The Mystery of M. Felix

"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?"