The Mystery of M. Felix

"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.