The Mystery of M. Felix

"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."