The key being inside, Peterssen in haste must have forgotten to lock the door. It proves to be so. Sophy has only to put her hand on handle, to turn it softly round, and presto! she is in the room. But the desk is not on table. Where, then? Under the bed. Before you can say Jack Robinson Sophy seizes it, creeps out of room. But first a stroke of genius. She removes key of door from inside to outside, turns it in lock, removes it from keyhole and retains it. Sublime! When Peterssen returns he will find door locked. Will naturally think he has locked it himself. Will feel in his pocket for key, without finding it. Will spend time in searching for it. All in Sophy's favor. Bravo, little one!

"Sophy reconnoitres. Keeper in grounds. Presently enters house, goes up to his bedroom--for private nap, of course. Coast clear. Like a shot Sophy is in the grounds. Like a shot she is over the wall, where there is no broken glass. How she did it she does not remember.. She does not know. Neither do I. But it is done. There she is, over the wall, outside Tylney House, instead of inside, with the key of the door in her hand, and the precious desk under her arm. It takes my breath away.

"Getting here to me takes hers away, She makes mistakes in the roads, and comes seven miles instead of four. But she runs the distance, and here she is.

"'Sophy,' I say, 'you are a treasure.'

"'I done it all right, didn't I?' she says.

"'You did, my girl, and you deserve a medal.'

"I formally make over the silver watch to her, and promise her a silver chain to match. She is in ecstasies, but not quite happy because Agnold is not here. I tell her he will be here to-morrow, and then I examine the desk. An intense desire seizes me to open it. Right or wrong, I determine to do so. I'll chance what Agnold may say when he comes back. He should have remained. What made him go to London? He had no immediate business there. His immediate business was here.

"Not one of my keys will open the desk. But I can pick a lock, and I have some delicate tools with me. For an ambitious man, in the line to which I have devoted myself, they are necessary and invaluable.

"I set to work, and very soon, without injuring the lock in the least, the desk is open. There are papers in it, but no copy of a marriage certificate. Agnold said it would be most likely in a secret drawer, but no secret drawer could I discover.

"I was so much engrossed in the examination I was making that I did not hear the door opened. But open it was, and the shadow of a man fell upon me. Sophy's eyes were closed. She was tired. I looked up. A stranger stood before me."

CHAPTER LI.

SOPHY MAKES A STRANGE STATEMENT.

"I had never seen Dr. Peterssen, and I imagined it was he who had so unexpectedly presented himself. In that case I was in a quandary. The desk had been stolen from Dr. Peterssen's house, and the clever little thief was dozing in the room. I was implicated in the theft, and had forced the lock with burglar's tools. Without counting the cost we had taken the law into our own hands--usurped its functions, so to speak. Bringing such a man as Dr. Peterssen to book might prove an awkward fix for us. However, I determined to brazen it out.

"The desk being open, the wood of which it was made and the silver with which it was inlaid were not so apparent as they would have been had it been closed. The stranger's eyes did not rest upon it, but wandered to Sophy. My gaze followed his, and I was surprised to observe that there was no sign of recognition in his face. But he may be acting a part, I thought.

"I soon discovered that all my conjectures were wrong.

"'Am I right in supposing that I am addressing Mr. Agnold?' he asked. He spoke with a foreign accent.

"'No,' I said, 'my name is not Agnold.'

"'Mr. Tucker, then?'

"'You are right there.'

"'Mr. Agnold mentioned your name in his letters to Mrs. Braham,' said the stranger. 'Both you and Mr. Agnold are working in that lady's interests. It is exceedingly kind of you.'

"I stared at him. This was not the language that Dr. Peterssen would have used, and my first doubts being dispelled, I saw that my visitor was a gentleman--which Dr. Peterssen is not. But who could he be? I thought it best to hold my tongue; I wished to avoid compromising myself.

"'I, also,' continued the stranger, 'am here in Mrs. Braham's interests. My business admits of no delay. It is necessary that I should see Mr. Agnold immediately.'

"'He is in London,' I said.

"This information appeared to discompose him; but only for a moment.

"'You represent Mr. Agnold?'

"'Yes, I think I may say as much.'

"'Thank you. I have a letter here addressed to him, but it is in an open envelope, and as Mr. Agnold's representative there can be no objection to your reading it.'

"I read the letter, and now in my turn I must have exhibited some sign of discomposure. Without being able to recall its contents word for word, I can sufficiently explain its nature. It was to the effect that the gentleman who presented it, M. Bordier, was empowered by the lady we were working for to join us, if he desired, or to take the affair entirely in his own hands, and assume the direction of it.

"'You are M. Bordier?' I said.

"He bowed. 'I am M. Bordier. The position in which Mrs. Braham and I stand to each other warrants my presence here at this untimely hour. It is due to Mrs. Braham that I should say it was at my urgent request she has given me authority to act for her. I am acquainted with all the circumstances of your proceedings, so far as they have been disclosed in Mr. Agnold's letters.' Again his eyes wandered to Sophy, and he moved a step or two toward her with a look of sympathetic eagerness. 'Is that the young girl who was taken to Dr. Peterssen's establishment as a patient?'

"'Yes,' I replied.

"'Her task, then, is ended. She was in search of a desk. She is a brave little girl, and shall be rewarded. A desk of cedar-wood, inlaid with silver.' He turned suddenly to me, and approached the table. 'She has succeeded,' he said, laying his hand upon the desk and raising the lid. 'Yes, it is the desk. How did you open it? Did you have the key?'

"'No,' I said, with a guilty glance at the tools with which I had picked the lock.

"'Ah, I see. There is a secret drawer in this desk, and you have been seeking for it. Allow me. When I was a young man I had some knowledge of this kind of thing, and was acquainted with the tricks employed by ingenious makers to construct a receptacle in which important papers might be safely concealed. This is no common piece of work, and the so-called drawer may be merely a false panel, with little space behind, but sufficient for the purpose. I will take the liberty of making use of your tools. This dumb shape of wood, Mr. Tucker, may be the arbiter of the happiness of human lives, may be the means of bringing a foul wrong to light.' While he spoke he was busy measuring the thickness of the sides and back and every part of the desk, putting down figures on paper to prove whether any space was not accounted for. He knew what he was about, and I followed his movements with curiosity, learning something from them which may be useful in the future. 'There is no actual drawer,' he continued; 'it must be a panel.' He completely emptied the desk of its papers, and then began to sound the bottom and the sides, listening for signs of a hollow space. 'It is a clever piece of workmanship, but if there is a panel I will find it. I would rather not destroy the desk, but I will do it before I give up the hunt, if I do not succeed in a legitimate way. Ah, I have it! There is a panel. A man might have this desk in his possession a lifetime and not suspect it. See, it moves in a groove, and there is a paper behind.'

"Sure enough, M. Bordier succeeded in sliding a panel in a cunningly made groove, and in drawing forth a paper which had been carefully folded and flattened and inserted in its hiding-place. There was an eager light in his eyes, and his fingers trembled as he unfolded the paper and read what was written thereon. A long sigh of satisfaction escaped him, and he murmured:

"'Thank God! Poor lady, poor lady! But your sufferings are ended now!'

"'M. Bordier,' I said, will you allow me to read the document?'

"He folded it up again, preserving its original creases, and put it in his pocket.

"'Mr. Tucker,' he said, speaking with great politeness; but this he had done all through; the document I have found relates to a private matter of exceeding delicacy, and I cannot show it to you. It is, indeed, a family secret, and none but those directly interested have a right to see it. Thanks for your courtesy, and good-night.'

"Before I had time to remonstrate with him for his high-handed proceeding he was gone. I was dumfounded. It is not often that I find myself unable to act on the spur of the moment, but M. Bordier had deprived me of my self-possession. In a moment or two, however, I recovered myself, and ran out of the room after my visitor. I saw no signs of him. He had vanished. I made my way immediately to the telegraph office, and sent Agnold a telegram--which brings me back to the commencing words of this entry.

"I returned to my room in the inn. Sophy was still dozing. I began to be beset by doubts. What if the stranger who had introduced himself to me as M. Bordier should turn out not to be M. Bordier, after all? What if the letter he gave me to read from Mrs. Braham should be a forged letter? I am greatly to blame. I deserve to have my head punched."

By the time I came to the end of this strange story Sophy had finished her supper, and now came nearer to us.

"Well, Bob," I said, "you have made a mess of it."

"Admitted," said Bob. "Take your share of the blame. You should not have run away to London. Relieve my doubts. Was it, or was it not, M. Bordier who came here?"

"It was certainly M. Bordier," I replied. "The lady you call Mrs. Braham gave him such a letter as you have described, and it is scarcely possible any other person could have obtained possession of it."

"That is some satisfaction. All the same, I have behaved like a fool. I ought not to have allowed him to escape me. I ought to have laid violent hands on him, and detained him till your arrival."

"You would not have succeeded, Bob. From the opinion I have formed of him he would not have submitted, and you would have found yourself worsted. If the document he discovered is what I hope it is, he has a better right to it than you or I. And now, Sophy," I said, turning to the girl, "what is this scare of yours which has taken all the blood out of your face?"

"Stop a bit," said Bob. "It is Sophy's desire that things should be led up to. Let us lead up to this."

Sophy nodded, and I said, "Go on, Bob."

"Well," said he, "I woke Sophy up when I got back here, and told her it was best she should go to bed. Her room was ready for her, and she was dead tired. She refused, and said she would wait up for you--I had told her I had sent you a telegram to come down immediately. I would not let her wait up, but insisted upon her going to bed. She gave in, and I took her to her room. Imagine my surprise. An hour before your arrival she rushed into this room with a face as white as a sheet, and fell down all of a heap into the corner there. I thought she must have had a nightmare, but I could get nothing out of her. She was too frightened to be left alone, and when I started to meet you at the station she came with me. Tried to pump her on the road. Useless. Offers of bribes thrown away. Not a word would she say of the cause of her fright. She promises to be more communicative to you."

"Speak out, Sophy," I said. "I have no secrets from Mr. Tucker, and he must hear what you have to tell."

"You'll never believe me," said Sophy, in a low, fear-stricken tone, "but if it's the last I ever speak it's the truth, and the 'ole truth, and nothink but the truth. I sor it as plain as I see you."

"Saw what?" I asked.

"The ghost of Mr. Felix," she replied.

CHAPTER LII.

THE GHOST OF M. FELIX.

She put her hand on my arm as if for protection as she uttered these words, and I took it in mine to reassure her; it was cold as ice. It was clear that she had received a shock, and I was disposed to ascribe it to the strain she had undergone during the past fortnight. But this view was shaken when I thought of her courage and daring.

"What did I tell you?" said Bob, sticking to his guns. "Nightmare."

"That's somethink yer must be in bed to 'ave, ain't it?" said Sophy.

"Yes," said Bob, "and asleep."

"I wasn't neither," said Sophy; "I was as wide-awake as you are."

"Oh, you didn't go to bed when I put you in your room?"

"No, I didn't. I waited a minute or two, and then I went out."

"What made you do that, Sophy?" I asked.

"I don't know, 'xcep' that I wanted to go to the mad'ouse--outside, yer know--to see if they'd found out about the desk."

"It was a dangerous thing to do," I said.

"Well, I didn't do it. I 'adn't got 'arf way there when a sperrit crep' past me. I told Aunty I didn't believe in sperrits, but I do now. I didn't think it was a sperrit at fust, I thought it was a man; and I sed to myself, If you can creep, so can I,' and I crep' after it."

"But why, Sophy?"

"I don't know why. I did it 'cause somethink made me. All at once it stopped and turned, and the moon lit up its face. It was the ghost of Mr. Felix."

She was speaking more quietly now, and there was a note of conviction in her voice that startled me.

"Is that what you call a nightmare?" she asked of Bob, whose eyes were fixed intently upon her.

"No," he replied, "but you were mistaken. It was only a fancied resemblance."

"It wasn't nothink of the sort, and I wasn't mistook. I'm ready to take my dying oath on it. There ain't two Mr. Felixes, there's only one, and it was 'is ghost I sor."

"What did you do, Sophy?" I inquired.

"I stood like a stone, and couldn't move. But when it looked at me, and when I 'eered its voice, and when I sor it moving up to me, I give a scream, and run away. But I fell down over the stump of a tree, and it caught 'old of me and lifted me up. Then it wrenched my face to the light, and poked it's 'ead for'ard, and I sor clearer than ever that it was Mr. Felix's ghost. I don't know 'ow I managed it, but I twisted myself away, and run as I'd never run in my life before till I got 'ere."

"Is that all, Sophy?"

"That's all I can tell yer. Ain't it enough?"

"If there is any truth in it, my girl, it is more than enough? You cannot say whether it followed you?"

"No, I never look behind. It was more than I dared do."

"You heard it speak, you say. What words did it utter?"

"It said, 'What the devil!'"

"Nothing more?"

"Nothink as I 'eerd."

She had told all she knew, and it was useless to question her farther upon the subject, so I put it aside for a moment, with the intention of talking it over with Bob when we were alone. But I had not yet done with Sophy; before I parted with her for the night I was desirous of obtaining fuller information of Dr. Peterssen's establishment than she had given Bob. She was perfectly willing to tell everything she knew, and seemed to be relieved to have her attention turned to other matters.

"You had the run of Dr. Peterssen's house, Sophy?"

"Yes, I 'ad."

"How many servants are there in it?"

"Only one--the keeper."

"What is his name?"

"Crawley."

"Did no woman come to do the cleaning or cooking?"

"Nobody come. Crawley did everythink."

"You were not ill-treated?"

"Oh, no."

"Did you have your meals alone?"

"No; the three of us 'ad 'em together."

"The three of you. Dr. Peterssen, Crawley, and you?"

"No; Dr. Peterssen never 'ad nothink with us. I mean the other patient."

"But there was more than one?"

"There wasn't while I was there. There was only one."

I turned to Bob. "You said there were children, Bob?"

"So I was informed, but I may have been misled."

"I 'eerd Crawley say the young 'uns were took away the day before I come," said Sophy.

"That explains it. So there was only one patient left?"

"Only one."

"A man?"

"A gentleman."

"How did you find out he was a gentleman?"

"Yer can't be mistook between a man and a gent. You're a gent; Mr. Tucker's another."

"Much obliged, Sophy," said Bob.

"What is the name of the gentleman patient, Sophy?"

"He didn't 'ave none that I know of. I 'eered the greengrocer's boy say to Crawley once, 'Ow's Number One, Mr. Crawley?' That's how I got to know 'ow he was called, and what the keeper's name was. I couldn't arks nothink, of course, 'cause I was deaf and dumb. 'Same as ever,' said Crawley to the boy, 'mem'ry quite gone.'"

