The Mystery of M. Felix

There were sounds of movement outside our prison house, if house it was, sounds of scraping feet and falling stones. I strained my ears. Nearer and nearer came these sounds, until they were within a few feet of me in my rear, but I was so securely bound that I could not turn my head. One word was spoken in the form of a question:

"Alive?"

The voice was that of Dr. Peterssen. I had never heard it, but I would have staked my hopes of release upon the issue. Not by the faintest moan did Sophy or I answer this ruthless question. A match was struck, a candle was lighted, and Dr. Peterssen stood between us, holding the candle above his head: With malicious significance he put the candle close to poor Sophy's face, then close to mine, and waved his left hand as though he were introducing us to each other. I gazed at Sophy, who was as little able to move as I was myself, and the tears came into my eyes as I noted the absence of reproach in her observance of me. Indeed, her expression was one of pity, and not for herself.

"Touching, isn't it?" asked Dr. Peterssen, and then cried savagely, "You pair of beauties! You reap what you have sown!"

By the dim light I perceived that we were in a kind of cave, the entrance to which was at the back of us, and I judged that the cavity was low down one of the dangerous cliffs of which we had been warned. After his attack upon us Dr. Peterssen must have carried us here and buried us alive, as it were. I subsequently learned that my surmise was correct, and that I had hit upon the exact method of our imprisonment.

Dr. Peterssen stuck the candle, in a niche, and approached me.

"Would you like to be free to speak?" he inquired. "If so, move your head."

I moved my head.

"You will not shout?" he continued. "You will not cry for help? Move your head again, and I accept it as your word of honor. You are a gentleman, and would not forfeit it." There was a frightful scorn in his voice when he referred to me as a gentleman.

I moved my head again, and he took the gag from my mouth.

"Raise your voice above its natural tone, and I cut this beauty's fingers off."

He took a clasp-knife from his pocket and opened the blade. It was sharp, it was bright, and I knew he would keep his word.

"A drink of water," I murmured.

"I have it here. Drink." He held an uncorked bottle to my lips.

"Not for me," I said. "For her."

"You will drink first," he said; "then she shall have her turn. If you refuse neither of you shall touch it."

I drank, and I saw that Sophy closed her eyes while I did so. Nectar was never so sweet as that long draught, for he did not stint me. Then he replaced the gag in my mouth, and removing Sophy's, went through the same process with her.

"That's jolly," said Sophy, faintly.

"Yes," said the scoundrel, "you will be very jolly by the time I have done with you. Listen to me. You clever couple are as completely in my power as if we were on a desert island. Not a human being is within miles of us. To show you how little I care for your cries, I free both your tongues." Once more he took the gag from my mouth. "Only if you speak too loudly, each shall suffer for the other. I will cut you to pieces before each other's eyes if you disobey me. So my clever little beauty, you came into my house as a dumb girl. Are you dumb? Answer-quick!"

"No, I ain't," said Sophy; "you know that as well as I do."

"But you played your part well-I will say that of you-and went about like a sly mute, eyes and ears open, ready for treachery. If I had suspected, you would never have got out alive. Answer my questions, and answer them truthfully, if you do not wish to be tortured to death. Did you steal the desk?" Sophy was silent; he laid the keen blade of the knife he held on her face. "Answer!"

"Answer him, Sophy," I said, fearing for the child.

"Yes," she said, "I did steal the desk."

"Who set you on?"

"I did," I replied, quickly. "She is not to blame. Upon me should fall the punishment, not upon her."

"It shall fall upon both of you, and upon your comrade who brought her to me, if only I can lay hands on him. There was a secret in that desk, was there not? Don't keep me waiting too long."

"There was," I said.

"Did you find it?"

"Not I, but another found it."

"Your friend, and that sharp-witted gentleman from Switzerland. A copy of a marriage certificate, was it not?"

"Yes."

"To think," he said bitterly, "that that fool should have had the desk in his possession all these years, and never discovered it? He is rightly served. He can play no fool's tricks where he is now.

"He is dead?" I said.

"He is dead. I killed him, as I intend to kill you, only yours will be a longer and more lingering death. Do you think my confession injudicious? You are mistaken. You will never more see the light of day; you will never more set eyes upon a human being but myself. You are here, in a tomb. This is your grave. I can afford to be candid with you. Open speaking is a luxury in which I can freely indulge. Here, eat." He fed us with hard dry bread, and we both ate ravenously, he watching us the while with malignant eyes. "Am I not a merciful jailer? But I don't want you to die just yet. You shall suffer still more. Tell me why you have been hunting me down?"

