"The Inspector conducted our reporter to a small room adjoining the court, in which the previous day's charges were still being tried, and pointing to a bundle on the table, said:
"'This was found in the river, near Cleopatra's Needle. It has been opened and tied up again, in order that you might see it in its original form.'
"'In what way do you suppose it concerns me?' asked our reporter, with an assumption of indifference, but moving nevertheless to the table and proceeding to undo the knots in the bundle.
"'The presumption is,' replied the Inspector, 'that it was the bundle which Mrs. Weston, your client, threw into the river last night.'
"'Being found,' contested our reporter, 'close to the place of the adventure, the more probable conclusion is that it was deposited in the river some distance off, the direction of which might be calculated from the flow of the tide.'
"'Ordinarily, yes,' said the Inspector, 'but there are surroundings not favorable to such a conclusion. In the centre of the bundle you will find a large stone, which would prevent it from dragging far. Then again, it was discovered caught in a snag, and our men say it must have fallen plumb into its position.'
"Our reporter shrugged his shoulders, and remarked, 'Evidence of that kind is in my opinion absolutely valueless in getting at the truth of a criminal charge.'
"By this time he had untied the knots and the contents of the bundle lay exposed. They consisted of a large stone and a suit of man's clothes--trousers, coat, and waistcoat.
"'Well?' he said to the Inspector.
"'Well?' said the Inspector, in return.
"'Do you seriously ask me to believe that a lady would deliberately go to a lonely part of the Thames Embankment at a late hour of the night, for the purpose of throwing trumpery articles like these into the river?'
"'What else can you believe?'
"'Anything but that,' said our reporter. 'In the first place it has to be proved that the clothes are hers--an absurd idea, to say the least of it. In the second place, what motive could she have had in disposing of them in such a manner?'
"'You have hit a nail on the head,' said the Inspector. 'A motive she must have had, and a strong one, too. It is a singular affair, and I confess that I don't see my way through it. You see, the suit is new; being but a short time in the water, that is not hard to prove. It is of a rather good description of tweed, and must have cost thirty or thirty-five shillings. To my eyes it has been worn very little, not more than half a dozen times, perhaps not more than three or four, perhaps not more than once. Supposing it to have been worn once only, it must have been worn for a certain purpose, which being carried out rendered its possession dangerous. Therefore it must be got rid of. Now, why throw it into the river? Fifty shopkeepers in fifty neighborhoods would be ready to purchase it for six or seven shillings. Why not sell it, then? I answer, because it would not do for the suit to be still in existence; because the person who disposed of it might be traced. Then would come the question--"Why did you purchase a new suit of clothes for thirty shillings, and sell it immediately afterward for five?" But the clothes may still be traced to the original purchaser. It happens that the name of the firm of which it was purchased is stamped on the lining of each garment; we go to that firm and make inquiries. Unfortunately the firm does a very large business, and this will increase the difficulty of discovering the purchaser.'
"'Your theories are very interesting,' said our reporter, 'but I do not see what they will lead to. Is there anything in the pockets?'
"'Nothing; not so much as a scrap of paper, or a shred of tobacco, or a morsel of biscuit. I mention tobacco because whoever wore the clothes was not a smoker.'
"'Is it possible to fix that?'
"'Quite. Do you observe that the clothes are of a small size? They must have been worn, therefore, by a person of proportionate build. In these facts we have a starting-point.'
"'A starting-point, I presume, in some important investigation.'
"'There you have me,' said the Inspector, with a smile. 'I have been merely airing my views. I know of no case which can possibly be connected in any way with this suit of clothes, and we have too much to look after already without making much ado about nothing. If there were any grounds for supposing that it bore some relation to, say such a mystery as that of M. Felix, we should set to work at once, of course. No such luck, however. I sent for you really in the hope that you could throw a light upon the bundle of rubbish.'
"'And you see that I cannot. I refuse to believe for one moment that it was thrown into the river by the lady I appeared for this morning.'
"'Well,' said the inspector, 'there is no harm done.'
"'Not the least. By the way, you made mention of the case of M. Felix. Has any progress been made in it?'
"'We're not a step more forward than we were. Rather the other way, I should say, for in such cases every day in which an advance is not made marks a point backward. The strangest feature in M. Felix's case is what has become of the body. We have made every inquiry, and are still making them, all over the country, and can't find the slightest trace of it. Taking it altogether, it is about the strangest case in my experience.'
"'And in mine,' said our reporter.
"'Oh, yes,' said the inspector, with a keen look at our reporter, 'we know you have taken great interest in it, and I suppose have been about as successful as ourselves.'
"'Just about as successful.'
"'Your amateur detective,' observed the Inspector, with a certain scorn, 'considers himself a mighty clever gentleman, but he finds himself compelled in the end to take a back seat.'