"Poor fellow! There is no doubt, I suppose, about his being mad?"

"I don't know about that. He never did nothink, and 'ardly ever spoke a word. But he was very kind to me, and I was very sorry for 'im. He'd put 'is 'and on my 'ead, and smooth my 'air, and look at me pitiful like, with tears in 'is eyes which made 'em come into mine."

"A case of melancholia, Bob," I said. Bob nodded. "Was no effort made, Sophy, to bring his memory back to him?"

"Nobody did nothink; he was let alone, the same as I was. I did want 'ard to talk to 'im, but I didn't dare open my lips, or I should have been found out. I do wish somethink could be done for 'im, that I do. Look 'ere, you're rich, ain't you?"

"Not exactly rich, Sophy, but I am not poor."

"Well, then. Crawley's to be bought."

"How do you know that?"

"I 'eerd Crawley say to 'isself, 'If I 'ad a 'underd pound I'd cut the cussed concern, and go to Amerikey.'"

"Ah! We'll think over it. A hundred pounds is a large sum. It's late, Sophy. I've nothing more to ask you to-night. Get to bed, like a good girl."

But Sophy began to tremble again; her thoughts reverted to M. Felix.

"I daren't go to the room Mr. Tucker took me to; Mr. Felix's ghost'd come agin. Let me sleep 'ere, please."

"There's no bed, my girl. I tell you what you shall do. There are two beds in the next room--see, this door opens into it--which Mr. Tucker and I were to occupy. We'll bring a mattress and some bedclothes in here, and we'll manage for the night; I'll lie on the sofa. You shall sleep in there, where no ghost can get to you. It would have to come through this room first."

Sophy busied herself at once in bringing the mattress and bedclothes from the adjoining room, and after extemporizing a couple of beds for Bob and me wished us a grateful good-night.

Bob and I were alone. "Now, Bob," said I, "what do you think of her story?"

"There's more in it than meets the eye," said Bob. "Agnold, if any other person had related it I should set it down to an overwrought mind. But Sophy is an exceptional being; she is sharp, she is clever, she is brave, she is clear-witted. Naturally it is a puzzling affair, and I think it is worth arguing out."

"Let us do so, Bob," I said.

"It is always a mistake," said Bob, "in matters of conjecture, to pin one's self to a fixed point. This mistake, in my opinion, has been committed in all inquiries relating to the mystery of M. Felix. Having accepted a certain conclusion every person privately or professionally interested in the mystery started from that fixed point and branched out in all directions, north, east, south, and west, utterly ignoring the possibility--in this case I should say the probability--of the conclusion they accepted being a false one, as misleading as a will-o'-the-wisp."

"Am I included in this sweeping condemnation?" I asked.

"You are. The police I can excuse, but not a man of your discrimination and logical power."

"What fixed point, Bob, did I, in common with everyone else, start from in wild directions?"

"The fixed point," replied Bob, "that M. Felix is dead."

"But he was proved to be dead."

"Nothing of the sort. There was no post-mortem, there was not even an inquest. He is said to have died of heart disease. He lies inanimate on a bed for an inconsiderable number of hours, and then he disappears. My dear Agnold, have you ever heard of such a thing as suspended animation?"

"Of course I have."

"Have you ever heard of a person falling into a trance, and remaining to all appearance dead for three or four times as many hours as M. Felix lay before he disappeared? People have been buried alive in such conditions; others have been happily rescued at the moment the lids of their coffins have been about to be nailed down. I can furnish you with scores of instances of this kind of thing."

"There is no need; I know that they have occurred. Your theory opens out a wide field of possibilities. Then you believe that Sophy was right; that she did see, not M. Felix's ghost as she supposed, but M. Felix himself in the flesh?"

"It is my belief. Sophy is no fool; she has the nerve of a strong and healthy man; she does not believe in the supernatural; she has a heart susceptible of such kindness as you have shown her, but she is at the same time practical and hard-headed. Agnold, M. Felix is alive."

"Do you argue that he simulated death in the first instance for the purpose of carrying out some plan?"

"No. His apparent death was not a trick devised by himself. He had a seizure undoubtedly, to which he was compelled to succumb. After a time he recovered, and for his own ends resolved to take advantage of the opportunity to disappear, whether permanently or not I cannot say. He had a perfect right to do as he pleased with his own body, and he had good reasons for the device. He was threatened on two sides. Choosing for certain motives to drop his proper name of Leonard Paget and to adopt that of M. Felix, he finds himself suddenly standing on a rock with a precipice yawning on each side of him. A bold movement on the part of his sister-in-law hurls him into one; a desperate movement on the part of Dr. Peterssen hurls him over the other--either way, destruction. Of the special power which Dr. Peterssen holds over him I am ignorant, but it must be very potent. We are acquainted, however, with the power his sister-in-law holds over him. Her marriage proved, his life has been one long fraud, and he could be made to pay the penalty. Her unexpected presence in London confounds him, and he sees before him but one means of escape--flight. On the night of his supposed death he has had two agitating interviews, one with Dr. Peterssen, the other with his sister-in-law. She, waiting in the street to obtain an interview with M. Felix, overhears words which unmistakably prove that Peterssen has him at his mercy. Peterssen threatens to ruin M. Felix; he refers to a pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago; he asks M. Felix if he has forgotten his brother Gerald. Then he goes into the house with this precious Felix, and when he issues from it he has in his possession the desk which is now on the table before us. After that, the lady in whose behalf we have been working obtains admission to the house and confronts the villain who has ruined her happiness. We know what passed between them; we know that M. Felix was worked up to desperation. The excitement was too much for the plausible scoundrel, who saw the sword about to fall upon him. He staggers into his bedroom with the undoubted intention of getting his revolver; he presses his hand to his heart; he sinks into a chair and becomes insensible. He is to all appearance dead, and is so pronounced. On the following night when he recovers his senses, he hails the mishap as a fortunate chance; he resolves to disappear, and so put his enemies off the scent. Now, follow me. Sophy is below in bed. She hears a noise in the upper part of the house; the brave girl creeps up-stairs from the basement as M. Felix creeps down-stairs from his apartments. He dare not betray himself. He seizes her, disguises his voice, and works upon her fears. Exit M. Felix; for as long or as short a time as he pleases, he is dead to the world. It is a wonder he does not take his revolver with him, but that is an oversight. In such a crisis one cannot think of everything. It may happen--for there is work for us to do, Agnold--that this oversight will work in our favor. I do not despair of tracing the revolver, and you did a good stroke when you wrote down such a description of the weapon as will enable you to identify it. There is no room for doubt that the man who presented himself to Mrs. Middlemore as a police official, and who sent her on a false errand to Bow Street Police Station, was Peterssen. Alone in M. Felix's room he appropriates the revolver; other things as well, perhaps; but of the revolver we are morally convinced. What is his object in going there? I will tell you. He has doubts of M. Felix's death; he believes it to be a trick, and he thinks he may find something in M. Felix's room which will put him on the track of the man who had slipped out of his power. Reasoning the mystery out in this open way is very satisfactory, Agnold. Mists disappear; we see the light. How does it strike you?"

"You have convinced me, Bob," I said. "We will pursue the matter a little further. M. Felix is a man who is fond of pleasures which can be purchased only with money. Do you think he would voluntarily deprive himself of the means of obtaining it--for this is what his disappearance would lead him to, so long as he chose to conceal himself.

"Not at all likely," replied Bob, with a knowing look. "I can enlighten you on the point. It happens that I am acquainted with the manager of the branch bank at which M. Felix kept an account. After you had enlisted me in the present cause I became interested in everything concerning M. Felix, and in a confidential conversation with the bank manager I asked him whether M. Felix had a large balance standing to his credit. I learnt that he never had a large balance at the bank, and that he had certain bonds and shares of which he himself was the custodian. Ordinarily one entrusts such securities to the safe custody of the bank which transacts his business, but it was not so with M. Felix, and this fact leads to the presumption that it was his habit to keep himself personally possessed of negotiable property in preference to entrusting it to other keeping. From time to time checks from stock-brokers were paid in to the credit of M. Felix. In every instance the money was not allowed to lie in the bank for longer than a day or two. M. Felix invariably drew his own check for something near the amount of the last deposit, receiving payment in gold and bank notes. Two days before his supposed death a check for six thousand pounds odd was paid in to his credit, and on the following morning he went to the bank and drew out six thousand pounds in notes of various denominations, the numbers of which of course are known. Thus, unless he paid this money away, which is not at all likely, he must have been in possession of it when he disappeared. I am of the opinion that he had much more than the amount I have named, and if so he was well provided for. The peculiar position in which he stood would predispose him to keep always by him a large available sum of money in case of some emergency arising; an emergency did arise, and he could snap his fingers at the world, so far as money was concerned."

"This is a piece of valuable information, Bob. Do you know if any of these last bank notes have been presented for payment?"

"I do not. There was nothing to call for special investigation into the matter."

"But the notes can be traced."

"Perhaps. The habit of a man to keep large sums by him is generally of long standing, and Peterssen was probably acquainted with M. Felix's peculiarity in this respect. The visit he paid to Mrs. Middlemore and the plan he carried into effect for being left alone in the house may have been inspired by the hope that he would discover one of M. Felix's hiding-places for his money. I conclude that he was disappointed; on the night of M. Felix's disappearance he left no money behind him. Too old a bird for that."

The earnestness with which Bob had set forth his views had caused him to forget his cultivated method of speaking in short sentences. Now he relapsed into it.

"Adopting your theory," I said, "that M. Felix is living, do you think that he and Dr. Peterssen have met?"

"Should say not. To-night--when Sophy saw his ghost--was probably on his way to Tylney House. For what purpose, to us unknown."

"Bob, you said there was work for us to do. I confess myself at a loss how to proceed. M. Bordier's visit to you and his appropriation of the document hidden in the secret drawer have snapped the threads of my plans. Have you anything to suggest?"

"I have. Early to-morrow morning endeavor to find M. Bordier. Then consult with him."

"You do not propose that we should leave this spot at once?"

"No. If M. Bordier not in the village do something else before leaving. Pay a bold visit to Tylney House."

"For what purpose?"

"Confront Peterssen. Ascertain if M. Felix has been there."

"Psha! We can get nothing of Peterssen."

"Not so sure. He is hard up. Offer of a good reward too tempting a bait not to nibble at."

"Why, Bob, those are very nearly the words M. Bordier used to Emilia, and your scheme is the same as that which he suggested."

"Proves it a good one. M. Bordier a wealthy man, I judge?"

"He is."

"Wouldn't mind expending money to bring matter to a satisfactory conclusion?"

"He has said as much."

"Word to be depended upon?"

"Thoroughly."

"Depend upon him, then, for the needful. Peterssen will bite."

"And if he does not?"

"Crawley, the keeper. Remember what Sophy overheard him say. If he had a hundred pounds he would cut the cursed concern, and go to America. Emphatic--and doubtless true. Two birds to shoot at. Peterssen missed, Crawley remains. Aim well, bring him down."

"To-morrow morning, early, we will resume work, Bob."

"The earlier the better. Good-night."

CHAPTER LIII.

THE PORTRAIT OF GERALD PAGET.

At nine o'clock next morning Bob, Sophy, and I breakfasted together. Sophy's fears were abated, although she had not quite got over her fright. During breakfast I succeeded in dispelling it completely by imparting to her, in confidence, the opinion we had formed that M. Felix was alive, and that it was his veritable self, and not his ghost, she had seen on the previous night. She listened with her mouth and eyes wide open.

"You heard him speak, Sophy?" She nodded. "Ghosts can't speak. He caught hold of you; he lifted you up; you felt his touch?" She nodded again. "Ghosts can't touch; they can't make you feel them; they are made of air, Sophy; you can walk right through them. Be easy in your mind. If it was M. Felix you saw"--she nodded again two or three times--"then he is alive, and we intend to hunt him down."

I gave her time to revolve the matter over in her mind, and conversed with Bob while she went through the process.

"Crikey!" she exclaimed presently. "What a game it is! Then it must 'ave been 'im as scared me in the night when I left aunty asleep in the kitchen. I never could make out 'ow it was he knew 'is way about in the dark as he did. He's a deep 'un, he is, and no mistake. Well, of all the moves! But what did he do it for?"

"It would take too long to explain," I said, "and then you might not understand. We are going out soon, and you may as well come with us. It would not be safe, perhaps, to leave you here alone."

Bob and I had debated the advisability of sending Sophy back to London, and had agreed to keep her with us, at least for a time, as there was a likelihood of her being useful.

Our first task when we sallied forth was to endeavor to obtain some information of M. Bordier, but in this we were unsuccessful. Not a person of whom we inquired could give us the slightest satisfaction, and we were reluctantly compelled to abandon our quest. I discussed with Bob whether I should write an account of what had occurred to Emilia, and we decided I should not do so.

It would take too long to give her a description of all circumstances, and anything short of a full description would only agitate her. Then, in all probability, M. Bordier had returned to London, and had seen her. I dispatched a telegram to her, to the effect that if she had anything of importance to communicate to us she had better do so by telegraph. This done we walked to Tylney House. Our search for M. Bordier had occupied us three or four hours, and when we reached the gloomy-looking building it was two o'clock. To our surprise, the gate was open. Without hesitation we entered the grounds, and there we saw a van, and three men piling furniture on it. This furniture was of the commonest kind, and the men appeared to be in a hurry. We looked at each other in amazement. What did it all mean?

"A break-up, I should say," suggested Bob. "Peterssen giving up business."

"There's Crawley, the keeper," whispered Sophy, pulling my coat.

The man had lounged from the house, and was regarding the removal of the furniture with dissatisfaction. Bob stepped to his side and we followed.

"Hallo, Maria," said Crawley; "you've been up to some fine tricks, you have. But I'm hanged if I can make head or tail of it." Bob motioned to Sophy not to speak. "Have you two gentlemen come on business?" continued Crawley. "Well, you've come too late. The brokers are in, and we're sold up."

"Then we cannot see Dr. Peterssen," I said.

"No, you can't," replied Crawley. "He's gone for good."

"I owe you," said Bob, in a bland voice, "ten shillings. Here's the money. Do you want to earn a ten-pound note, which might swell into fifty? There's a gentleman friend of ours who would stand that, and more perhaps, for services rendered."

"What kind of services?" inquired Crawley, pocketing the ten shillings.

"Information. Truthful and accurate information. The ten pound note sure. That much we guarantee, and wouldn't mind giving half on account. The fifty-pound almost as sure. Here, let me speak to you aside."

They walked a little way from us, and I did not interrupt their conversation, which lasted some twenty minutes. At the end of that time Bob left Crawley to say a few words to me.