"I was engaged in befriending a much-injured lady."

"You had better have looked after your own business, and left me to manage my own unmolested. A much-injured lady? Christian name, Emilia?"

"Yes. I cannot injure her by answering you truthfully. She has powerful friends near her who are capable of protecting her."

"Doubtless. Something more was discovered through this little witch here, was there not? Remember what I have threatened you with. The truth I will have, if I have to cut it out of your heart. What more have you discovered?"

"To what do you refer?"

"I had a patient-I speak in the past tense, because I have given up business-concerning whom you entertained some curiosity. You know who that patient was. His name? Quick!" He touched Sophy's hand with the point of his knife, and drew blood. She never winced.

To save the poor girl, I answered, "Gerald Paget."

"Good. These compelling measures are admirable. But do not think you are telling me news. I can find my way through a maze as well as most people. It is in my power to give you some interesting information. For instance as to where this Gerald Paget is at the present moment."

"You have not disposed of him, then," I ventured to say.

"Oh, no. Another kind of death is in store for him. He is in prison for the murder of a gentleman unknown to the law, but known to us as Leonard Paget, to many others as M. Felix."

I repressed the indignant words that rose to my lips. Dr. Peterssen smiled and continued: "It is a remarkable complication. A man is found dead in Deering Woods, shot through the heart. This man is Leonard Paget, alias M. Felix. There is found upon his person nothing that can lead to his identity. The murder is perpetrated at a distance from London, and no one suspects there can be any connection between the murdered man and the M. Felix who so mysteriously disappeared from the purlieus of Soho. The last whose suspicions are likely to be roused are Emilia Paget-I am courteous enough, you see, to call her by her right name-and her friends. Wrapped up in their own concerns, a murder so remote has no interest for them. And murders are common. They occur all over the country. The housekeeper who attended upon M. Felix would be able to identify him, but what should bring her into this part of the world? So far, you must acknowledge, I have managed fairly well, and if it had not been for your meddling I should be safe. Curse you! But I am even with you now."

"I do not expect you to answer me," I said, "but how is it that the unfortunate gentleman whom you and your confederate have so sorely oppressed has to answer for a crime which you perpetrated?"

"Why should I not answer you? What passes in this grave will never be known, and I can afford to be magnanimous. The fool you pity was found near the body, in possession of the pistol with which the deed was done. Give me credit for that little manœuvre."

"Does he not declare his innocence?"

"He declares nothing. The small spark of reason which was left to him is extinguished, and he utters no word. His silence, his vacant looks, are proofs of guilt. They will make short work with him. He will be committed for trial; the assizes are near, and he will be tried and condemned. No living persons but ourselves can establish his innocence. If you were free you could accomplish it, but you never will be free. Fret your heart out. It will be a pleasure to me to witness your sufferings."

"Retribution will fall upon you," I said. "Your presence here convinces me that you are yourself in danger."

"I should be if I walked abroad, but I have disappeared. In this charming retreat I propose to hide till Gerald Paget is done for. Then, the interest of the affair at an end, I can provide for my own safety. Meanwhile, I can manage, at odd times, to purchase food enough to keep things going. Already I have in stock a few tins of preserved provisions, a supply of biscuits, some bread, spirits to warm me, tobacco to cheer me-to be smoked only at nights. Trust me for neglecting no precautions. It is not a life a gentleman would choose, but I am driven to it-by you." He filled his pipe and lit it.

"Is it night now?" I said.

"It is night now. I am fond of society; that is the reason I spare you for the present. When you have served my turn I will rid myself of you."

"Have you no pity?"

"None."

"If we refuse the food you offer us, if we prefer to die, at once, we can deprive you of the pleasure of torturing us."

"You can suit yourself. My experience is that life is sweet; hope lives eternal, you know. You can amuse yourself with the hope that you have still a chance. Do so; it is immaterial to me. I know what the end will be. Be silent now; you have talked enough."

He examined our fastenings to see that they were secure, and then he gagged us. Before he did so, however, I said to Sophy:

"Can you forgive me, my dear, for bringing this upon you?"

"There ain't nothink to forgive," she replied. "If I've got to die I'll die game."

