The Mystery of M. Felix

"'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.'