"Go back to the inn," he said, "you and Sophy, and wait for me. Will join you there in an hour or so. Crawley and I going to have a drink."

I obeyed him without wasting time in asking questions, and Sophy and I returned to the inn. It was a disappointment that a telegram from Emilia had not arrived. But before Bob made his appearance an incident occurred which profoundly agitated me. I was sitting at the table, making, as was usual with me, a record of what had happened, in the doing of which I had occasion to take some papers from my pockets. Among these papers which I placed on the table was the photograph of Gerald Paget which I had found in M. Felix's room, his name being written on the back. While I wrote, Sophy remained quiet. The girl has a discretion; she knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue. My writing done I took up the papers to put them in my pocket, and in doing so the photograph dropped to the ground. Sophy stooped and picked it up, and was about to give it to me, when her eyes fell on it.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If it ain't the pickcher of Number One!"

"What?" I cried.

"It is," she said, looking at it with absolute tenderness. "It's the image of 'im, though he's older now than when it was took; but it's 'is face as clear as clear can be."

"Sophy," I said, rising in my excitement, "are you mad? Do you know what you are saying?"

"'Course I do. It's Number One I tell yer. I'll take my Bible oath on it!"

"You must be dreaming," I said. "This is the portrait of a gentleman who died many years ago."

"If he's dead," she persisted, "he's come to life agin, like Mr. Felix. It's Number One's pickcher, and nobody else's."

She was so positive that I was confounded by the possibilities her statement opened up, supposing her not to be mistaken. Nothing that I said could shake her conviction.

"I know 'is face as well as I know your'n," she said. "I can't be mistook. It's the pickcher of Number One."

At this juncture Bob entered the room. Anxious as I was to hear his news I first explained the incident to him, and it was an additional surprise to me when he ranged himself on Sophy's side.

"I accept everything," he said. "No villainy too monstrous for Peterssen. Corroborative evidence handy. Crawley!"

The man was outside in the passage, and at the summons he came in.

"Know this portrait?" asked Bob, handing it to him.

"Of course I do. It's Number One. How did you get hold of it?"

"Never mind. Are you positive it is his portrait?"

"I'll swear to it."

"That will do. Go and get something to eat, and be ready when I call you. Mind, no drinking."

Crawley gone, Bob turned his attention to me.

"Before I tell you arrangements entered into with Crawley, finish about this picture. Sophy says, portrait of Number One. Crawley will swear it. I believe it--name of Gerald Paget back of picture. Deduction--portrait of Gerald Paget. Further deduction--Number One and Gerald Paget same person. Startling--but Peterssen and M. Felix, damned scoundrels, pair of them. No villainy too monstrous for them. In circumstance of Number One and Gerald Paget being same person, his solution of Peterssen's power over M. Felix. What does lady we are working for overhear? Overhears Peterssen threaten to ruin M. Felix; overhears him refer to a pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago. Overhears him ask M. Felix if he has forgotten his brother Gerald. Not idle words. On the contrary, deeply, darkly significant. To my mind, quite clear--and convincing. Splendid links of circumstantial evidence. Gerald Paget alive instead of dead, additional reason for M. Felix's disappearance. Threatened not on two sides, but on three. Peterssen--Gerald Paget--Gerald Paget's wife. Desperate fix for M. Felix. Your opinion, Agnold?"

"Coincides with yours, Bob. Light is truly breaking in upon this mystery."

"Right you are. Now to explain Crawley. Have taken him in our service--for one month, certain--thirty shillings a week. Matters brought to satisfactory conclusion, promise of passage to America, with few pounds in his pocket. No doubt M. Bordier will do what we wish, and indemnify us. If not, won't ruin us. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"I come now to Peterssen and Tylney House. Briefly. Things been going wrong for some time past. Peterssen in pecuniary difficulties. Dunned on all sides for money owing. Tradesmen threaten to stop supplies. Last night, Peterssen in frightful rage. Door of private room locked. Key missing. Door forced open. Something stolen from room. Crawley doesn't know what. We do. Sophy, otherwise Maria, nowhere to be found. Row between Peterssen and Crawley. Peterssen accuses Crawley of treachery. Crawley calls him another. At midnight Crawley hears bell ring. Peterssen answers it--admits visitor. Crawley doesn't see him. Visitor sleeps there--is there this morning--but Crawley can't catch sight of him. Keeps himself dark. Crawley sent on bogus errand. Occupies him three hours. Returns to find visitor gone, Peterssen gone, Number One gone. Note left for Crawley from his master. Concern burst up. In note, small sum for wages due. Not half what is due. Crawley furious, but helpless. I have enlisted him. He is to assist us to track Peterssen. That's all."

"Bob," said I, "Peterssen must be hunted down and brought to justice."

"He must," said Bob, "and shall be."

"There is some fresh villainy hatching," I said. "If possible we must prevent it. You will stand by me?"

"To the end," said Bob.

CHAPTER LIV.

OBTAIN AN EXPLANATION FROM EMILIA.

It was now between five and six o'clock, and we did not wait for the night to pass before we commenced the task of hunting Dr. Peterssen down. The immediate result, however, was unsatisfactory. Indefatigable as we were we learnt nothing, and Crawley proved to be rather in our way than otherwise. Dr. Peterssen's movements must have been cunningly made indeed to so baffle us. We went to the railway station, but the station-master was positive that three such men as we described had not taken tickets for any place during the day. He could have identified Dr. Peterssen; of Peterssen's patient or of M. Felix he had no knowledge.

"There isn't much traffic here," he said, "and we know pretty well who comes and goes."

"But strangers sometimes pass through," I observed.

"That goes without saying," he responded.

"They might have travelled separately," suggested Bob.

"They might," said the station-master.

"It is hardly likely," I said aside to Bob, "that this would be the case. If Peterssen and M. Felix have come together again, Peterssen would not lose sight of his villainous partner; and neither of them would lose sight of the gentleman they have wronged."

I consulted the time-table. There was no other direct train to London that night, but a train passed through, without stopping, at 11.40. I inquired of the station-master whether it was possible for the train to stop a few seconds to take me up to London, and he answered that it could be managed. Having arranged the matter with him I left the station, accompanied by Bob and Sophy. Crawley lingered behind; he had a flask with him, out of which he took frequent drinks. I had already arrived at the conclusion that he would be of little assistance in tracking Dr. Peterssen, but as his evidence might be valuable in the event of our hunting Peterssen down I thought it advisable to keep him about us.

"What is your idea?" asked Bob, as we walked from the station to the inn.

"If I do not receive a satisfactory letter or telegram from London before eleven o'clock," I replied, "I shall go on to London to see Emilia."

"For what purpose?"

"To gain some information of M. Bordier. Something may come of it--I cannot say what; but to remain inactive would be fatal to our chances."

"Peterssen has a good start of us," said Bob. "He has given us check."

"But not checkmate, Bob. I have hopes that it remains with us to score the game."

Neither telegram nor letter had arrived for me at the inn, and a little after eleven I was at the station, awaiting the train. It was punctual to time, and stopped just long enough to enable me to jump in. Then we whirled on to London, which we reached at three o'clock in the morning. At such an hour a visit to Emilia was out of the question, and I had perforce to bide till morning. The delay gave me opportunity for a few hours' sleep, and at nine o'clock I was in the presence of Emilia. Although she received me with signs of perturbation I observed a change in her. Her eyes were brighter, and there was a certain joyousness in her manner which I was glad to see.

"You have had good news," I said.

"I have," she replied, "the best of good news. But what brings you again to London so unexpectedly, dear friend?"

I thought of the secret in my possession which identified Dr. Peterssen's patient, Number One, as Gerald Paget, whom she had mourned as dead for nineteen years. But I did not dare to whisper it to her lest I should inspire delusive hopes. The proof had yet to be established, and until that was done it would be best and most merciful to preserve silence.

"I come entirely upon your business," I said, "and I wish to get back at once."

"How good you are to me!" she murmured. "Never, never can I repay you for all your kindness."

"We will not speak of that. But you can give me some return now. I think I may truly say that I deserve your confidence."

"Indeed, indeed you do."

"I sent you a telegram yesterday."

"Yes, I received it."

"I expected one from you."

"I am sorry," she said, "but I had nothing to communicate, and M. Bordier desired me neither to write nor telegraph to anyone till he saw me. I was bound to obey him with so much at stake."

"Yes, I understand all that. He is aware that I am a reporter on a newspaper, and he fears I shall make improper use of information. I cannot blame him, but he is mistaken. Did not M. Bordier return to London yesterday?"

"No."

"He gave you instructions, then, by letter."

"By letter and telegrams."

She took from her pocket a letter, and two telegrams in their familiar buff-colored envelopes, and, after a little hesitation, handed me the latter.

"I cannot think I am doing wrong in letting you see them," she said.

The first telegram ran: "I have good news, the best of news. Keep a good heart. Julian unites with me in love to you and Constance."

"His son is with him?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Poor Julian!"

In my last interview with her, two days since, she had referred to Julian Bordier in the same pitying tone. I had not then asked for an explanation, and I had not time now. The moments were too precious to waste in questions which did not bear immediately upon the matter in hand. I read the second telegram: "We may be absent a day or two. Meanwhile send no letters or telegrams to any person whatsoever. I particularly desire to avoid publicity of any kind. To Mr. Agnold, who has so generously and kindly befriended you, I will give a full explanation when we meet. Our united love."

For a moment or two I was nettled, but I very soon got over the small feeling. Had I been present when M. Bordier surprised Bob Tucker in the inn and found the document in the secret drawer of the desk, he would doubtless have taken me into his confidence. It was natural that he should look upon Bob in a different light, for the probable reason that he supposed him to be a professional detective.

"M. Bordier," said Emilia, "repeats the injunction in his letter. I could not but obey him."

She read from the letter words to the same effect as the second telegram.

"You infer," I said, "from these communications that M. Bordier places no obstacles in the way of your daughter's union with his son."

"Yes," she replied; "it is my happy belief. My heart is lighter than it has been for months. I have endured what seemed to me an eternity of sorrow, but that has passed, and Heaven's light is shining upon my life."

She was transfigured. There was indeed a heavenly light in her eyes, and her manner was as that of one who had been raised from deepest woe to supreme happiness.

"I rejoice with you," I said, cordially. "Is it a breach of confidence for me to ask from what part of the country M. Bordier has written to you?"

"His letter bears no address," she said.

"Does he give you no information of what he has done and is about to do?"

"None."

"Nor of any discovery that has been made?"

"No."

She looked at me wistfully; I took her hand. As to certain matters there was on my part no motive for secrecy. Why should I withhold from her even for an hour that which would strengthen the new-born hopes which animated her? To a heart so sorely bruised as hers had been, to one who had borne suffering so sweetly and patiently, it would be cruel to keep back the least word of comfort, and I narrated to her all that had taken place between M. Bordier and Bob. She was greatly excited when I told her of the recovery of the desk, of M. Bordier's search for the secret drawer, and of his subsequent discovery of the hidden document.

"It is the copy of the marriage certificate," she cried.

"That is my impression, and now I can relieve your mind of another discovery. It is our firm belief that the man who assumed the name of M. Felix lives."

I gave her our reasons for this belief, and made her acquainted with Bob's theory of the seizure which threw M. Felix into a state of unconsciousness and insensibility, and which was simply pronounced to be death. She was profoundly agitated, and the grateful tears flowed down her face.

"I have been distracted by a horrible fear," she said, "that I was the indirect cause of his death. Surely Heaven sent you to my aid on the night we first met. Without you I should not have dared to move, and indeed whatever steps I might have taken must have proved futile. Through you and your friends, Dr. Peterssen is unmasked, and my honor established. How I long to embrace that brave girl, Sophy! No reward can be too great for her, and M. Bordier, I am sure will do all in his power to advance her. Dear friend, dear friend! My words are weak--my heart is full."

She pressed my hand and kissed it, and she promised to let me know everything upon M. Bordier's return. I did not tell her why I was anxious to return to the village with as little delay as possible, but I incidentally showed her the photograph which I had found in M. Felix's rooms. Her tears bedewed it, she kissed it again and again.

"It is my dear husband's portrait," she sobbed. "His name is in his own handwriting. Dear Gerald! They would have had me believe you false. Heaven forgive them for their treachery to you, to me!"

She begged me to leave the picture with her, but I was compelled to refuse; I needed it to track Dr. Peterssen and his patient. Of course I kept my reasons to myself, and I promised her that I would only retain the portrait a short time, and that it should soon be hers.

"I do not exactly know," I said, "where I shall be during the next few days; I may be travelling from place to place, but I shall continue to telegraph to you wherever I am; in order that you may communicate with me."

"But why do you go away again?" she asked; "you have discovered what you wished; nothing more remains to be done."

If she but knew, I thought, how different would be her desire--how she would urge me to fly, how she would implore, entreat, and urge me on!

"Much remains to be done," I said, "Dr. Peterssen must be found; he must not be allowed to escape."

"Leave him to Heaven's justice," she said.

"That will overtake him; but man's justice shall also be meted out to him. Would you leave Leonard Paget also in peace?"

"I would," she replied.

"He has squandered your fortune, but there may be some small portion left. It must be recovered; it will serve as your daughter's dowry."

"She needs none. M. Bordier and Julian will be content to take her as she is; and for me--has not happiness shone upon me in the darkest hour of my life? Let both those men go their way."

"No," I said, firmly, "my mission is not yet ended, and you, if you knew all, would not seek to restrain me."

She looked at me questioningly, and I accounted for my rash remark by saying, "There are public as well as private duties, my dear madam, and I should be false to my trust if I neglected the one for the other. I should like to shake hands with your daughter before I go."

She went from the room and returned with Constance, who received me cordially. As they stood side by side, their lovely countenances irradiated by thoughts of the bright future in store for them, I was glad to know that I had had some small share in their better fortune.

"It is something to have done," I said to myself as I hastened to the station, "to have assisted to bring joy to the hearts of two good women; this in itself is ample reward. Then, old fellow, you have gained two earnest and sincere friends. One of these fine days you shall go to Switzerland, and be witness of the happiness to which you have contributed. And if you can restore to the one a husband, to the other a father----"

I rubbed my hands and stepped on gaily. The mystery of M. Felix had engaged and engrossed me for a considerable time, but I was never more interested in it than I was at the present moment. "I will not desist," thought I, "till the end is reached. A bitter ending for the snarers, a sweet ending for the snared."

CHAPTER LV.

TREACHERY.

"News, Agnold!" cried Bob, when I joined him in the country.

"Bravo!" I said, "out with it."

"Three men answering to the description of those we are seeking were seen yesterday on the road to Monkshead."