Dr. Peterssen laughed sardonically, and did not give me time to say another word. The spirit of the child amazed me; she was of the stuff of which heroes are made. "If by a fortunate chance," I thought, "we escape the deadly danger which holds us fast she shall be richly rewarded." I saw no hope of escape, but I would cling to life to the last. Dr. Peterssen was right in his conjecture; I would not hasten the doom with which we were threatened, and which seemed inevitable. I slept fitfully, and in my intervals of wakefulness I judged from Sophy's regular breathing that she slept more peacefully than I. I was thankful for that. Where our gaoler took his rest I do not know. He did not disturb us for many hours. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and when I fully awoke I could dimly see Sophy's face. She could see me too, for when I smiled at her she smiled at me in return. Clearly it was Dr. Peterssen's intention to keep us alive for some time at least. He gave us bread and biscuits to eat and water to drink. Days passed in this miserable way and if I do not dwell upon them it is because I have little that is new to relate. Occasionally Dr. Peterssen allowed us to talk, and bandied words with us for his own malicious gratification. I asked him once whether we could purchase our release.

"You would give a large sum for it," he said.

"All that I possess in the world," I answered.

"If it could be done with safety to myself," he said, "I would entertain the offer; but you know as well as I do that it could not be so done."

"Why not?" I asked.

"You would betray me."

"I will swear a solemn oath that your name shall never pass my lips."

"An oath that you would break at the first convenient opportunity. You are a man with a conscience, and you would hasten to prove the innocence of Gerald Paget. How would you accomplish that without mention of my name? Come, now-air your sophistry, and see if you can persuade me to act like an idiot. As for money, I am well supplied. When I am rid of you and this stubborn little witch I mean to enjoy myself in another country."

He pulled out a bundle of bank-notes, and flourished them before my eyes. I thought of Bob's words that M. Felix kept always a large sum of money on his person, and I knew that the notes had once been his. Our gaoler took pride in such like acts of ostentatious candor, to show how completely he had us in his power and how little he had to fear from us. I cannot say at what period of our imprisonment I fell into a stupor which would have lasted till the hour of my death had Dr. Peterssen's fell intentions succeeded. It seemed to last for an eternity of days and nights, and in the few intervals of consciousness which came to me I prayed that I might not grow mad. Sometimes I heard Dr. Peterssen's voice as he forced water and sopped biscuit down my throat. I had no desire to refuse the food, but my strength was gone, and it was with difficulty that I could swallow. I could have borne my fate better had it not been that Sophy was never absent from my mind. Sleeping or waking I thought of her, and my misery was increased tenfold. I remember an occasion when I whispered to Dr. Peterssen:

"Is she still alive?"

"She is still alive," he said with a brutal laugh. "She has the pluck and strength of a dozen men."

Those were the last words he addressed to me, in my remembrance, nor do I remember speaking to him again. Delirious fancies held possession of me, and although I must have had periods of utter insensibility I do not recall them. I could not now distinguish the real from the unreal. I heard voices that did not speak; I saw pictures that had no existence; I passed through experiences as intangible as the gloom which encompassed us. All the people I knew, but chiefly those with whom I had been lately associated, played their parts in my wild fancies. The scene on the Thames Embankment with Emilia, my midnight visit to her daughter Constance, my adventures with Sophy, the episodes in the police court and M. Felix's chambers, my journeys to and fro in search of clews to the mystery, the introduction of Bob Tucker into the affair, all these and every other incident associated with my championship of a wronged and injured lady, took new and monstrous forms in my disordered imagination. I grew weaker and weaker. Surely the end must soon come.

It came. There were loud shouts and cries, and voices raised in menace, terror, and defiance. These sounds conjured up a host of confused forms struggling around me. A hand touched my face, an arm was passed round my neck; my head lay upon a man's shoulder.

"Agnold!"

My mouth, my limbs, were free, but I could not speak, I could not move.

"Agnold! Don't you hear me? It's Bob-Bob Tucker! I've found you at last-you're saved! Speak one word to me; move your head, to show you understand me."

I smiled feebly; I had had so many of these dreams; I did not open my eyes.

"Great God! Have I come too late? Oh, you black-hearted villain, your life shall pay for it!"

Gentle hands raised my head. My eyes, my face, were bathed with cold water; a few drops of weak spirits were poured into my mouth, which I swallowed with difficulty. Surely there was here no delusion!

"That's right, Agnold; that's right old friend. We'll soon pull you round. You are too weak to speak-I see that. But don't you want to hear about Sophy?"

Sophy? I strove to struggle to my feet, and fell back into the friendly arms ready to receive me. I opened my eyes; they fell upon Bob, who smiled and nodded at me. If this was delusion then, indeed, I was mad.

"For God's sake don't deceive me, Bob!" He must have followed my words in the movement of my lips, for sound scarcely issued from them. "This is real. You are my friend, Bob Tucker?"

"I am your friend, Bob Tucker, who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail for not having found you before. But I am in time, and I thank God for it!"