"'As I shall have to do,' said our reporter, good humoredly, 'but, as you say, there is no harm done; and you must remember that I am working in the interests of a great newspaper. I had an object in asking you whether you had made any progress in the case of M. Felix. A person of my acquaintance informed me that there was something being done in it to-day.'
"'Whoever it was,' said the Inspector, 'must be dreaming.'
"'Nothing has been found out?'
"'Nothing.'
"'And there is no inquiry in the police court relating to it?'
"'None.'
"'Thanks. Good-morning.'"
"Outside the court-house our reporter found Mrs. Middlemore still waiting. He took her by the arm, and led her unceremoniously away. Stopping on the opposite side of the road, he said to her:
"'Now, Mrs. Middlemore, what brought you here?'
"'I was sent for, sir,' she answered.
"'By whom?'
"'By the magerstate.'
"'Where is the paper?'
"'What paper, sir?'
"'The summons.'
"'I ain't got none. The perlice orficer comes to me and ses, "Mrs. Middlemore," he ses, "you must go immediate to the Bow Street Perlice Station, and wait outside till yer called." "But what about?" I arks. "About Mr. Felix," he answers; "somethink's been found out, and they can't git on without yer. Yer'll have to wait a longish time per'aps, but if yer move away till yer called it'll be worse for yer." "But what am I to do about the 'ouse?" I arks. "Sophy's out, and there's no one to mind it." "I'll mind it," ses the perlice orficer, "and when Sophy comes back I'll let her in. Off yer go, and don't tell nobody at Bow Street what yer've come about. It's a secret, and the Government won't stand it being talked of. Yer'll be paid for yer trouble." So off I starts, and 'ere 'ave I been waiting for nigh upon two hours, and nobody's made a move toward me.'
"'I've heard something of this,' said our reporter, pushing Mrs. Middle more into a cab, and giving the driver instructions to drive quickly to Gerard Street. It was not without difficulty he succeeded in this, for Mrs. Middlemore, with the fear of the 'Government' upon her, wanted to remain in Bow Street. 'I met Sophy before I came here, and she told me you had been sent for to the police Station. Now be quiet, will you? Have you not promised to be guided by me?'
"'But the Government, sir, the Government! I shall be clapped in prison!'
"'You'll be nothing of the sort. The Government and I are friends, and you are perfectly safe if you do as I tell you.'
"'I must, I serpose, sir. There's nothink else for it, but I'm being wore to a shadder. If this goes on much longer I sha'n't 'ave a ounce of flesh on my bones. Yer sor Sophy, sir, did yer? Yer've been at the 'ouse, then?'
"'Yes, I have been at your house, but it was not there that I saw your niece. I met her in the street, and she informed me that you were at Bow Street Police Station.'
"'What was the 'uzzy doing in the streets?'
"'I can't say, but in the streets she was forced to remain.'
"'Why, sir, the 'ouse was open to 'er. I met 'er and told 'er to go 'ome and wait till I come back.'
"'Exactly. And she did go, and knocked at the door, as I did, but she was as unsuccessful as I was. She did not get in.'
"''Ow can that be, sir? The perlice officer was there, waiting to open the door for 'er. The lazy slut! She's been telling yer a parcel of lies.'
"'How about myself, Mrs. Middlemore? Am I telling you a parcel of lies when I say that I knocked pretty loudly at your door, and that no one came to open it.'
"'I wouldn't dispute your word, sir, but I can't make it out.'
"'I can, and I will explain it to you presently, inside your house, if we can manage to get in. Here we are. Jump out.'
"The cab being discharged, Mrs. Middlemore knocked and rang, but knocked and rang in vain.
"'Allo, anty!' said Sophy, coming up. ''Ave they found Mr. Felix's body?'
"''Ush, you 'uzzy,' said Mrs. Middlemore, clapping her hand on the girl's mouth. 'What do yer mean by being outside instead of in?'
"'What do I mean?' retorted Sophy, with an air of great enjoyment. 'Why, 'cause I couldn't git in. I knocked and knocked, jest as you're doing of now, but nobody answered.'
"'I understood,' said our reporter to Mrs. Middlemore, 'that you generally carry your latchkey with you.'
"'So I do sir, but I didn't 'ave it in my pocket when the perlice officer come; it was downstairs on the kitchen table. I wanted to go down and fetch it, but he wouldn't let me wait a minute. "If yer ain't quick," he said, "yer'll git yerself in trouble;" and he bundled me out of the 'ouse. That's 'ow it was, sir.'
"'The question is,' said our reporter, 'how we are to get in. Is there a back way?'
"'No, sir.'