"Where is that?"

"Thirty-two miles from here, as the crow flies."

"Who gave you the information?"

"Crawley. The fellow is of some use, after all."

I was not so sure, but when I questioned Crawley he was so precise and circumstantial in his account that I saw no valid reason to discredit him. He had received the news from a teamster, he said, who had passed the men on the road. Were they walking? Yes. How did the teamster know they were going to Monkshead? They were on the high road. How far from Monkshead? About ten miles.

"I have asked questions," said Crawley, "of every stranger who has passed through the village, and this was the only one who could tell me anything at all."

"Did you describe Dr. Peterssen's appearance to him?" I asked.

"Yes, and he said it was something like another of the men."

"Did you describe the third?"

"How could I, when I never saw him?"

I had put the last question as a test of Crawley's truthfulness; if he had answered otherwise, the doubts I had of his veracity would have been strengthened.

"You believe he is speaking the truth, Bob?" I asked my friend, Crawley being out of hearing.

"What reason has he to tell lies?" asked Bob, in return.

"To show that he is doing something toward earning his wages."

"That's cutting it rather fine," said Bob. "You are giving Crawley credit for intellect; I think he is not overstocked in that respect. Can't afford to throw away a chance, Agnold."

"Certainly not, and this chance shall not be slighted. But we will not risk everything upon the hazard. My plan is this. Crawley, Sophy, and I will go to Monkshead on a voyage of discovery. You shall remain here to take advantage of anything that may turn up. I will keep you posted as to our movements; you will keep me posted as to yours. Blessings on the electric telegraph. You will repeat all telegrams that arrive for me to such places as I shall direct, retaining the originals in case of miscarriage. Do you agree to all this?"

"I must," said Bob, "though I would rather go with you."

"There would then be no one left in command here, and we should be burning our ships."

"All right. You are welcome to Crawley. Must you take Sophy?"

"I must. She is the only one in our party who is familiar with M. Felix. If we hunt Peterssen down, M. Felix will most likely be with him, and Sophy is at hand for the purpose of identification. Should I have reason to believe we have struck the right trail, I will wire to you, and you can come on to us. Say agreed, old fellow."

"Agreed, old fellow."

After that Bob and I were closeted together for an hour, setting down all our arrangements in black and white; then I prepared to depart.

"Good luck, Agnold," said the faithful Bob. "Send for me soon."

"As soon as I can. I want you to be in at the death."

I spoke these words lightly, with no notion of their ominous significance, and a carriage and pair having been got ready for us, Crawley, Sophy, and I took our seats in it, and bowled along to Monkshead. We arrived there at noon on the following day, and at the post-office I found two telegrams sent by Bob, one from himself saying that stagnation was the order of things, the other a copy of one forwarded from Emilia in London, in which she said that she had not heard from M. Bordier, and expected that he was on his way to her. The whole of the afternoon I was engaged in the attempt to discover whether any persons answering to the description of Dr. Peterssen and his companions had made any stay in Monkshead. I learnt nothing of a satisfactory nature, and, thoroughly exhausted, I was discontentedly refreshing the inner man, Sophy sitting at the same table with me, when Crawley, who had been out making inquiries, came in with a man who looked like what he was--a tramp.

"Here's a fellow," said Crawley, "who can tell us something."

"If I'm paid for it," said the tramp.

"You shall be paid for your trouble," I said, giving him a shilling. "This is on account. You shall have another if your information is satisfactory."

"He has tramped from Deering," said Crawley, "and passed the parties we are looking for."

"How far off?" I asked.

"A matter of forty miles," replied the tramp.

"Were they riding or walking?"

"Two was riding, one was walking."

"What was the conveyance?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were they riding in a carriage?"

"No, in a cart; top of sack of hay."

"What is the man who was walking like?"

His description enabled me to recognize Dr. Peterssen; it tallied with that given to me by Emilia, Bob, and Sophy.

"And the two men riding on the hay?" I asked. "Can't be so sure of them," said the tramp; but his description warranted the belief that they were Dr. Peterssen's patient and M. Felix. As to the latter I consulted Sophy, and she said it was something like M. Felix.

"How do you know," I inquired, "that these men were travelling in company?"

"'Cause two of 'em--one as was walking and the other as was riding--was talking to one another."

"Did you hear what they said?"

"No, I didn't."

He had nothing more to tell me, and he took his departure after receiving his second shilling.

I turned to Crawley and asked him how he had picked up the tramp.

"I was having half a pint at the Staff's Head," replied Crawley, "when he came in. Seeing he was a tramp, stood him a pint, and asked him where he'd come from. From Deering, he said. Then I asked him whether he'd met anybody in particular on the road, and he said nobody; but when I spoke of three men in company, and gave him an idea of what Dr. Peterssen was like, he brightened up and told me what he told you. I thought you had better see him, so I brought him along."

I nodded and said we would start for Deering in the morning, and Crawley went to the bar to refresh himself. Now, whether I was influenced by my original latent suspicions of Crawley, or by the non-success I was meeting with, one thing was certain. I was not entirely satisfied with Crawley, and my dissatisfaction was not lessened by the fact that I could find no valid reasons for mistrusting him. Later on it will be seen whether I was right or wrong in my impressions, but, as will also presently be seen, the trail I was following up, whether it were true or false, led to important results, the mere remembrance of which will abide with me as long as I live.

We did not reach Deering till late the next night. The post-office was closed, and I could not obtain the telegrams which I had directed Bob to forward till the morrow. As on the previous day, there were two--one from Bob with no news, the other from Emilia expressing anxiety regarding the continued silence and absence of M. Bordier. I myself considered it strange, and I sympathized with Emilia's unexpressed fears that she had been buoyed up by false hopes. Things altogether were looking gloomy; we seemed to be drifting without a rudder, and my experiences in Deering tended still further to discourage me. There were no traces of the men I was seeking, and after dispatching letters and telegrams to Bob and Emilia, I seriously discussed with myself the advisability of returning to London and awaiting news of M. Bordier. Sophy broke in upon my cogitations.

"I've found 'em out," she said, with a flushed face. "That there Crawley is taking of us in, you see if he ain't. He's been telling a pack of lies with 'is 'ay cart and 'is tramp. He's got 'old of another cove, and is bringing of 'im 'ere. I 'eerd 'im telling the chap what to say to yer. I'm mum. 'Ere he is."

Sure enough there entered Crawley with another tramp, who told me a plausible story of having met Dr. Peterssen and his companions some thirty miles off. The fellow played his part fairly well, and when I refused to give him money, began to bully. I soon silenced him, however, by threatening to give him into custody on a charge of conspiracy, and he slunk away without another word, but with a secret sign to Crawley, which I detected. Crawley would have followed him, but I had got between him and the door.

"You miserable sneak," I said, "your game's at an end. So, you've been coached by your scoundrelly employer, Peterssen, to deceive us, and I was fool enough to be taken in by you. What have you to say about it?"

He looked at me slyly, but did not speak.

"You are frightened that you may criminate yourself, but you have done that already. I can prove that you have robbed us of money under false pretences; I can prove that you have entered into a conspiracy against us. Do you know the punishment for conspiracy? It is penal servitude, my friend. You wince at that. Honesty would have served your interests better, my fine fellow. Had you not behaved treacherously you would have been made for life. And now you will find that you have fallen between two stools. You think that Dr. Peterssen will reward you. You are mistaken. He has promised you a sum of money for misleading us. You will not get a penny of it. You fool! Better for you to have trusted straightforward gentlemen who had the means, and had the will, to richly reward you, than a scoundrel like your master, who has used you as a tool. You are to report the success of your treachery to him personally. Where? In London? Go to him there, go to the address he gave you, and try and find him. As he has rogued others, he has rogued you. Before you are many hours older, you will learn that honesty would have been your best policy."

The play of his features proved to me that all my shots were faithful and had struck home. I gave him a parting one.

"I will put the police on your track. You are a marked man from this day, and you and your master will have to answer in the criminal dock for the crimes of which you are guilty."

I had moved from the door, and he, seizing the opportunity, darted through it and was gone.

"Fine words!" I exclaimed. "Much good they will do!"

"Never mind," said faithful Sophy. "You gave it 'im 'ot, and no mistake. You frightened 'im out of 'is life; he'll shy at every peeler he meets."

"It will not help us," I said, in a rueful tone. "We are at a dead-lock."

"Never say die," said Sophy, cheerfully. "That ain't a bit like yer."

Upon my word her encouragement put fresh life into me, and I grew less despondent. Determined to leave Deering as quickly as possible, I went to see about a trap, and here I met with another disappointment. I could not get a trap till the following day.

"We shall have to wait until to-morrow, Sophy," I said. "So let us make ourselves comfortable. I wonder if there's a local newspaper about. I will read you the news if there is; it will help to pass the time."

Upon what slender foundations do momentous issues hang! A pregnant proof of this truism was at hand. There was no newspaper printed at Deering, but at Fleetdyke, the nearest place of importance, was published a small daily sheet called the Fleetdyke Herald. The landlord at the inn at which we put up did not take in the paper, but it happened that a traveller, making pause there, had left behind him two copies of as recent date as yesterday and the day before. These the landlord brought in to me, and I sat down to entertain Sophy, who prepared herself for an hour of great enjoyment.

"What things in a newspaper do you like best, Sophy?" I asked.

"Perlice Courts," she replied, "when I gets the chance of anybody reading 'em out--about once in a bloo moon, yer know."

"Police Courts it shall be," I said. "I have a fancy for them myself."

So evidently had the Editor of the Fleetdyke Herald, who seemed to make it a special feature of his paper to gather the police-court news of a rather wide district around his locality as an attraction to his subscribers. I had read aloud to Sophy four or five of the most entertaining cases when I was startled by the heading, "Tampering with a registrar's book. Strange case." I read the report under this heading rapidly to myself, and Sophy, observing that something had startled me, sat in silence and did not speak a word. The case was not concluded in the paper I was reading from. The last line ran: "Adjourned till to-morrow for the production of an important witness from London." I looked at the date of the newspaper--it was the day before yesterday. The other paper which I had not yet taken up was of yesterday's date, and I found in it the conclusion of the case. The first day's report, with its pregnant heading, startled me, as I have said. The second day's report startled me still more. By the merest accident my fingers were on the pulse of the torture of Emilia's life. I ran down to the bar; the landlord stood behind it, wiping some glasses.

"Is the village of Glasserton at a great distance from here?" I asked.

"Oh, no," replied the landlord, "about eleven miles. You can shorten it by two miles if you cut through Deering Woods."

I glanced at the clock--half-past four. "It's a melancholy walk through the woods," remarked the landlord, "but to be sure the moon will rise at ten."

"Can anyone show me the short cut?" I asked. "I wish particularly to go to Glasserton to-night."

"My daughter will put you in the way of it."

"Thank you. Ask her to get ready. I will give her half-a-crown for her trouble."

I called to Sophy, and asked her if she was ready fur a long walk.

"I am ready for anything," she said, "along o' you."

"Ten miles there, and ten miles back, Sophy," I said, for it was my intention to return to the inn that night.

"I'll walk all night if yer want me to."

"Come along, then, my girl."

I settled my account with the landlord before I left, and then, accompanied by his daughter, a girl of fourteen, we walked to Deering Woods.

"There!" said she, "keep on this track and it will take you right through the woods till you reach the road for Glasserton. When you come to two tracks keep to the left."

The directions she gave were clear, and I made her happy with the promised half-a-crown.

"How far do the woods extend?" I asked.

"You'll have to walk six or seven miles," she replied, "before you get out of 'em--and mind you take care of the cliffs. They're dangerous."

"We shall see them, I suppose, before we come on them?"

"Oh, you'll see 'em right enough, but nobody goes nearer to 'em than they can help."

She stood looking after us till thick clusters of trees hid us from her sight.

"Step out, Sophy," I said, "we've got a long walk before us."

An explanation of the motive for my sudden visit to Glasserton will be found in the following extracts from the Fleetdyke Herald:

THE FIRST EXTRACT.

"Tampering with a Register Book. Strange Case.--M. Bordier and his son, Julian Bordier, of Swiss extraction, were charged with erasing a name, and writing another over it, from a marriage entry in the register book of marriages in the parish of Glasserton. Mr. Hare, the registrar, stated that the accused visited him yesterday afternoon, for the purpose, as they said, of verifying a copy of a marriage certificate which they brought with them. The marriage in question was solemnized over nineteen years ago, and, according to the entry as it now stands, was between Gerald Paget and Emilia Braham, The elder of the accused made the examination, and professed himself satisfied. He then requested the registrar to step out of the office with him, saying that he wished to make some private inquiries of him. The registrar consented, and the two went outside for a few minutes, the questions which M. Bordier asked relating to the witnesses to the marriage, Julian Bordier meanwhile remaining alone in the office with, the register book. Mr. Hare, who has been registrar for nine or ten months only, answered the questions to the best of his ability, and then M. Bordier summoned his son from the office, and the accused departed. In the evening Mr. Hare had occasion to consult the register book, and as a matter of curiosity he referred to the entry which his visitors in the afternoon had called to verify. To his astonishment he discovered that the name of the bridegroom had been erased, and the name of Gerald Paget written over the erasure. His suspicions fell immediately upon M. Bordier and Julian Bordier, and learning that they had left the village, he obtained a warrant for their arrest, and, with a policeman, started in pursuit. The accused were greatly agitated when told to consider themselves under arrest, and the elder of the two commenced an explanation, to which, however, Mr. Hare and the constable refused to listen. He then begged to be permitted to write and telegraph to London for legal and professional assistance which, he said, would establish their innocence, and his request being granted, he wrote and despatched both letters and telegrams. The registrar having finished his evidence, the magistrate said the case was quite clear, and asked the accused what they had to say in their defence. M. Bordier, who assumed the office of spokesman, his son preserving a somewhat scornful silence, handed the magistrate two telegrams he had received from London in reply to those he had despatched. M. Bordier said that he refrained from putting any questions to the registrar, giving as a reason that he was ignorant of the procedure in English Courts of Justice. The magistrate, having read the telegrams, remarked that the names attached to them were those of eminent and renowned gentlemen whose time must be very valuable. As they promised to attend the court on the following morning and were anxious to return on the same day the accused were therefore remanded till to-morrow for the production of these important witnesses from London."

THE SECOND EXTRACT.