"You spoke of Sophy?" I did not dare to ask the question which was in my mind.

"I did. Your voice is getting stronger already. She's all right. Don't you fret about her."

"I want to know the solemn truth, Bob. She lives?"

"She lives. It is the solemn and happy truth, dear friend. She is near you at the present moment."

"Bring her close to me. Let me touch her hand."

It was placed in mine and guided to my lips. I kissed it, and a weak voice stole upon my ears:

"I am as well as well can be, Mr. Agnold! I'll dance yer a hornpipe if yer like!"

"My brave girl-my dear, brave Sophy! O God, I thank Thee!"

Then everything faded from my sight and I heard nothing more.

CHAPTER LVIII.

FRIENDS TO THE RESCUE

Sophy and I were lying on two couches placed so that my eyes could rest upon her face. A day and a night had elapsed since our rescue, and I had gained strength surprisingly. With the help of Bob I had dressed myself in the afternoon, and seeing that the exertion had nearly exhausted me he insisted upon my lying down on a couch. I, on my part, upon learning that Sophy had also with assistance dressed herself, in "spick and span new clothes," as she afterwards informed me, insisted feebly but firmly that she should be brought into my room, so there we were, gazing at each other, and rapidly recovering from the terrible ordeal through which we had passed. Warm baths, an entire change of clothing, rest in a soft bed-surely the clean sheets were the most delicious that mortal ever lay between-nourishing food, and the blessed sense of safety, had done wonders for us. Bob had refused with stern kindness to give me any account of his movements until I was in a fit condition to listen to him, and it was not until this day that he consented to place me in possession of the facts. His statement, up to a certain point, will be best explained in his own words.

"Two days having passed," he said, "without hearing from you, I became anxious. The last letter I received from you was written in Monkshead, and in it you informed me that you were going farther on, but you did not mention the name of the place for which you were bound. As you had left Monkshead, it was useless my wiring or writing to you there, so I was compelled to wait your pleasure. Of course, in these circumstances, one always thinks that a letter has gone wrong, and as no other arrived I inferred that you had given me some information of your movements in the supposed missing letter, without which I had no idea what to do. At length I came to the conclusion that you had returned to London, and I determined to follow you. Even if I did not see you there, I might learn from your family or friends something which would enlighten me as to where you were, and what you were doing. Your family had not heard from you, and as they did not appear in any anxiety concerning you, I said nothing, you may be sure, that would cause them alarm. Then I sought an interview with the lady whose cause you espoused, and whom should I meet with her but M. Bordier. He was the soul of politeness, and I could not fail to be impressed by the radiant happiness which shone in the lady's face. I ascribed this joyful expression to the document which M. Bordier had found in the secret drawer of the desk, the particulars of which he had jealously concealed from me. Neither he nor the lady had heard from you. 'We hope to see him soon,' the lady said, 'to thank him for his wonderful kindness to us.' Before I left them M. Bordier drew me aside, and expressed a hope that I would do nothing to make public what had transpired with respect to the purloining of the desk, and the discovery of an important document in it. 'I assure you,' he said, 'that it is entirely a private matter, and that publicity would cause the deepest pain to unoffending persons.' I replied that I should do nothing of my own accord, and that the matter rested with you, and you alone. He thanked me, and we parted."

I interrupted Bob here. "Did M. Bordier make no reference to a trial in which he had been involved?"

"Nothing."

"Have you read of no trial in which his name appears?"

"No. Let me finish first; you will have plenty to tell me when I have done. From M. Bordier I went to the office of the Evening Moon, and was equally unsuccessful in obtaining news of you. Somewhat puzzled I made my way back to the neighborhood of Tylney House, and thence went on to Monkshead. I had no particular fears for your safety, but I resolved, if possible, to track you. It was only on the second day of my arrival at Monkshead that I obtained news which led me to believe you had gone to Deering. Away I posted to Deering, and there I learned that you had gone to Glasserton, on what errand was not known. The landlord's daughter had shown you a short cut through the woods. I took the high road, as less likely to mislead me: but I may mention that before I started from Deering the girl who directed you informed me that only you and a young girl had gone to Glasserton. What, then, had become of Crawley? At Glasserton I heard that two persons answering to the description of you and Sophy had been in the village, that you had remained but a few hours, and had then started back toward Deering. I immediately returned to Deering, but you had not reappeared there. It was then that a fear of foul play flashed upon me; it was then and then only that I began to fear for your safety. There had been a mysterious murder committed in Deering Woods, and the murderer was committed for trial-"

"My God!" I cried.