"'Then we must get in by the front door or window. The window will be the easiest. It is fastened inside in the usual way, I suppose?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'The easiest plan will be for me to break one of the panes in such a manner as to attract as little notice as possible, and then put my hand through and undo the fastening. Then we can lift the sash, and Sophy can get in and unlock the street door for us.'
"I'm game,' said Sophy, to whom any task of this kind was especially inviting.
"Our reporter was about to put his plan into execution when Mrs. Middlemore clutched his arm. He instantly withdrew it.
"'Of course, Mrs. Middlemore,' he said, coldly, 'it is your house, and I can't commit a trespass without your permission.'
"'It ain't that, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, piteously. 'Sophy's a plucky little thing, and though I do give 'er a 'ard word now and then, I mean well by 'er, I do indeed, sir.'
"'Yer a good sort, aunty,' said Sophy. 'I don't mind yer 'ard words, not a bit.'
"''Old yer saucy tongue, and let me speak to the gentleman. Yes, sir, I mean well by Sophy, and I should never 'ave another minute's peace if anythink was to appen to 'er.'
"'What do you think will happen to her if I do what I propose?'
"'There's been one sudding death in the 'ouse, sir----.'
"'Go on, Mrs. Middlemore. Don't stop in the middle of a sentence; finish what you have to say. Time is very precious just now.'
"There's been one sudding death in the 'ouse, and now there's a man in there as won't or can't answer.'
"'You fear he might be dead. If so, he cannot do Sophy any harm. Eh, Sophy?'
"'Not 'im. It'd take more nor one dead man to scare Sophy. Jest you open the winder, and I'll be in like a shot.'
"'Have I your permission now, Mrs. Middlemore?'
"'But if he shouldn't be dead, sor. If he was laying in wait with a crowbar to knock Sophy on the 'ead----'
"'Oh, you are beginning to think the man who called upon you was not a police officer, after all?'
"'I'm beginning to have my doubts, sir.'
"'I never had any. He is as much a police officer as you are. He told you a cock and bull story, and got rid of you. He was left in the house alone, and, more for your sake than my own, I want to find out what he has been up to. Decide quickly, please.'
"'Do what you like, sir. You've been right in everything; but things are getting more and more mysterious.'
"Without wasting more words our reporter pushed his elbow into a pane, and putting his hand through, undid the fastening and raised the sash. Sophy climbed in like a cat, and the next minute the street door was open. They entered and closed the door behind them.
"'We will proceed systematically,' said our reporter. 'The man spoke to you in the passage here.'
"'Yes, sir; and sed he'd wait.'
"'Did you tell him to wait in the kitchen, or the parlor, or in any particular room?'
"'No, sir; I left it to 'im.'
"'Doubtless he has been into every room in the house. We will go into the kitchen first.'
"Nothing had been disturbed there; the key of the street-door was on the kitchen table. Our reporter took it up and examined it closely.
"'As I imagined,' he said. 'He has taken an impression of the key in wax.'
"'What for, sir?' asked Mrs. Middlemore, in great trepidation.
"'To enable him to enter the house again secretly, if he wished. When I am gone send for a plumber and a locksmith. Let the plumber put in the pane of glass, and have another lock put on the street door. Your visitor must have been in a hurry, or he would have cleaned this key more carefully.'
"From the kitchen they went into the parlor, and apparently nothing had been disturbed there. Then they proceeded upstairs to the rooms occupied by M. Felix.
"'Look carefully round,' said our reporter, 'and tell me if anything has been taken away.'
"'Nothink, sir, that I can see.'
"'But there may have been papers, or money, or something of which he wishes to obtain possession, secreted somewhere, and it is quite likely he may have found them.'
"'I won't dispute you, sir. You see further than I do; but it don't seem as if anythink's been took.'
"'Or moved? The ornaments on the mantelshelf--are they all there?'
"'I don't miss one, sir.'
"'But they have been shifted. Here is this vase; observe the circle upon which it stood. The vase has been lifted and put down again, but not on the exact spot it occupied when he took it up. This proves the object for which he came; he has been searching for something, and has probably found it and taken it away. How could you have been so foolish as to leave him in the house alone?'
"Mrs. Middlemore sank helpless into a chair, and moaned. 'What else could I do, sir, what else could I do? It'll be the death of me, I know it will!'
"'Not at all. It only proves that we have cunning persons to work against. I am all the more determined to track this mystery down.' He opened the bedroom door, and exclaimed, 'Here is direct evidence. The fellow has not been so careful in this room. Chairs have been moved, the bedclothes are disturbed. Why, where is the revolver?'
"He referred to the revolver which he had found beneath the pillows, and which he had replaced. It had been abstracted. Inwardly he congratulated himself that he had not only taken a full note of the description of the weapon, but had also scratched the initial,'F.' on the metal. He took, out his pocketbook and turned to the page upon which he had made an entry.