Tampering with a Register Book. Strange and Important Evidence.--Result.--M. Bordier and his son, Julian Bordier, were brought up on remand on the charge of altering a signature in a marriage entry in the register book of the parish of Glasserton. Upon the case being called Mr. Lawson, of the well-known firm of Lawson & Lawson, St. Helen's, London, who said he appeared for the defence, asked that Mr. Shepherd, the eminent expert in caligraphy, should be allowed to examine the register book, and the application was granted. The clerk read the evidence given yesterday by Mr. Hare, the registrar, who stated, in reply to a question from the magistrate, that he had nothing to add to it. Mr. Lawson then proceeded to cross-examine the witness:

"'You state that the register book was examined in your presence?'--'Yes.'

"'Was there any possibility of the signature being tampered with while you were by?'--'It could not possibly have been done in my presence.'

"'Was M. Bordier left alone in the office with the book?'--'No.'

"'In point of fact, you did not lose sight of him during the whole of the visit?'--'I did not.'

"'Not even for a moment?'--'Not for one moment.'

"'Then he could not have made the erasure or have written the name over it?'--'He could not.'

"'You do not accuse him?'--'Of actually committing the offence, no. Of being an accessory, yes. He called me out of the office to give his accomplice time to do what he wished.'

"'We shall see. Only M. Julian Bordier could possibly have altered the entry?'--'Only him.'

"Mr. Lawson (to the Magistrate): 'This proves that M. Bordier could not have made the erasure.'--Magistrate: 'Exactly.'

"Cross-examination resumed: 'It is not important to the case, but are you familiar with the record of the marriage of Emilia Braham and Gerald Paget, or between her and any other person?'--'No, I never had occasion to refer to this particular entry.'

"'Were M. Bordier and his son the only visitors you received on that day who wished to verify an entry in the register book?'--'The only visitors.'

"'After they left you did you leave your office?'--'For an hour in the evening.'

"'Before you discovered that the entry had been tampered with?'--'Yes, before that.'

"'Who was in charge of the premises while you were away?'--'The servant, Jane Seebold.'

"'When you made the discovery of the erasure, did you ask Jane Seebold if anyone had called in your absence?'--'I did not.'

"'Did you at any time inform her that the book had been tampered with?'--'I did not.'

"'You jumped at the conclusion that the gentlemen you accuse must be guilty?'--'There is no other conclusion.'

"'That will do. Call Mr. Shepherd.'

"Mr. Shepherd stepped into the witness-box.

"Mr. Lawson: 'You are an expert in handwriting?'--'Witness: I am; it is my profession.'

"'You have given evidence in many celebrated cases?'--'I have.'

"The Magistrate: 'Mr. Shepherd's name and reputation are well known.'

"'Have you examined the entry of the marriage between Emilia Braham and Gerald Paget?'--'I have.'

"'There is an undoubted erasure of the signature of the bridegroom?'--'There is.'

"'The name, Gerald Paget, as it now appears, has been recently written?'--'Quite recently, within the past week. The state of the ink in which the name is freshly written proves it.'

"'You put a marked emphasis upon the words "freshly written." Have you a reason for doing so?'--'I have. Upon a careful examination of the entry I am of the firm opinion that the name erased is the same as the name written above the erasure. The letters have been very cleverly traced.'

"The Magistrate: 'That sounds very strange.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'It does; but it is a puzzle that may be solved. Say that there is here a question of property which would fall to the Emilia Braham who is married according to this entry. To become possessed of this property, she must prove her marriage with Gerald Paget. Some one interested on the other side gets hold of the register book, and erases the name of Gerald Paget. What name shall be substituted in its place? What but that of Gerald Paget? This opens up the suggestion that a friend of Emilia Braham (speaking of her in her maiden name) has also paid a visit to the register, book, has erased the bridegroom's name, and written in its place that of Paget, to prove the said Emilia's marriage with him. A formidable suspicion is thrown upon her, and the very entry upon which she relies is weighty evidence against her.'

"The Magistrate: 'It is an ingenious theory, but I cannot see that it has any bearing upon the present case.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'It has an indirect bearing. I have here a copy of the marriage certificate, which I must ask you to compare with the entry in the register book. You will see in the copy that the name is Gerald Paget, and you cannot doubt that the copy is genuine."

"The Magistrate: 'There can be little doubt of that. The state of the paper is a proof.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'If the copy had been lost, it would have greatly strengthened those whose interests are opposed to Mrs. Paget's. I have nothing further to ask you, Mr. Shepherd. Call Jane Seebold.'

"Jane Seebold was shown into the witness-box.

"'Your name is Jane Seebold?'--'Yes.'

"'You are in the service of Mr. Hare?'--'Yes.'

"'Do you remember the day before yesterday?'--'Yes.'

"'In the evening Mr. Hare went out for an hour?'--'Yes.'

"'Was the office in which the official books are kept open?'--'Yes, it was, and I was sweeping it out.'

"'Did anybody call while you were so employed?'--'Yes, a gentleman.'

"'Did he inquire for any one?'--'Yes, my master.'

"'Well?'--'I told him he was out.'

"'What did he say to that?'--'He said he would wait for him.'

"'You allowed him to wait?'--'Yes.'

"'In the office?'--'Yes.'

"'What did you do while he waited?'--'I had work in other parts of the house, and I went and did it.'

"'For how long was the gentleman left alone in the office?'--'Half an hour, perhaps.'

"'Then you went in to him?'--'Yes, and he said he was going, and he went.'

"'Did you tell your master of the gentleman's visit when he returned?'--'No, I didn't.'

"'Why didn't you?' The witness hesitated. 'Why didn't you? Remember that you are on your oath, and that if you prevaricate or speak falsely you may get yourself into serious trouble. Why did you not tell your master of the gentleman's visit?'--'Well, he gave me five shillings, and told me to say nothing about it. I don't see that I've done any harm.'

"'You can step down.'

"The Magistrate: 'Stop a moment. Where were the official books while the gentleman was in the office?'--'In their proper place--the desk.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'Was the desk locked?'--'The lock's been broke all the time I've been in the place.'

"'So that all a person had to do to get hold of the books was to lift the lid?'--'Yes.'

"The Magistrate: 'Your conduct was very reprehensible.'

"The witness then left the box.

"Mr. Lawson: 'We have brought the inquiry now to this point. Supposing the erasure to have been made on the day in question, the commission of the offence lies between M. Julian Bordier and the person who visited the registrar's office in his absence.'

"The Magistrate: 'Quite so. I think the registrar should keep these important public books in a more secure place--in an iron safe.'

"The Registrar: 'I am not supplied with one, your Worship, and I cannot afford to buy one. My servant's evidence comes upon me as a surprise.'

"The Magistrate: 'I repeat what I said. These official records should be kept in safer custody. The authorities should provide proper receptacles for them.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'I shall proceed now to prove that it is an utter impossibility that M. Julian Bordier can be guilty of the offence with which he and his father are charged. Call Mr. Wordsworth.'

"This gentleman, whose name and fame are world-renowned, then gave his evidence, which was short, conclusive, and surprising.

"'You are an oculist?'--'I am.'

"'You are attending M. Julian Bordier?'--'Yes.'

"'Is that the gentleman?'--'That is the gentleman.'

"'What are you attending him for?'--'For his sight.'

"'Could he the day before yesterday have erased a name from the register book and written another name above it?'--'It is utterly impossible.'

"'Why?'--'Because he was blind. He is blind now; His eyes are open, but he cannot see. It is against my express wish that he left London. If he does not return immediately and abide by my instructions, I shall despair of restoring his sight.'

"M. Bordier: 'May I say a word?'

"The Magistrate: 'Certainly.'

"M. Bordier: 'I came to Glasserton to compare the copy of a marriage certificate with the original entry. My son's happiness hung upon this proof, and he insisted upon accompanying me. He would not be dissuaded, and although I feared there was a risk, I yielded to his wish. When we were arrested I endeavored to explain matters to the registrar and the officer, but they would not listen to me. Ignorant of the methods of English courts of justice, I thought it wisest to obtain counsel and assistance from London. That is all I have to say.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'Is it necessary, your worship, for me to address you?'

"The Magistrate: 'No. The gentlemen are discharged, and I regret that they have had to submit to this trial. I trust, Mr. Wordsworth, that you will be able to cure M. Julian Bordier.'

"Mr. Wordsworth: 'If he will be guided by me, I hope to restore his sight.'

"The parties then left the court."

CHAPTER LVI.

NIGHT IN DEERING WOODS.

I had a twofold object in going to Glasserton. In the first place I wished to see for myself the original record of the marriage in the register book; in the second place I wished to obtain from the registrar's servant, Jane Seebold, a description of the visitor she allowed to remain in the office while her master was absent from the house. It was evident that she had no knowledge of the purpose of the visit which M. Bordier and his son Julian paid to the registrar in the morning; and it was equally evident that the man who bribed her to silence was the man who erased the signature. I had no doubt that it was either M. Felix or Dr. Peterssen, who by this artful trick hoped to pave the way to a doubt of the genuineness of Emilia's marriage with Gerald Paget. The scoundrels had no idea that the copy of the marriage certificate had been found, or that M. Bordier and his son were in the village on the same day as themselves. All that they wished to do was to make some provision for a possible contingency in the future. If, as was very likely, they read the case in the newspaper, they must have been confounded by the conviction that they were hoist with their own petard. Another thing, I was now satisfied that when I left Bob I had started on a true trail, despite the knavish devices of Dr. Peterssen's tool, Crawley.

The walk through Deering Woods was a dreary one, but it would have been much more dreary had it not been for Sophy, who was always entertaining and original, and never more so than on the present occasion. I let her partly into my confidence, and she was delighted to know that she had been the direct means of throwing light on a cruel injustice. We trudged along side by side, the most amicable and agreeable of companions.

"It'll wake aunty tip when she 'ears everything," said Sophy. "She'll think me good for something now."

"You are the best and brightest little girl in my acquaintance, Sophy," I said.

"I didn't take you in, did I?" she asked.

"No, indeed," I replied. "It was a lucky day for me when I first met you."

"Not so lucky for you as for me," she said. "I've got a silver watch."

"It will turn into a gold one by the time you're a woman."

"Will it?" she exclaimed. "Shan't I be proud!"

About half way through the woods I saw the cliffs of which the landlord's daughter had warned me. In the dark they would have been dangerous indeed to one unfamiliar with them. At some time or other there had been a great landslip, which had opened up a chasm of great depth; in parts slight fences had been put up, but there were spaces entirely unprotected, and I was thankful we had been warned of the danger. It was half-past seven by my watch when we reached Glasserton, and I had no difficulty in finding the registrar's house. He was at home when I called, and did not receive me too cordially. He had been upset by the trial, and it was with the greatest difficulty I succeeded in obtaining a glance of the original entry of the marriage. It was only by bribery and threats that I effected my purpose, and I had to use extreme persuasion to induce him to grant me an interview with Jane Seebold. I elicited very little from her in consequence of the state of confusion she was in, but I was satisfied in my own mind that it was M. Felix who had tampered with the book. From her imperfect description of the man I judged that he must in some way have disguised himself for the purpose of the visit, and I was assisted to this conclusion partly by the height of her visitor, who she said was not a tall man. Dr. Peterssen was not less than six feet, and having to decide between him and M. Felix I decided unhesitatingly in favor of the latter. The registrar had been in Glasserton but three or four years, whereas Jane Seebold had been in it all her life, and I learned from her that two of the three witnesses to the marriage, the doctor and the old wagoner, had long been dead. At nine o'clock my inquiries were ended, and Sophy and I started back for the inn.

"Tired, Sophy?" I asked.

"Not a bit," she answered, cheerfully, "I could walk all night."

Still we did not get along so fast as in the early part of the evening; it would have been cruel to take unfair advantage of Sophy's indomitable spirit; the girl would have walked till she dropped, and I had some consideration for her. Therefore it was that we did not reach the middle of Deering Woods till past ten, by which time the moon had risen. When I was not talking to Sophy my mind was occupied by the task upon which I had been engaged. Since my first introduction to the Mystery of M. Felix a great deal had been accomplished. The mystery has been practically solved, although the public were not yet in possession of the facts. Emilia's agony was over, as I believed, for my wildest dreams would not have compassed what was to occur during the next few weeks; she had been fortunate in gaining a champion so noble and generous as M. Bordier, and her daughter's happiness was assured. I could understand now her anxiety as to M. Bordier's silence since his discovery of the copy of the marriage certificate, and I divined his reason for it. With a horror of publicity, and out of regard for her, he did not wish her to become acquainted with his and his son's arrest until he himself informed her of it, and he entertained a hope that the report of the case would not get into the London papers. I also now understood her anxious references to M. Julian's state of health; they bore upon his failing sight, to restore which he and his father had come to London. The young man had been imprudent, but I trusted to Mr. Wordsworth's assurances that he could make a cure of him if Julian would abide by his instructions. I had no doubt, now that Emilia's good name was established, that Julian would submit to the guidance of this eminent oculist, whose heart was as kind as his skill was great.

So far, all was well, but I was not satisfied; I could not consider my task accomplished till I had brought Dr. Peterssen and M. Felix to the bar of justice and restored to Emilia's arms the husband she believed she had lost in Switzerland.

Sophy broke in upon my musings.

"Is there a man in the moon?" she asked.

"They say so," I answered, lightly.

"I see 'is face," said Sophy, "as plain as plain can be."

We were near the fallen cliffs as these words passed between us, and before I had time to utter another my attention was arrested by the sound of a shot.

"What's that?" cried Sophy.

"A gun or pistol fired," I replied, "and not far off."

"I don't mean the firing," said Sophy, "I mean the scream. Didn't yer 'ear it?"

"No, Sophy, no scream reached my ears."

"It reached mine. I can 'ear anything, if it's in the next street."

"Was it after or before the shot?" I asked.

"About the same time, I think. They come both together."

"Let us go and see what it is, if you're not afraid."

"Me afraid," she said contemptuously, and she ran before me in the direction from which the sounds had proceeded. We had not gone fifty yards before we both stopped simultaneously, with an exclamation of horror on our lips. On the ground before us lay the body of a man, pressing his hand to his heart, from which the blood was flowing. He struggled into a sitting posture, and was endeavoring to rise to his feet, when he fell back with a groan, and moved no more.

I rushed to his side and bent over him.

"There has been murder done," I said. "He is dead."

"Yes," said Sophy in a low tone, as she stooped over the body. "He's dead this time, and no mistake.

"Dead this time!" I repeated in wonder.

"Don't yer see who it is?" she asked. "It's Mr. Felix!"

M. Felix! This, then, was the end of the ill-spent life. The evil record was thus suddenly snapped, and the man who was supposed to have died in Gerard Street, Soho, on the night of the 16th of January, lay dead before me in the lonely Deering Woods, his last breath but just drawn.

"Are you sure, Sophy?"

"Ain't you sure?"

"I cannot be. I never saw him in life."