Strange as it may appear, I had not until this moment thought of the murder which had been perpetrated in the woods. Heaven knows it was not from indifference that this lapse of memory had occurred to me, and I can only ascribe my forgetfulness to the intensity of my misery for several days past, during which I had been completely and entirely engrossed in the frightful sufferings I had endured. But now Bob's reference to the foul deed brought Gerald Paget's peril to my mind. I was so terribly excited that Bob caught hold of me in alarm, for I had started from my couch and was swaying to and fro on my feet.

"In Heaven's name," exclaimed Bob, "what is the matter with you?"

"Do not ask questions," I said, speaking with feverish haste, "but answer mine, and follow any instructions I may give you. The murderer is committed for trial, you say. Has the trial taken place?"

"It is taking place now," replied Bob, speaking as rapidly as I did; the contagion of my excitement had seized him. "The Assizes are on."

"What is the time?"

"Five minutes past four."

"When did the trial commence?"

"This morning, I heard."

"Is it over?"

"I do not know."

"Will it take you long to ascertain how it is proceeding?"

"I might do it in half an hour."

"Do it, in less time if you can, I am not mad, Bob; I am as sane as you are. This is a matter of life and death, and, God forgive me, I have allowed it to escape me. One more question. You have not spoken of Dr. Peterssen. Where is he?"

"In prison, under arrest."

"That is good news. Go now, quickly-and send the landlord up to me immediately, with some telegraph forms."

He hastened from the room, and in a very short time the landlord made his appearance. The vital necessity of immediate action had inspired me with strength of mind if not with strength of body, and my mental powers were quickened and sharpened by the crisis. I had settled upon my plan of action, and when the landlord handed me the telegraph forms I wrote the messages I wished to send with celerity and clearness. The most urgent and lengthy of these telegrams was addressed to M. Bordier, and in it I implored him to come to me without a moment's delay, and to bring Emilia with him. I told him that the husband whose death Emilia had so long mourned was now on a trial for murder of which he was innocent, that I had been mercifully rescued myself from a cruel death and held in my hands proofs of Gerald Paget's innocence, and that my case would be strengthened by the presence of Emilia and himself. I requested him to acknowledge my telegram the instant he received it, and to say when I might expect him to join me; it was imperative that there should not be the least delay, and he was to spare no expense in attending to my instructions. In addition to this telegram I despatched messages to my mother, to the editor of the Evening Moon, and to Mrs. Middlemore. Without further detail I may say that I did everything in my power to bring the persons to my side whose presence I considered necessary for the work before me, and my despatches were winging to London before Bob returned. He reported that the case for the prosecution was not yet concluded, that it was expected that the defence would be brief, and that the summing up of the judge would occupy some time. It was almost certain that the verdict would not be delivered until to-morrow. Counsel had been deputed by the judge to defend the prisoner, who throughout the trial had maintained a strange silence, which some ascribed to obstinacy, and others to aberration of intellect. Having heard what Bob had to say, I addressed a letter to the counsel for the defence, urging him at the adjournment of the case, to call upon me immediately, as I had news to communicate to him of the highest importance to the prisoner. My letter despatched, there was nothing more to do for at least a couple of hours, and I consented to listen to the completion of Bob's narrative. When he heard that a murder had been committed in Deering Woods fears for my safety flashed upon him, and he went to see the body of the murdered man. He was greatly relieved to find that the body was that of a stranger-(it must be borne in mind here that he had never set eyes on M. Felix during that man's lifetime) – but it did not dispel his fears. I had started back to Deering through the woods, and from that moment neither I nor Sophy had been heard of. He determined to remain on the spot and keep watch about the woods, in the hope of discovering what had happened to me. The idea of foul play between Deering and Glasserton had taken morbid possession of him, and he did not attempt to banish it. Day after day he searched and watched without result, until one night he saw a man walking stealthily through the woods with provisions he must have purchased somewhere in the neighborhood. The stealthy movements of this man aroused Bob's suspicions, but although he followed him warily the man suddenly disappeared. This circumstance strengthened Bob's suspicions, and, with or without reason, he now came to the conclusion that the man, whose movements proclaimed that he was engaged in an unlawful proceeding, had something to do with my disappearance. He hired two men to watch with him, and at length his efforts were rewarded. The man was seen again at night creeping stealthily through the woods; again he disappeared at the same spot as on the previous occasion. It was at the edge of the fallen cliffs that this took place, and the men Bob had hired, who were more intimate with the locality than their employer, pointed out a downward track which bore marks of having been recently used. This track was noiselessly followed, with the result already recorded. Sophy and I were saved.