"'Listen to this, Mrs. Middlemore, and be thankful that you have a friend like me on your side: "A Colt's double action revolver, nickel-plated, six shots, No. 819." I can swear to that revolver, and moreover can swear that it was loaded. Are you satisfied now that you have been imposed upon, and that the man who visited you came upon a bogus errand?'
"'Of course I am, sir, but what could 'ave been 'is objec'--'Oh, what could 'ave been 'is objec'?'
"'That has yet to be discovered, and discovered it shall be. The abstraction of this revolver may assist us. The fellow does not dream that I have its description here, and that it can be sworn to. Surely he was not dressed as a policeman?'
"'No, sir, he sed he was a private officer.'
"'And you believed him?'
"Again Mrs. Middlemore moaned, 'What else could I do, sir? what else could I do? He spoke that confident and easy that an angel would 'ave believed what he sed.'
"'Don't be taken in again. Be just a little more careful in your dealings with strangers.'
"'I will, sir, I will.'
"'I don't see that I can do any good by remaining here. I should like, though, to take down from your lips a description of the man. You can give it to me, I hope?'
"'I can, sir. A tall man, very thin, with a long thin face and thick black eyebrows.'
"'Is that all?'
"'All I can remember, sir.'
"Our reporter wrote the words in his pocketbook, and asked, 'Can you tell me how he was dressed?'
"'Only that he had dark clothes on.'
"'You would know him again if you saw him?'
"'I could swear to him, sir.'
"'Come, that is a satisfaction. You can swear to the man, and I can swear to the revolver. Two direct pieces of evidence, if we can lay hands upon them.'
"Sophy unexpectedly presented herself as an additional witness. 'I can swear to 'im too,' she said.
"'Ah, Sophy, you are invaluable,' said our reporter.
"'Didn't I say the slut was telling us a parcel of lies?' cried Mrs. Middlemore, making a movement as though she were about to fall upon the girl.
"'Easy, Mrs. Middlemore, easy,' said our reporter, holding the housekeeper back. 'Let us hear what Sophy has to say.'
"But Sophy, firing up, diverged a moment. 'Jest look 'ere, aunty,' she said, with spirit. 'Don't yer be so fast with yer sluts and yer 'uzzies. I'm gitting tired of it, I am. I ain't told one lie yet, and if yer don't mind what yer about I'll keep my mouth shut.'
"'No, Sophy, my girl,' said our reporter, 'you will do nothing of the sort. You will tell me all you know about this man.'
"'Jest you make 'er be civil, then,' said Sophy. 'She does nothink but bully me day and night. She don't pay me no wages, and I ain't going to stand it.'
"'Be reasonable Sophy,' said our reporter. 'Your aunt is worried, and you must make excuses for her.'
"'Ain't I flesh and blood the same as she is?' continued the irate girl. 'I've a good mind to run away from 'er, that I am, and never come back no more. I'll do it. Tata, aunty, and thank yer for nothink.'
"Had it not been for our reporter, she would have run out of the house. He laid his hand gently on her arm, and said:
"'Don't forget your promise to me, Sophy.'
"'I won't; I'll keep it, never fear. I'll wear myself to skin and bone for yer--yes, I will, if it'll do yer any good; but I won't be bullied by 'er no more.'
"Sophy's threat terrified Mrs. Middlemore; the prospect of being left in the house alone was appalling, and she straightway fell to on humble pie.
"'I'm sorry for what I sed, Sophy, and I beg yer parding, and I'll give yer sixpence a week. There, now, be a good gal. But yer did tell us yer couldn't git into the 'ouse.'
"'No more I could. I knocked and rattled and kicked the door, and nobody come. 'Ow should I know that a tall, thin man, with a long face and thick black eyebrows, was the feller as took yer in?'
"'You saw him, then?' said our reporter, observing that Mrs. Middlemore's apology and, the promise of sixpence a week had mollified the girl.
"'Yes, I sor 'im before I got to the 'ouse, but I didn't know he come out of it. He was jest what aunty sed he was, and what's more, he 'ad large flat feet.'
"'If you saw him again you could swear to him?'
"'I'd pick 'im out of a thousan.' He run agin me, he did, and I sed, "Who are yer pushing of?" He didn't say nothink, but walked off forty to the dozen.'
"'Looking as if he did not wish to attract notice?'
"'Yes, he did look like that.'
"'Was he carrying anything?'
"'Not that I sor. He 'ad 'is coat buttoned up.'
"'When he come to me,' said Mrs. Middlemore, 'it was unbuttoned.'
"'Proving that he took something away with him. Anything else Sophy?'
"'Nothink else.'
"'You and your aunt are friends now, are you not?'