"I can't be mistook. It's Mr. Felix--but oh, ain't it orfle! who could 'ave done it?"

"Who, Sophy? Who but his companion in crime, Dr. Peterssen?"

At this moment, from an unseen hand behind, Sophy was struck to the ground. Her scream of pain was frozen on her lips, and she lay prone before me.

"You infernal villain," I cried, and turned.

The moon was shining brightly, and by its light I saw the form of Dr. Peterssen. In his upraised hands he held a heavy stake. I strove to avoid the blow, and received it on my arm. Before I could recover myself the stake was raised again, and again it descended upon me, this time upon my head. The earth swam round. Again I was struck with savage violence, and as I fell the last thing I saw was the moon with a face in it which smiled upon me in the likeness of Dr. Peterssen.

CHAPTER LVII.

THE CAVERN IN THE CLIFF.

I opened my eyes in darkness. How long I had remained insensible I did not know, nor did I know where I was. All that I was conscious of at first was a dull pain in my head, but presently I was sensible of other facts. My hands were tied behind me, and my mouth was gagged, so that I could only utter unintelligible moans. To my astonishment my moans were answered by similar sounds at a short distance from me. Pain and suffering are selfish and dominant qualities, and some few moments passed before I thought of my brave Sophy. Then it occurred to me that the moans I heard proceeded from her, and that she was in the same condition as myself. My immediate feeling was one of thankfulness that she was alive. In vain did I strive to free my hands; in vain did I strive to speak intelligible words; in vain did I strive to pierce the black darkness in which we were enveloped. I did not know whether it was day or night, and I shuddered to think of the fate in store for us. Soon I found myself forgetting my own peril entirely, and dwelling only upon poor Sophy's. Bitterly did I reproach myself for bringing her to this pass, for it was I, and I alone, who was responsible for the doom which would surely overtake her. I had no doubt that we were imprisoned here to die, and it was I who had sealed her fate.

My thoughts did not flow steadily and uninterruptedly. Every now and then I relapsed into unconsciousness, and when I revived it seemed to me as if I took up quite naturally the thread of my reflections at the point at which they were broken off. These intervals of insensibility may have been long or short for all I knew. I was starving; I was parched; I would have given the world for a drink of water; but I can say truthfully that if water had been available for only one of us, I would have set my lips hard and given the relief to my companion in misery. I have read of exquisite tortures inflicted upon unfortunate people by barbarous nations--aye, and by some civilized nations as well--but no tortures could have been keener than those I endured. Minutes were like hours, hours like days. It was impossible under such conditions to keep count of time.

There were sounds of movement outside our prison house, if house it was, sounds of scraping feet and falling stones. I strained my ears. Nearer and nearer came these sounds, until they were within a few feet of me in my rear, but I was so securely bound that I could not turn my head. One word was spoken in the form of a question:

"Alive?"

The voice was that of Dr. Peterssen. I had never heard it, but I would have staked my hopes of release upon the issue. Not by the faintest moan did Sophy or I answer this ruthless question. A match was struck, a candle was lighted, and Dr. Peterssen stood between us, holding the candle above his head: With malicious significance he put the candle close to poor Sophy's face, then close to mine, and waved his left hand as though he were introducing us to each other. I gazed at Sophy, who was as little able to move as I was myself, and the tears came into my eyes as I noted the absence of reproach in her observance of me. Indeed, her expression was one of pity, and not for herself.

"Touching, isn't it?" asked Dr. Peterssen, and then cried savagely, "You pair of beauties! You reap what you have sown!"

By the dim light I perceived that we were in a kind of cave, the entrance to which was at the back of us, and I judged that the cavity was low down one of the dangerous cliffs of which we had been warned. After his attack upon us Dr. Peterssen must have carried us here and buried us alive, as it were. I subsequently learned that my surmise was correct, and that I had hit upon the exact method of our imprisonment.

Dr. Peterssen stuck the candle, in a niche, and approached me.

"Would you like to be free to speak?" he inquired. "If so, move your head."

I moved my head.

"You will not shout?" he continued. "You will not cry for help? Move your head again, and I accept it as your word of honor. You are a gentleman, and would not forfeit it." There was a frightful scorn in his voice when he referred to me as a gentleman.

I moved my head again, and he took the gag from my mouth.

"Raise your voice above its natural tone, and I cut this beauty's fingers off."

He took a clasp-knife from his pocket and opened the blade. It was sharp, it was bright, and I knew he would keep his word.

"A drink of water," I murmured.

"I have it here. Drink." He held an uncorked bottle to my lips.

"Not for me," I said. "For her."

"You will drink first," he said; "then she shall have her turn. If you refuse neither of you shall touch it."

I drank, and I saw that Sophy closed her eyes while I did so. Nectar was never so sweet as that long draught, for he did not stint me. Then he replaced the gag in my mouth, and removing Sophy's, went through the same process with her.

"That's jolly," said Sophy, faintly.

"Yes," said the scoundrel, "you will be very jolly by the time I have done with you. Listen to me. You clever couple are as completely in my power as if we were on a desert island. Not a human being is within miles of us. To show you how little I care for your cries, I free both your tongues." Once more he took the gag from my mouth. "Only if you speak too loudly, each shall suffer for the other. I will cut you to pieces before each other's eyes if you disobey me. So my clever little beauty, you came into my house as a dumb girl. Are you dumb? Answer--quick!"

"No, I ain't," said Sophy; "you know that as well as I do."

"But you played your part well--I will say that of you--and went about like a sly mute, eyes and ears open, ready for treachery. If I had suspected, you would never have got out alive. Answer my questions, and answer them truthfully, if you do not wish to be tortured to death. Did you steal the desk?" Sophy was silent; he laid the keen blade of the knife he held on her face. "Answer!"

"Answer him, Sophy," I said, fearing for the child.

"Yes," she said, "I did steal the desk."

"Who set you on?"

"I did," I replied, quickly. "She is not to blame. Upon me should fall the punishment, not upon her."

"It shall fall upon both of you, and upon your comrade who brought her to me, if only I can lay hands on him. There was a secret in that desk, was there not? Don't keep me waiting too long."

"There was," I said.

"Did you find it?"

"Not I, but another found it."

"Your friend, and that sharp-witted gentleman from Switzerland. A copy of a marriage certificate, was it not?"

"Yes."

"To think," he said bitterly, "that that fool should have had the desk in his possession all these years, and never discovered it? He is rightly served. He can play no fool's tricks where he is now.

"He is dead?" I said.

"He is dead. I killed him, as I intend to kill you, only yours will be a longer and more lingering death. Do you think my confession injudicious? You are mistaken. You will never more see the light of day; you will never more set eyes upon a human being but myself. You are here, in a tomb. This is your grave. I can afford to be candid with you. Open speaking is a luxury in which I can freely indulge. Here, eat." He fed us with hard dry bread, and we both ate ravenously, he watching us the while with malignant eyes. "Am I not a merciful jailer? But I don't want you to die just yet. You shall suffer still more. Tell me why you have been hunting me down?"

"I was engaged in befriending a much-injured lady."

"You had better have looked after your own business, and left me to manage my own unmolested. A much-injured lady? Christian name, Emilia?"

"Yes. I cannot injure her by answering you truthfully. She has powerful friends near her who are capable of protecting her."

"Doubtless. Something more was discovered through this little witch here, was there not? Remember what I have threatened you with. The truth I will have, if I have to cut it out of your heart. What more have you discovered?"

"To what do you refer?"

"I had a patient--I speak in the past tense, because I have given up business--concerning whom you entertained some curiosity. You know who that patient was. His name? Quick!" He touched Sophy's hand with the point of his knife, and drew blood. She never winced.

To save the poor girl, I answered, "Gerald Paget."

"Good. These compelling measures are admirable. But do not think you are telling me news. I can find my way through a maze as well as most people. It is in my power to give you some interesting information. For instance as to where this Gerald Paget is at the present moment."

"You have not disposed of him, then," I ventured to say.

"Oh, no. Another kind of death is in store for him. He is in prison for the murder of a gentleman unknown to the law, but known to us as Leonard Paget, to many others as M. Felix."

I repressed the indignant words that rose to my lips. Dr. Peterssen smiled and continued: "It is a remarkable complication. A man is found dead in Deering Woods, shot through the heart. This man is Leonard Paget, alias M. Felix. There is found upon his person nothing that can lead to his identity. The murder is perpetrated at a distance from London, and no one suspects there can be any connection between the murdered man and the M. Felix who so mysteriously disappeared from the purlieus of Soho. The last whose suspicions are likely to be roused are Emilia Paget--I am courteous enough, you see, to call her by her right name--and her friends. Wrapped up in their own concerns, a murder so remote has no interest for them. And murders are common. They occur all over the country. The housekeeper who attended upon M. Felix would be able to identify him, but what should bring her into this part of the world? So far, you must acknowledge, I have managed fairly well, and if it had not been for your meddling I should be safe. Curse you! But I am even with you now."

"I do not expect you to answer me," I said, "but how is it that the unfortunate gentleman whom you and your confederate have so sorely oppressed has to answer for a crime which you perpetrated?"

"Why should I not answer you? What passes in this grave will never be known, and I can afford to be magnanimous. The fool you pity was found near the body, in possession of the pistol with which the deed was done. Give me credit for that little manœuvre."

"Does he not declare his innocence?"

"He declares nothing. The small spark of reason which was left to him is extinguished, and he utters no word. His silence, his vacant looks, are proofs of guilt. They will make short work with him. He will be committed for trial; the assizes are near, and he will be tried and condemned. No living persons but ourselves can establish his innocence. If you were free you could accomplish it, but you never will be free. Fret your heart out. It will be a pleasure to me to witness your sufferings."

"Retribution will fall upon you," I said. "Your presence here convinces me that you are yourself in danger."

"I should be if I walked abroad, but I have disappeared. In this charming retreat I propose to hide till Gerald Paget is done for. Then, the interest of the affair at an end, I can provide for my own safety. Meanwhile, I can manage, at odd times, to purchase food enough to keep things going. Already I have in stock a few tins of preserved provisions, a supply of biscuits, some bread, spirits to warm me, tobacco to cheer me--to be smoked only at nights. Trust me for neglecting no precautions. It is not a life a gentleman would choose, but I am driven to it--by you." He filled his pipe and lit it.

"Is it night now?" I said.

"It is night now. I am fond of society; that is the reason I spare you for the present. When you have served my turn I will rid myself of you."

"Have you no pity?"

"None."

"If we refuse the food you offer us, if we prefer to die, at once, we can deprive you of the pleasure of torturing us."

"You can suit yourself. My experience is that life is sweet; hope lives eternal, you know. You can amuse yourself with the hope that you have still a chance. Do so; it is immaterial to me. I know what the end will be. Be silent now; you have talked enough."

He examined our fastenings to see that they were secure, and then he gagged us. Before he did so, however, I said to Sophy:

"Can you forgive me, my dear, for bringing this upon you?"

"There ain't nothink to forgive," she replied. "If I've got to die I'll die game."

Dr. Peterssen laughed sardonically, and did not give me time to say another word. The spirit of the child amazed me; she was of the stuff of which heroes are made. "If by a fortunate chance," I thought, "we escape the deadly danger which holds us fast she shall be richly rewarded." I saw no hope of escape, but I would cling to life to the last. Dr. Peterssen was right in his conjecture; I would not hasten the doom with which we were threatened, and which seemed inevitable. I slept fitfully, and in my intervals of wakefulness I judged from Sophy's regular breathing that she slept more peacefully than I. I was thankful for that. Where our gaoler took his rest I do not know. He did not disturb us for many hours. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and when I fully awoke I could dimly see Sophy's face. She could see me too, for when I smiled at her she smiled at me in return. Clearly it was Dr. Peterssen's intention to keep us alive for some time at least. He gave us bread and biscuits to eat and water to drink. Days passed in this miserable way and if I do not dwell upon them it is because I have little that is new to relate. Occasionally Dr. Peterssen allowed us to talk, and bandied words with us for his own malicious gratification. I asked him once whether we could purchase our release.

"You would give a large sum for it," he said.

"All that I possess in the world," I answered.

"If it could be done with safety to myself," he said, "I would entertain the offer; but you know as well as I do that it could not be so done."

"Why not?" I asked.

"You would betray me."

"I will swear a solemn oath that your name shall never pass my lips."

"An oath that you would break at the first convenient opportunity. You are a man with a conscience, and you would hasten to prove the innocence of Gerald Paget. How would you accomplish that without mention of my name? Come, now--air your sophistry, and see if you can persuade me to act like an idiot. As for money, I am well supplied. When I am rid of you and this stubborn little witch I mean to enjoy myself in another country."

He pulled out a bundle of bank-notes, and flourished them before my eyes. I thought of Bob's words that M. Felix kept always a large sum of money on his person, and I knew that the notes had once been his. Our gaoler took pride in such like acts of ostentatious candor, to show how completely he had us in his power and how little he had to fear from us. I cannot say at what period of our imprisonment I fell into a stupor which would have lasted till the hour of my death had Dr. Peterssen's fell intentions succeeded. It seemed to last for an eternity of days and nights, and in the few intervals of consciousness which came to me I prayed that I might not grow mad. Sometimes I heard Dr. Peterssen's voice as he forced water and sopped biscuit down my throat. I had no desire to refuse the food, but my strength was gone, and it was with difficulty that I could swallow. I could have borne my fate better had it not been that Sophy was never absent from my mind. Sleeping or waking I thought of her, and my misery was increased tenfold. I remember an occasion when I whispered to Dr. Peterssen:

"Is she still alive?"

"She is still alive," he said with a brutal laugh. "She has the pluck and strength of a dozen men."

Those were the last words he addressed to me, in my remembrance, nor do I remember speaking to him again. Delirious fancies held possession of me, and although I must have had periods of utter insensibility I do not recall them. I could not now distinguish the real from the unreal. I heard voices that did not speak; I saw pictures that had no existence; I passed through experiences as intangible as the gloom which encompassed us. All the people I knew, but chiefly those with whom I had been lately associated, played their parts in my wild fancies. The scene on the Thames Embankment with Emilia, my midnight visit to her daughter Constance, my adventures with Sophy, the episodes in the police court and M. Felix's chambers, my journeys to and fro in search of clews to the mystery, the introduction of Bob Tucker into the affair, all these and every other incident associated with my championship of a wronged and injured lady, took new and monstrous forms in my disordered imagination. I grew weaker and weaker. Surely the end must soon come.

It came. There were loud shouts and cries, and voices raised in menace, terror, and defiance. These sounds conjured up a host of confused forms struggling around me. A hand touched my face, an arm was passed round my neck; my head lay upon a man's shoulder.

"Agnold!"

My mouth, my limbs, were free, but I could not speak, I could not move.

"Agnold! Don't you hear me? It's Bob--Bob Tucker! I've found you at last--you're saved! Speak one word to me; move your head, to show you understand me."

I smiled feebly; I had had so many of these dreams; I did not open my eyes.

"Great God! Have I come too late? Oh, you black-hearted villain, your life shall pay for it!"

Gentle hands raised my head. My eyes, my face, were bathed with cold water; a few drops of weak spirits were poured into my mouth, which I swallowed with difficulty. Surely there was here no delusion!

"That's right, Agnold; that's right old friend. We'll soon pull you round. You are too weak to speak--I see that. But don't you want to hear about Sophy?"

Sophy? I strove to struggle to my feet, and fell back into the friendly arms ready to receive me. I opened my eyes; they fell upon Bob, who smiled and nodded at me. If this was delusion then, indeed, I was mad.

"For God's sake don't deceive me, Bob!" He must have followed my words in the movement of my lips, for sound scarcely issued from them. "This is real. You are my friend, Bob Tucker?"

"I am your friend, Bob Tucker, who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail for not having found you before. But I am in time, and I thank God for it!"

"You spoke of Sophy?" I did not dare to ask the question which was in my mind.

"I did. Your voice is getting stronger already. She's all right. Don't you fret about her."

"I want to know the solemn truth, Bob. She lives?"

"She lives. It is the solemn and happy truth, dear friend. She is near you at the present moment."

"Bring her close to me. Let me touch her hand."

It was placed in mine and guided to my lips. I kissed it, and a weak voice stole upon my ears:

"I am as well as well can be, Mr. Agnold! I'll dance yer a hornpipe if yer like!"

"My brave girl--my dear, brave Sophy! O God, I thank Thee!"

Then everything faded from my sight and I heard nothing more.

CHAPTER LVIII.

FRIENDS TO THE RESCUE.

Sophy and I were lying on two couches placed so that my eyes could rest upon her face. A day and a night had elapsed since our rescue, and I had gained strength surprisingly. With the help of Bob I had dressed myself in the afternoon, and seeing that the exertion had nearly exhausted me he insisted upon my lying down on a couch. I, on my part, upon learning that Sophy had also with assistance dressed herself, in "spick and span new clothes," as she afterwards informed me, insisted feebly but firmly that she should be brought into my room, so there we were, gazing at each other, and rapidly recovering from the terrible ordeal through which we had passed. Warm baths, an entire change of clothing, rest in a soft bed--surely the clean sheets were the most delicious that mortal ever lay between--nourishing food, and the blessed sense of safety, had done wonders for us. Bob had refused with stern kindness to give me any account of his movements until I was in a fit condition to listen to him, and it was not until this day that he consented to place me in possession of the facts. His statement, up to a certain point, will be best explained in his own words.

"Two days having passed," he said, "without hearing from you, I became anxious. The last letter I received from you was written in Monkshead, and in it you informed me that you were going farther on, but you did not mention the name of the place for which you were bound. As you had left Monkshead, it was useless my wiring or writing to you there, so I was compelled to wait your pleasure. Of course, in these circumstances, one always thinks that a letter has gone wrong, and as no other arrived I inferred that you had given me some information of your movements in the supposed missing letter, without which I had no idea what to do. At length I came to the conclusion that you had returned to London, and I determined to follow you. Even if I did not see you there, I might learn from your family or friends something which would enlighten me as to where you were, and what you were doing. Your family had not heard from you, and as they did not appear in any anxiety concerning you, I said nothing, you may be sure, that would cause them alarm. Then I sought an interview with the lady whose cause you espoused, and whom should I meet with her but M. Bordier. He was the soul of politeness, and I could not fail to be impressed by the radiant happiness which shone in the lady's face. I ascribed this joyful expression to the document which M. Bordier had found in the secret drawer of the desk, the particulars of which he had jealously concealed from me. Neither he nor the lady had heard from you. 'We hope to see him soon,' the lady said, 'to thank him for his wonderful kindness to us.' Before I left them M. Bordier drew me aside, and expressed a hope that I would do nothing to make public what had transpired with respect to the purloining of the desk, and the discovery of an important document in it. 'I assure you,' he said, 'that it is entirely a private matter, and that publicity would cause the deepest pain to unoffending persons.' I replied that I should do nothing of my own accord, and that the matter rested with you, and you alone. He thanked me, and we parted."

I interrupted Bob here. "Did M. Bordier make no reference to a trial in which he had been involved?"

"Nothing."

"Have you read of no trial in which his name appears?"

"No. Let me finish first; you will have plenty to tell me when I have done. From M. Bordier I went to the office of the Evening Moon, and was equally unsuccessful in obtaining news of you. Somewhat puzzled I made my way back to the neighborhood of Tylney House, and thence went on to Monkshead. I had no particular fears for your safety, but I resolved, if possible, to track you. It was only on the second day of my arrival at Monkshead that I obtained news which led me to believe you had gone to Deering. Away I posted to Deering, and there I learned that you had gone to Glasserton, on what errand was not known. The landlord's daughter had shown you a short cut through the woods. I took the high road, as less likely to mislead me: but I may mention that before I started from Deering the girl who directed you informed me that only you and a young girl had gone to Glasserton. What, then, had become of Crawley? At Glasserton I heard that two persons answering to the description of you and Sophy had been in the village, that you had remained but a few hours, and had then started back toward Deering. I immediately returned to Deering, but you had not reappeared there. It was then that a fear of foul play flashed upon me; it was then and then only that I began to fear for your safety. There had been a mysterious murder committed in Deering Woods, and the murderer was committed for trial----"

"My God!" I cried.

Strange as it may appear, I had not until this moment thought of the murder which had been perpetrated in the woods. Heaven knows it was not from indifference that this lapse of memory had occurred to me, and I can only ascribe my forgetfulness to the intensity of my misery for several days past, during which I had been completely and entirely engrossed in the frightful sufferings I had endured. But now Bob's reference to the foul deed brought Gerald Paget's peril to my mind. I was so terribly excited that Bob caught hold of me in alarm, for I had started from my couch and was swaying to and fro on my feet.

"In Heaven's name," exclaimed Bob, "what is the matter with you?"

"Do not ask questions," I said, speaking with feverish haste, "but answer mine, and follow any instructions I may give you. The murderer is committed for trial, you say. Has the trial taken place?"

"It is taking place now," replied Bob, speaking as rapidly as I did; the contagion of my excitement had seized him. "The Assizes are on."

"What is the time?"

"Five minutes past four."

"When did the trial commence?"

"This morning, I heard."

"Is it over?"

"I do not know."

"Will it take you long to ascertain how it is proceeding?"

"I might do it in half an hour."

"Do it, in less time if you can, I am not mad, Bob; I am as sane as you are. This is a matter of life and death, and, God forgive me, I have allowed it to escape me. One more question. You have not spoken of Dr. Peterssen. Where is he?"

"In prison, under arrest."

"That is good news. Go now, quickly--and send the landlord up to me immediately, with some telegraph forms."

He hastened from the room, and in a very short time the landlord made his appearance. The vital necessity of immediate action had inspired me with strength of mind if not with strength of body, and my mental powers were quickened and sharpened by the crisis. I had settled upon my plan of action, and when the landlord handed me the telegraph forms I wrote the messages I wished to send with celerity and clearness. The most urgent and lengthy of these telegrams was addressed to M. Bordier, and in it I implored him to come to me without a moment's delay, and to bring Emilia with him. I told him that the husband whose death Emilia had so long mourned was now on a trial for murder of which he was innocent, that I had been mercifully rescued myself from a cruel death and held in my hands proofs of Gerald Paget's innocence, and that my case would be strengthened by the presence of Emilia and himself. I requested him to acknowledge my telegram the instant he received it, and to say when I might expect him to join me; it was imperative that there should not be the least delay, and he was to spare no expense in attending to my instructions. In addition to this telegram I despatched messages to my mother, to the editor of the Evening Moon, and to Mrs. Middlemore. Without further detail I may say that I did everything in my power to bring the persons to my side whose presence I considered necessary for the work before me, and my despatches were winging to London before Bob returned. He reported that the case for the prosecution was not yet concluded, that it was expected that the defence would be brief, and that the summing up of the judge would occupy some time. It was almost certain that the verdict would not be delivered until to-morrow. Counsel had been deputed by the judge to defend the prisoner, who throughout the trial had maintained a strange silence, which some ascribed to obstinacy, and others to aberration of intellect. Having heard what Bob had to say, I addressed a letter to the counsel for the defence, urging him at the adjournment of the case, to call upon me immediately, as I had news to communicate to him of the highest importance to the prisoner. My letter despatched, there was nothing more to do for at least a couple of hours, and I consented to listen to the completion of Bob's narrative. When he heard that a murder had been committed in Deering Woods fears for my safety flashed upon him, and he went to see the body of the murdered man. He was greatly relieved to find that the body was that of a stranger--(it must be borne in mind here that he had never set eyes on M. Felix during that man's lifetime)--but it did not dispel his fears. I had started back to Deering through the woods, and from that moment neither I nor Sophy had been heard of. He determined to remain on the spot and keep watch about the woods, in the hope of discovering what had happened to me. The idea of foul play between Deering and Glasserton had taken morbid possession of him, and he did not attempt to banish it. Day after day he searched and watched without result, until one night he saw a man walking stealthily through the woods with provisions he must have purchased somewhere in the neighborhood. The stealthy movements of this man aroused Bob's suspicions, but although he followed him warily the man suddenly disappeared. This circumstance strengthened Bob's suspicions, and, with or without reason, he now came to the conclusion that the man, whose movements proclaimed that he was engaged in an unlawful proceeding, had something to do with my disappearance. He hired two men to watch with him, and at length his efforts were rewarded. The man was seen again at night creeping stealthily through the woods; again he disappeared at the same spot as on the previous occasion. It was at the edge of the fallen cliffs that this took place, and the men Bob had hired, who were more intimate with the locality than their employer, pointed out a downward track which bore marks of having been recently used. This track was noiselessly followed, with the result already recorded. Sophy and I were saved.

"I did not come an hour too soon," said Bob, when he had concluded his story.

"Not an hour, Bob. I believe I could not have lived another day."

A telegram was brought into me. It was from M. Bordier: "We shall be with you to-night. Have not informed Mrs. Paget of the particulars. Not advisable to agitate her unnecessarily. Decide when we meet." Other telegrams were also brought to me, and I learned from them that my sister, a friend on the staff of the Evening Moon, and Mrs. Middlemore would also soon be with me. Bob had been thoughtful enough to arrange for the despatch of news from the court in which the trial was taking place. Seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock, and the court was still sitting. The Judge was summing up, and had expressed a desire that the trial should be finished that night.

"He is of the opinion," I said to Bob, "that the jury will not be long in giving their verdict."

"It looks like it," said Bob.

"Does this strike you as guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," replied Bob.

A note was here delivered to me from the counsel for the defense: "I cannot leave the court. The Judge will soon finish his summing up, which is unfavorable to the prisoner. He anticipates a rapid decision on the part of the jury, and a verdict of guilty. If your news is really of importance and, advantageous to the prisoner, come to the court immediately."

I gave the note to Bob to read, and rose.

"Sophy," I said, "are you strong enough to come with me? I am going to the court."

"I'm ready," said Sophy.

"Yes, Agnold," said Bob, "you must go."

He ran down, and by the time we reached it a trap was waiting for us.

"Have a couple of traps in waiting," I said to him, "and the moment the persons I expect arrive bring them to the court. Especially Mrs. Paget, M. Bordier, and Mrs. Middlemore, and send also any telegrams that may come."

"Depend upon me, Agnold," said the good fellow. "Not a point shall be missed." He waved his hand as we drove away, and called out, "Good luck!"

And now I must encroach upon the columns of the Evening Moon for a description of the events of this agitating night. A cooler head and a steadier hand than mine have made the record, and all that I have to do is to vouch for its accuracy.

CHAPTER LIX.

FROM THE COLUMNS OF THE "THE EVENING MOON," UNDER THE HEADING, "THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX SOLVED."

"The stirring incidents of a great city are so numerous, and so pressing in their demands upon the space of the local papers, that it occasionally happens that incidents as stirring and exciting which occur at a distance from the Metropolis are either overlooked or dismissed in a short paragraph at the bottom of a column. This happened in a trial for murder which took place in the Midland Circuit, and, were it not that this particular case bears directly upon the mystery known as The Mystery of M. Felix, its remarkable features would probably have escaped notice in the Metropolitan journals. The circumstances of the case, so far as they were known to the public on the day on which the trial took place, are as simple as they are singular. A man was found murdered in Deering Woods. He was a stranger in the neighborhood, and nothing was found on him which could establish his identity. His pockets were empty, and his underclothing was unmarked. He met his death by a shot fired from a revolver, and the bullet was extracted from his body. In the same woods on the same night a man suspected of the murder was taken into custody. He had in his possession a six-barrelled revolver, and one of the barrels had been discharged. Upon being questioned he refused to answer, but looked vacantly about him. The bullet which was extracted from the body of the murdered man fitted the discharged barrel, and was similar to the bullets, with which the remaining five barrels were loaded. The accused, who was properly committed for trial, was, like the victim, a stranger in the neighborhood, and bore about him nothing that could lead to his identification. His silence was a suspicious element in the charge against him, and the revolver with which the deed was done being found upon him, there was little room for doubt that he was the murderer. What the motive for the crime could have been it is impossible to say; if it were robbery the stolen property was carefully hidden away, for no traces of it were discovered. The evidence was simple, but appeared to be complete, and the accused lay in prison until the Assizes, which were held soon after he was committed. At the trial he preserved the same stubborn silence as he had maintained before the magistrate. Asked to plead, he made no answer, and a plea of not guilty was recorded. He had no counsel, and one was assigned to him. The young barrister to whom the defence was entrusted had a difficult task before him. He could obtain not the least assistance from the prisoner, who stood in the dock apparently unconcerned regarding his fate. But it is said that there could occasionally have been observed on his features a pitiful expression, which aroused the sympathy of the spectators. This expression has been described by an onlooker as that of a man who had borne the cruellest and bitterest of buffets in his course through life, and who had been brought to a pass in which he looked upon death as the kindest mercy which could be meted out to him. There were women in court who sobbed as they gazed upon his sad and hopeless face, and yet could not have accounted for their tears on any other ground than those of unreasoning sentiment. That this mute and unconscious appeal had a powerful effect upon the jury will be seen a little further on; it certainly led them to act in a manner which is perhaps unprecedented in a trial for murder in an English court of justice. It will be seen that there were very few witnesses. The surgeon who extracted the bullet, a gun-maker who testified that the barrel had been recently discharged, and that the bullet was one of six with which the weapon had been loaded, the constables who arrested the prisoner--these were all that were called for the prosecution. The Crown counsel elicited all the facts in a fair and impartial manner, and it was evident that he considered the case conclusive. The cross-examination was skilfully conducted, severe tests being applied to the evidence respecting the bullet; but the witnesses remained unshaken. The cross-examination of the constables was directed principally to the demeanor and conduct of the prisoner. Did he make any resistance?--No. When he was arrested, was he endeavoring to make his escape?--It did not appear so; he was wandering through the woods. Was it, to all appearance, an aimless wandering?--Yes. Did he make any excuses for, or give any explanation of his presence in the woods?--He did not utter a single word. Did he endeavor to hide or get rid of the revolver?--No. For the defence a physician who had examined the prisoner was called. His testimony was to the effect that the prisoner was afflicted with melancholia, and that his mind was in such a condition as to render him irresponsible for his actions. It was clear that the line set up for the defence was that the prisoner was insane. The cross-examination of the physician somewhat damaged the weight of his evidence. Did he base his belief that the prisoner was afflicted with melancholia and was not responsible for his actions on the circumstance of his refusing to speak?--Partly, but only to a slight extent. Had he not met in his professional experiences with cases in which persons accused of crime preserved an obstinate and dogged silence for the express purpose of being considered insane and irresponsible?--Yes, there had been such cases. Scanty as was the evidence it occupied several hours. Counsel for the defence made an eloquent and impassioned defence on the plea of irresponsibility and insanity, and then the prosecuting counsel addressed the jury. He dealt in hard and plain facts; he spoke coldly and without passion; he refused to entertain the line of the defence, and said it was more than likely that the prisoner's demeanor proceeded from a cunning nature, and that he hoped by this means to escape the consequences of a ruthless murder committed in cold blood. The Judge, who said that there was no reason why the trial should not be concluded that night, and that the Court would sit late to receive the verdict, summed up dead against the prisoner. Following in the train of the counsel for the Crown, he laid down the law in the clearest manner, and he directed the jury to consider certain issues and be guided by them, and to perform conscientiously the duty for which they were called together. At a quarter to ten o'clock the jury retired, and the Judge left the court, with directions that he should be called when the jury returned.