"'Oh, I don't bear no malice.'
"Mrs. Middlemore kissed Sophy, and her anger was entirely dispelled. Once more our reporter, having made peace between them, attempted to leave, but Mrs. Middlemore said, imploringly:
"'Would yer mind looking all over the 'ouse fust? He might be 'iding in it to murder us in the night.'
"'Sophy saw him walking away,' said our reporter; 'but to satisfy you I will go into every room; and I'll do something more, if you are agreeable. Could you make me up a bed?'
"'Yes, sir, I could, in any room you like.'
"'M. Felix's bedroom will do for me. Don't look startled; I am almost as brave as Sophy. Put the bed straight, and I'll come some time between eleven and twelve o'clock, and pass the night here.'
"Mrs. Middlemore was profuse in her thanks, and our reporter searched the house from top to bottom. Assuring the housekeeper that she was quite safe, he succeeded in making his escape."
"He had taken mental note of the name of the firm at which the suit of clothes which had been found in the river was purchased, and he went direct to that establishment in Tottenham Court Road. It happened, fortunately, that business was slack at that time of the day, and as customers were few and far between he had little difficulty in obtaining an interview with the manager, who, when he heard that our reporter was engaged upon theEvening Moon, gave him his entire attention.
"'It's the smartest paper in London,' said the manager; 'I take it in regularly.'
"'I should like you to treat the matter I have come upon as private between you and me. We are interested in a certain case which may or may not be made public, and in which, perhaps, you can assist us in an indirect way. If it prove to be so your establishment will get an advertisement for nothing.'
"'We shall be glad to get it,' said the manager. 'A good word from you gentlemen of the press is always acceptable. I dare say you notice we advertise in your paper. Tell me what I can do for you.'
"'I wish to ascertain, confidentially, under what circumstances a certain suit of clothes was purchased in your establishment. All the clothing you sell is marked with your name, is it not?'
"'Yes, wherever we can get it in. There are some things that cannot be marked, but suits of clothes can; coats on the bands they are hung up by, waistcoats on the inner lining, trousers on the waistbands. What kind of a suit was it, and on what day was it purchased?'
"'I cannot name the day exactly, but say within the last two or three weeks. It was a suit of tweed.'
"'Can you identify the pattern?'
"'Yes, if you will let me see samples of your stock.'
"'I will show you what we have.'
"They looked through a wonderful assortment of men's clothing, but our reporter saw none exactly similar to the pattern he wished to identify.
"'Was it a suit for a large or a small man?' inquired the manager.
"'For a small man; almost what you would call a youth's suit.'
"'What you have seen is principally our new stock; we have some others which our salesmen endeavor to get rid of; we don't like to keep old stock too long on our hands.'
"They went through other departments, and at length, on one of the upper shelves, our reporter pointed to a pattern he thought he recognized.
"'That seems to be it. I shall know on a closer inspection.'
"The suit was taken down, and our reporter saw that he had reached the first stage of his inquiry.
"'This is the pattern,' he said.
"'It narrows the matter,' said the manager. 'There is only this one suit left of this particular pattern. Three weeks ago there were two, so that within that time one has been sold. The salesman in this department is a man with a good memory.'
"The salesman being called, our reporter explained what he wanted. The man considered a little, and said:
"'I remember something of it, because of a circumstance. I will look up my sale book and compare it with the day book, to fix the date.'
"He departed to make the investigation, and, returning, said:
"'I can tell you all about it now. I served the lady myself.'
"'The lady!' exclaimed our reporter.
"'Yes, it was a lady who made the purchase. I served her first with a suit which she paid for, and which she brought back later in the day, saying it was too large. I changed it for one of this pattern.'
"'Did she say for whom she required the clothes?'
"'For a young man of about her own size. I supposed they were for a son or for a brother much younger than herself.'
"'What should you judge her age to have been?'
"'Forty or so.'
"'I told you he had a good memory,' said the manager, with an approving smile at his salesman.
"'You speak of her as a lady,' said our reporter. 'Are you certain she was one?'
"'She spoke and conducted herself as one. She was not a workingman's wife, or she would have been more particular as to price, and might have haggled a bit, though all our clothes are marked in plain figures. I could see she wasn't used to purchasing men's clothing from the remarks she made. All that she was particular about was the fit.'
"'What did she pay for the suit?'
"'Fifty-five shillings. She handed me a five-pound note, and I gave her the change. Working women don't pay for their purchases in bank notes. Would you like the number of the note?'
"'Can you give it to me?'
"'Yes; we always take down the numbers.'
"Again he departed and returned, and gave our reporter the number of the note, written on a bill-head.
"'I am under a great obligation to you,' said our reporter. 'Is this suit you have left the only one of the same pattern you have in your establishment?'
"'The only one, sir, and we are not likely to have any more.'
"'I will take it with me.'
"The account was made out, settled, and receipted, and our reporter, thanking the manager, left the shop--which, in accordance with modern ideas, was called an 'Emporium'--with the suit of clothes under his arm. He had a distinct motive in making the purchase. The inspector might take it into his head to make inquiries at the establishment, and our reporter had removed the only evidence of direct identification it could furnish.
"It was now six o'clock. His appointment with Mrs. Weston in Forston Street was fixed for eight. He had an hour and a half to spare, sufficient time to take a chop and a pancake and to arrange his ideas. Selecting a quiet-looking restaurant, he took a seat at an unoccupied table, ordered his chop and pancake, and began to write in the convenient reporter's book which he always kept about him. He did this for clearness; he felt that he was approaching an important point in the mission he had taken upon himself, and that his interview with Mrs. Weston was destined to be pregnant in results. It would be of assistance to him to set things down in writing instead of trusting entirely to memory. The memoranda he made are now set forth:
"Heads of circumstantial evidence which lead me to the belief that Mrs. Mary Weston, otherwise E. B. (initials worked in lady's handkerchief), is directly connected with the incidents which happened in Mrs. Middlemore's house in Gerard Street, Soho, on the night of the death of M. Felix.
"First--On that night a man was seen making a hurried escape from the house at the moment (presumably) M. Felix was drawing his last breath. The only description, if description it can be called, that has been given of this man is that he wore round his neck a red scarf.
"Second--Last night, or rather early this morning, on the occasion of my visit to Mrs. Weston's lovely daughter, I observed, before I left the young lady, a red silk scarf. Query: Might not this red scarf be the same as that which the man who escaped from the house in Gerard Street wore round his neck?
"Third--There was blood on the floor of M. Felix's room. There was no wound on the body of M. Felix. The blood, therefore, proceeded from a wound inflicted on the person of M. Felix's visitor. My discovery in M. Felix's room of the dagger, with a handle resembling a twisted snake and a ruby in its head to represent an eye, led to the incontrovertible conclusion that it was the weapon with which this wound was inflicted. The blood stains on the blade prove it. M. Felix, snatching up the dagger, flung it at his visitor.
"Fourth--Mrs. Weston has on her left arm a wound which is not yet healed. When I inadvertently grasped her arm she cried from pain. Inquiring whether I had hurt her she replied that her arm had 'been cut to the bone.' Query: Might not this be the wound that was inflicted by M. Felix's dagger?
"Fifth--In that case Mrs. Weston must have paid a visit to M. Felix on the night of his death. Query: Might she not have paid this visit disguised in a man's clothes?
"Sixth--The circumstantial evidence upon which this assumption is based: In the first place, Mrs. Weston last night, believing herself to be unobserved, threw a bundle into the River Thames. She refused to state what this bundle contained. I asked her. 'Will you tell them' (the policemen) 'what it was you threw into the river?' She replied, 'I cannot tell them. It might injure--it might ruin me.' Deduction--that if it were proved that the suit of clothes found in the river this morning belonged to her she would be placed in a position of extreme danger. The second piece of circumstantial evidence in connection with this suit of man's clothing comes from the establishment in Tottenham Court Road at which it was purchased. The salesman says that the purchaser was a lady. Mrs. Weston is a lady. She paid for it with a bank note, the number of which can be traced. The suit would fit a person of her height and build. In the third place--She gave a false name. This circumstance, supposing that she has committed a wrongful act, would weigh heavily against her. In the fourth place--She carried about with her an advertisement relating to the death of M. Felix, in which the proprietors of theEvening Moonpledged themselves to give the best legal assistance to any person or persons who are in any way interested in the death of M. Felix. Reasonable deduction--That this lady, having taken the trouble to cut out and preserve the advertisement with such conspicuous care, must be interested in his death.
"There are other items which I will set down and consider later on. Meanwhile----
"Do I believe Mrs. Weston, otherwise E. B., to be guilty of any wrongful act in connection with M. Felix? I do not. I believe her to be a perfectly innocent woman. Upon what grounds? Upon the grounds of sympathy--which would not count with such weighty circumstantial evidence against her.
"Do I believe that she paid a visit to M. Felix on the night of his death, disguised in man's clothes? I do; and I believe that the visit was paid without the slightest intention of doing him a personal injury. She is delicate and fragile, destitute of the strength necessary to carry out a deed of violence. M. Felix must have possessed at least to some slight extent a man's strength, more than amply sufficient to successfully oppose any design of violence on the part of a lady of Mrs. Weston's feeble frame.
"For what object, then, was this visit paid? To right some wrong which Mrs. Weston was suffering at his hands. I declare myself to be her champion, and the champion of her lovely daughter.
"In conclusion: The most extraordinary feature in the case remains still without any light being thrown upon it. Where is his body, and for what reason was it stolen from the house in Gerard Street?
"At eight o'clock precisely our reporter arrived at No. 21 Forston Street, Camden Town, and was ushered into the room occupied by Mrs. Weston and her daughter Constance. Lovely as had been the young girl's appearance last night, she was even lovelier now. Then her face was darkened with anxiety, now it was free from care, and the most careless observer could not have failed to know that a perfect and most beautiful love existed between the mother and her child. The young lady blushed as our reporter entered, and rose and offered him her hand.
"'I beg you to forgive my rudeness last night,' she said. 'I did not know then.'
"'Your conduct was perfectly natural, he said, taking her hand, 'such as I should have approved of in a sister of my own.'
"She bowed gracefully, and retired to an inner room.
"'It is my wish,' explained the elder lady, 'that our interview should be private. What have you there?'
"He had brought the new suit of clothes with him, and he had placed the brown paper parcel on the table and was now untying it. Her face turned to a deadly whiteness when the suit was exposed.
"'You have nothing to fear,' said our reporter. 'I have brought this with me to convince you how necessary it is that you should have by you a friend as sincere as I.'
"He then related to her what had passed between him and the inspector with reference to the suit which had been found in the river, and also the particulars of his visit to the clothing establishment in Tottenham Court Road.
"In the interests of our readers we withhold a categorical account of the conversation which ensued. Sufficient for the present to state that the lady placed in this reliable gentleman the most implicit confidence. Our narrative now assumes another shape. A strange and pathetic drama is about to be unfolded. The veil which enshrouds the past will be uplifted, and we owe our reporter our grateful thanks for the manner in which he has chosen to narrate as touching a story as has ever been presented to the readers of fiction. It links the past with the present, and it is true to the life. For a little while our reporter and ourselves disappear from the scene. We may revert hereafter to our original plan--indeed we may be compelled to revert to it in this way because the matters of which we shall have to speak are public property. What follows is a literal copy of the manuscript supplied by our reporter; not an incident is exaggerated, not a passion disfigured. Step by step, with unswerving zeal and untiring devotion, the Mystery of M. Felix is being unravelled and brought to light."
"It is better to be born lucky than rich" is one of the few proverbs to which the lie cannot be given by a proverb in the opposite direction. If Gerald Paget had had the choice, and had he been blessed with wisdom, he would have chosen luck in the place of riches, but he could not be credited with either of these conditions. He was born to riches, and he was too amiable and easy-natured to ripen into wisdom. When he first met Emilia Braham he was twenty-four years of age; she was eighteen, and in a position of dependence; Gerald was wealthy, and to a certain extent his own master. His father had died three months before this meeting with the beautiful young girl, whose association was to bring into his life both happiness and woe. He had only one close relative, a half-brother, a few years older than himself, who was then absent in Australia; the name of this brother was Leonard, and it was he who was destined to hold in his hands the skeins of Gerald's fate.
Their father had been twice married, and Leonard was the son of his first wife. She brought him no fortune, and he himself had but little. Shortly after Leonard was born she died, and the widowed husband went with his child to Switzerland, where he met with the lady who was to replace the wife he had lost. She possessed a large fortune in her own right, of which with her husband's full approval, she kept control. Although they had met and were married in Switzerland, they were both English, and to England they returned, and set up their home there. One child blessed their union, Gerald, whom they idolized and did their best to spoil. They did not neglect their duty to Leonard; they performed it cheerfully and lovingly, but it was nevertheless the fact that Gerald was the magnet to which their hearts more constantly turned. The difference between the ages of the half-brothers was a bar to that close and sympathetic association of interests which frequently exists between children of equal age. The child of six and the child of fourteen have little in common; still less when one is twelve and the other twenty. But despite this disparity and these unfavorable conditions, Gerald adored his big brother, and bowed down before him as a being of a very superior order. Leonard's tastes was for travel, and as a young man he spent much of his time on the Continent, picking up foreign ways, and also foreign vices, which he kept very carefully concealed from the knowledge of his father and step-mother. When he came home from these Continental jaunts he always brought with him remembrances for little Gerald, whose affectionate, grateful heart magnified their value, and invested with rare qualities the spirit which animated the giver. Leonard was supplied with ample funds to indulge in his whims and pleasures, and he took life easily, accepting it as his right that his purse should be always well filled. Presently, however, a change came over the spirit of his dream, a change which caused the evil forces within him to spring into active life. His stepmother died, and left a will. Its terms were as follows:
To her stepson, Leonard, she left an income of four hundred pounds, and expressed a hope that he would adopt some profession or pursuit in which he might attain fortune and distinction. His father was empowered to further in a practical way any step in this direction. To her son Gerald she also left an income of four hundred pounds, but there was this difference between the bequests. Leonard's remained always the same--four hundred pounds, no more and no less; whereas Gerald's, when he reached the age of twenty-one, was increased to one thousand pounds. Moreover, upon the death of his father, all that Mrs. Paget devised to her husband was to revert to her son, whose income would then amount to nearly four thousand pounds. Leonard, studying the will, reckoned this up, and said, "I am the elder son, and I have exactly one-tenth of the younger son's fortune." There was another clause in the will. As upon the death of the father the income that was left to him was to fall to Gerald, so, should it happen that both Gerald and his father died before Leonard, the entire fortune would fall to the elder son. In the event of Gerald marrying this would not be the case; Gerald could devise to his wife and children, if he had any, all that he possessed, thus, as it were, disbarring Leonard. For the soured and disappointed young man there were, then, these chances: First, that his father should die. Second, that Gerald should die. Third, that he should die unmarried. These conditions fulfilled, Leonard would become the master of four thousand pounds a year. It occurred to Leonard that the sooner all this occurred the better, and the thought having obtained lodgement in his mind, remained there.
Safely hidden, safely concealed. He was not a man who wore his heart upon his sleeve. He was one who could present a smiling face while he was concocting the cunningest of schemes. He had but one view of life, the pursuit of pleasure. There was a certain similarity between him and Gerald; they were both easy-natured outwardly, but there was no guile in Gerald's disposition, while guile was the very essence of Leonard's.
"I can't very well live on four hundred a year," he said to his father, after the death of his step-mother. "You never led me to expect that I should have to do so."
"I will double it, Len," said the indulgent father; "but you are a man now, and understand things. The fortune which has enabled us to maintain our position was strictly my wife's and she had a right to do what she pleased with it. Had it not been for her money you and I would have been poor gentlemen."
"That is all very well," said Leonard, "but the reflection comes too late, father. To bring up a person in the expectation of fortune, and then to suddenly let him down to poverty, is not what I call just or fair. That is all I want--justice, and I have a right to it."
"Every person has a right to it."
"Then you agree with me that I am hardly treated."
"Eight hundred a year is not a bad income, Len."
"But, if you will forgive me for mentioning it, father--I am a man, as you say, and can't help thinking of things--that is only during your lifetime. Heaven forbid that anything should happen to you, but we are all mortal, and down I should drop to a miserable seven or eight pounds a week."
"Gerald has the sweetest disposition in the world," said Mr. Paget; "you can always depend upon him."
"Depend upon him, depend upon him!" repeated Leonard, fretfully. "Is it right, is it just, that the elder should depend upon the younger?"
Mr. Paget sighed; he was not strong in argument.
"I will make it a thousand," he said, "and you must look out for a profession which will treble it."
"I'll see what Gerald will do toward it," said Leonard; and he actually went to the lad, who ran to his father, and said that poor Len must have two hundred a year more; so that subtle Leonard managed to obtain an income of twelve hundred pounds, a very fair slice of the fortune left by Mrs. Paget. He did not trouble himself to look for a profession, but carried out his view of life with zeal and ability. He spent his money on himself, but he did not squander it. He generally managed to obtain his money's worth, and he was wise in his liberality. Nevertheless, pleasure ran ahead of him, and in racing after it he came to grief, and had to mortgage his own private income of four hundred pounds to such an extent that it presently passed out of his hands and became the property of the money-lenders. His father and half-brother never failed him; they were living quietly and modestly in England, and every appeal Leonard made to them was promptly and affectionately responded to. He was not thankful for the assistance; there gathers upon some natures a crust of selfishness so thick as to deaden the sentiment of gratitude for kindness rendered.
Thus matters went on till the father died. Leonard, as has been stated, was in Australia at the time. It was not a spirit of enterprise that took him there, nor any idea of business; he was enamoured of a pretty face, and he followed, or accompanied it, to the antipodes--it matters not which. When he received news of his father's death, the enchantment was over, and another chapter in his book of selfish pleasures was closed. He cabled home for money. Gerald cabled him back a thousand pounds. "By jove," thought Leonard; "he must be richer than I thought." It was so. Mr. Paget had saved half his income and had invested it well, so that, upon his death, Gerald found himself in possession of a handsome sum of money in addition to the income which now fell to his share. Leonard remained in Australia long enough to spend three-fourths of the thousand pounds--it did not take long--and then he took ship to England, with the firm resolve to milk his cow, his half-brother Gerald, who received him with open arms. But between the day of Mr. Paget's death and the day of Leonard's return to England, Gerald met Emilia Braham. That made all the difference.