"It was at this stage of the inquiry that the case promised to assume a new aspect. Our reporter, Mr. Agnold, with whom our readers are acquainted, and to whom the public are indebted for the light thrown upon the Mystery of M. Felix, entered the court in the company of the young girl, Sophy, and immediately fell into earnest conversation with the counsel for the defence. Their conversation lasted a considerable time, during which the counsel took copious notes, breaking off occasionally to put questions to Sophy, who answered them readily. Once the counsel turned Sophy's attention to the prisoner, and she moved toward him. He, turning, saw her, and greeted her with a smile of much sweetness, to which she pitifully responded. This sign of mutual recognition, indicating as it did an acquaintanceship between the prisoner and the young girl, heightened to fever-pitch the interest and excitement of the spectators, but before any explanation of the incident could be given, the return of the jury was announced. Almost at the same moment the Judge made his appearance. The names of the jury were about to be called out, when the counsel for the defence rose for the purpose of making a remark, but was desired by the Judge to resume his seat until the verdict of the jury was given.

"Counsel for the defence: 'If your Lordship knew the importance of the observations I wish to make----'

"The Judge: 'I must request you to be seated until we have done with the jury. Then I will hear you.'

"The jury having answered to their names, were asked if they had agreed upon a verdict; whereupon the following conversation took place:

"The Foreman of the Jury: 'My Lord, the jury wish me to say that they are morally convinced that the prisoner is not guilty.'

"The Judge: 'That is not a verdict. It is not a question of being morally convinced; it is a question of being legally convinced.'

"The Foreman: 'But the jury have the strongest moral doubts, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'They would not be sufficient to lead to a verdict. The doubts must be legal doubts. It is not for me to influence you one way or another. I have put the facts of the case before you, and it is upon those facts you must decide and pronounce your verdict.'

"The Foreman (after a brief consultation with his brother jurymen): 'Our verdict, my Lord, is Not guilty.'

"The Judge: 'Upon what grounds have you arrived at your verdict?'

"The Foreman: 'Upon the grounds of moral conviction, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'It is my duty to tell you again that those grounds are insufficient. Sentiment has nothing whatever to do with a criminal case. I must request you to retire and reconsider your verdict.'

"The Foreman: 'With all respect, my Lord, it is useless. We have resolved to return no other verdict than the one we have given, and upon the grounds I have stated.'

"Several of the jury gave audible assent to their foreman's words.

"The Judge: 'I cannot receive your verdict, accompanied by your statement. You will retire and give the matter further consideration.'

"The Foreman: 'If we are locked up all night, my Lord, we shall return no other verdict.'

"The Judge: 'I do not wish to be harsh or oppressive. Equally with yourselves I have a duty to perform. If you do not rightly comprehend any part of the evidence, say so, and I will explain it to you.'

"The Foreman: 'We have no doubts, my Lord. We understand the evidence thoroughly.'

"The Judge: 'Oh, if you cannot agree----'

"The Foreman: 'We are thoroughly agreed, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'You will retire.'

"The jury were then conducted out of court.

"The Judge, addressing counsel for the defence: 'I am ready to hear you now.'

"Counsel: 'My Lord, during your Lordship's absence from court, while the jury were considering their verdict, the most important revelations have been made to me.'

"The Judge: 'Bearing upon this case?'

"Counsel: 'Bearing directly upon this case. Two persons are present now, who, if I had been able to call them, would have thrown an entirely different light upon the case. One of them is personally acquainted with the prisoner, the other does not know him personally, but knows his name.'

"The Judge 'The Crown is not represented. The learned counsel is not in court. I cannot now hear statements from other persons; but you can go on with your statement. His name is known, you say?'

"Counsel: 'Yes, my Lord. It is Gerald Paget.'

At this mention of his name the prisoner became violently agitated. His countenance was convulsed, and he stretched forth his arms, which trembled from excess of emotion.

"The Judge: 'The prisoner appears to be ill. Is there a doctor in court?'

"The prisoner (speaking for the first time): 'I am not ill. I want to hear what he has to say.'

"Counsel: 'For nineteen years he has been supposed to be dead, and, in pursuance of a diabolical plot, has been confined in a private madhouse as another person. It is this cruel imprisonment which has reduced him to the condition in which we now see him.'

"The Judge: 'Your statement is an extraordinary one.'

"Counsel: 'I shall be able, my Lord, to establish its truth, and the truth of other facts as extraordinary. The strange story which has been revealed to me is too lengthy and complicated to narrate at this hour, but if your Lordship will adjourn until to-morrow I undertake to prove the unfortunate prisoner's innocence, and also the guilt of the man who should now be standing in his place.'

"The Judge: 'Is the man known? Can he be found?'

"Counsel: 'He is known, and is now in prison under another charge which is directly connected with the murder for which the prisoner has been tried.'

"The Judge: 'If your statements are true the case is unprecedented.'

"Counsel: 'It is, my Lord. The person who is guilty of the murder was the prisoner's keeper. There has hitherto been no identification of the murdered man; I am now in a position to prove who he was. He bore the name of Leonard Paget.'

"The Judge: 'Paget is the name of the prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'They were half brothers. There is a question of property involved.'

"An officer of the court here presented himself, and said that the jury wished to speak to the judge.

"The Judge: 'Let them be brought in.'

"Upon this being done, the Judge asked the foreman what he had to say.

"The Foreman: 'It is simply, my Lord, that there is not the remotest possibility of our returning any other verdict than that we have delivered, and in the precise terms in which we have delivered it. There is not the slightest difference of opinion between us; we are absolutely unanimous.'

"The Judge: 'As I have already told you, it is no verdict. Officer, what is that noise?'

"Counsel: 'Witnesses from London have just arrived, my Lord, who are ready to prove the truth of the statements I have made.'

"An extraordinary scene ensued. One of the newly-arrived witnesses was a lady, whose eyes travelled round the court, and finally rested upon the prisoner. In this lady our readers will have no difficulty in recognizing Emilia Paget The moment she saw the prisoner a look of incredulous joy sprang into her eyes.

"'Merciful God!' she cried. 'Has the dead returned to life? Am I awake or dreaming?'

"The Prisoner, with a wild scream: 'Emilia!'

"Emilia: 'It is his voice! Gerald! Gerald!'

"She rushed to the prisoner, and no attempt was made to restrain her. Throwing her arms round his neck she drew his head down to her breast. Convulsive sobs shook their frames.

"Counsel, solemnly: 'My Lord, the prisoner is this lady's husband, whom she has mourned as dead for nineteen years.'

"The Foreman of the Jury: 'My Lord, if anything was needed to prove the justice of our verdict, the proof is now supplied.'

"The Judge: 'You are discharged. The Court is adjourned. Remove the prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'My Lord, my Lord! May not this afflicted couple be allowed a few minutes' intercourse?'

"The Judge: 'I leave it to the discretion of the officers in charge of the prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'Direct them my lord. Say that it may be allowed.'

"The Judge: 'It may be allowed. But all the persons not directly concerned in this unparalleled case must retire.'

"Slowly and reluctantly the spectators left the court in a state of indescribable excitement."

CHAPTER LX.

ROBERT AGNOLD'S LAST WORDS.

I resume and conclude the Mystery of M. Felix in my own person. What transpired after the incidents of that exciting night is soon related. Before Gerald Paget was released Dr. Peterssen was put on his trial for the murder. The minor charge of his attempt upon Sophy's life and mine was set aside, and was only incidentally referred to in the evidence and speech of the prosecuting counsel. Guilt was never more clearly proved than his. The revolver with which the murder was committed was the same he had purloined from the rooms in Gerard Street, when he sent Mrs. Middlemore upon a false errand to the Bow Street Police Court. On this head Mrs. Middlemore's evidence was valuable; but my evidence on the point was still more valuable. The initial "F." I had scratched on the metal, and the entry I had made in my pocket book, "A Colt's double-action revolver, nickel-plated, 6 shots, No. 819," enabled me to swear positively to the weapon. Peterssen's own confession of guilt to me when Sophy and I were imprisoned in the cavern in Deering Woods was fatal, and Sophy, who was one of the two heroines of this celebrated trial, won the admiration of all England by the manner in which she gave her evidence. It was imperative that Emilia should be called, and she narrated with great feeling all the circumstances of her brief but fateful acquaintance with Peterssen during the honeymoon tour in Switzerland. There was found upon Peterssen a large sum of money in bank notes, and the manager of the bank in which the murdered man, under the name of M. Felix, kept his account, proved, by the numbers on the notes, that they had been paid to Peterssen's victim across the bank counter. Another witness called was George Street's father, upon whom Peterssen had so long and so successfully imposed. He testified that Gerald Paget was not his son, and said that on every occasion on which he desired to see the patient, Peterssen had declared that a fatal result would be the certain consequence of an interview. Gerald Paget was brought into court, but he was so weak and ill that his evidence could not be taken. The case, however, was complete without him. There was practically no defence; the jury debated for a few minutes only, and brought in a verdict of guilty; the villain was sentenced, and he paid the penalty of his crimes. For Leonard Paget, alias M. Felix, no pity was expressed; the fate he had met with was richly deserved.

Needless to say that the case excited immense interest, and it was universally admitted that its sensational disclosures were without parallel in the history of crime. I may mention that Crawley was not traced; up to this day he has succeeded in concealing himself; but his hour will come.

After all was said and done, I think that Sophy held rank as the heroine of the mystery. A daily paper suggested that a subscription should be got up for her; to this suggestion practical effect was given, and money flowed in from all ranks and classes of people. Close upon a thousand pounds were subscribed; so Sophy is rich. Fame has not turned her head. She said to me but yesterday, "I ain't proud; not a bit of it. Whenever you want me, Mr. Agnold, you'll find me ready." In time she will improve in her language, and one day she may be really a lady.

The words Sophy addressed to me were spoken in Geneva, where these lines are being written. The wedding of Constance Paget and M. Julian Bordier took place yesterday, and we were invited to it. The father of the bride was present. The rescue from his living tomb, the new and happier life, and the care and devotion of his wife Emilia, upon whose sweet face he never tires of gazing, has already brought about a great change for the better, and confident hopes are entertained that before long his reason will be permanently restored. It is pleasant to be able to record that the kind and skilful oculist who had given evidence in what I may call the marriage certificate case has made a cure of M. Julian Bordier. He can see, and the terror of blindness no longer afflicts him.

This morning the oculist (who gave himself a week's holiday to attend the wedding) and I had a chat about M. Felix, whose supposed death in Gerard Street, Soho, caused so great a sensation. He has been hunting up cases of suspended animation, and he read to me half a dozen, each of which lasted for a much longer time than M. Felix's. Since Peterssen's trial there has been a great deal written in newspapers and magazines concerning these instances of apparent death, and wonder has been expressed that, upon M. Felix's disappearance, no one thought it was likely that he had gone through such an experience. My answer to this expression of wonder is that it is easy to be wise after the event.

While we were engaged in our conversation, the oculist and I were sitting at a window of the house which Constance and her husband are to occupy when they return from their honeymoon. The window overlooks a garden in which Emilia and Gerald are walking.

"A good and sweet woman," said the oculist, smiling at Emilia, who had looked up and smiled at us. "She deserves happiness."

"She will have it," I said. "The clouds have disappeared from her life. Her trials are over."

THE END.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mystery of M. Felix, by B. L. Farjeon

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX

B. L. FARJEON

NEW YORK JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 150 Worth Street, Corner Mission Place

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX.

CONTENTS

THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

BOOK SECOND. A LIFE DRAMA: LINKS IN THE MYSTERY.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHAPTER XL.

CHAPTER XLI.

CHAPTER XLII.

BOOK THIRD. WHAT BECAME OF M. FELIX, AS RELATED IN THE FIRST PERSON BY ROBERT AGNOLD, ON THE REPORTING STAFF OF THE "EVENING MOON."

CHAPTER XLIII.

CHAPTER XLIV.

CHAPTER XLV.

CHAPTER XLVI.

CHAPTER XLVII.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

CHAPTER XLIX.

CHAPTER L.

CHAPTER LI.

CHAPTER LII.

CHAPTER LIII.

CHAPTER LIV.

CHAPTER LV.

CHAPTER LVI.

CHAPTER LVII.

CHAPTER LVIII.

CHAPTER LIX.

CHAPTER LX.

THE END.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE