Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=qdw9AQAAMAAJ
(The Ohio State University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX
BY
B. L. FARJEON
AUTHOR OF "GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "MISER FAREBROTHER,"
ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY
150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION PLACE
Copyright, 1890,
by
J. W. LOVELL CO.
CONTENTS
Chap.
I. A CRY FOR HELP FLOATS THROUGH THE NIGHT.
II. THE SPECTRE CAT.
III. A THRILLING INCIDENT.
IV. A DISCUSSION ABOUT RED CATS AND WHITE SNOW.
V. DR. LAMB TELLS THE CONSTABLES AND MRS. MIDDLEMORE
WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MR. FELIX.
VI. THE "EVENING MOON" INDULGES IN A BOMBASTIC RETROSPECT,
IN WHICH SOME VERY TALL AND VERY FINE WRITING WILL BE
DETECTED BY THE OBSERVANT READER.
VII. AN EXAMINATION OF CERTAIN DISCREPANCIES IN THE STATEMENTS
OF THE THREE PRINCIPAL WITNESSES.
VIII. A STARTLING PHASE IN THE MYSTERY.
IX. INTRODUCES SOPHY.
X. OUR REPORTER GIVES MRS. MIDDLEMORE SOME SENSIBLE ADVICE.
XI. THE "EVENING MOON" IS INUNDATED WITH CORRESPONDENCE
CONCERNING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY OF M. FELIX.
XII. THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" MAKES A DISCOVERY.
XIII. THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" GIVES SOPHY A TREAT.
XIV. SOPHY IMPARTS STRANGE NEWS TO THE REPORTER OF THE
"EVENING MOON."
XV. A SINGULAR ADVENTURE ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT.
XVI. AT THE BOW STREET POLICE STATION.
XVII. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
XVIII. HOW THE CHARGE WAS DISPOSED OF.
XIX. WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE RIVER.
XX. MRS. MIDDLEMORE IS VICTIMIZED.
XXI. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
BOOK SECOND.
A LIFE DRAMA: LINKS IN THE MYSTERY.
XXII. THE HALF-BROTHERS.
XXIII. TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE.
XXIV. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
XXV. LOST, OR SAVED?
XXVI. SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE.
XXVII. LEONARD RETURNS HOME.
XXVIII. THE FALSE FRIEND.
XXIX. ON THE TRACK.
XXX. THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE.
XXXI. LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS.
XXXII. LEONARD MEETS WITH A FELLOW-SCOUNDREL.
XXXIII. A FOUL DEED.
XXXIV. DR. PETERSSEN EXPLAINS HIMSELF.
XXXV. EMILIA AND LEONARD.
XXXVI. "ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I."
XXXVII. A GOOD WOMAN.
XXXVIII. CONSTANCE AND JULIAN.
XXXIX. IN ENGLAND ONCE MORE.
XL. DR. PETERSSEN REAPPEARS ON THE SCENE.
XLI. DR. PETERSSEN BRINGS M. FELIX TO BOOK.
XLII. EMILIA AND M. FELIX.
BOOK THIRD.
WHAT BECAME OF M. FELIX, AS RELATED IN THE FIRST PERSON BY ROBERT
AGNOLD, ON THE REPORTING STAFF OF THE "EVENING MOON."
XLIII. ROBERT AGNOLD TAKES UP THE THREADS OF THE STORY.
XLIV. EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS.
XLV. DR. PETERSSEN IS TRACKED.
XLVI. I ENTER INTO AN ARRANGEMENT WITH SOPHY.
XLVII. I RECEIVE A STRANGE VISITOR.
XLVIII. SOPHY ENTERS DR. PETERSSEN'S ESTABLISHMENT AS A FRIENDLY
PATIENT.
XLIX. M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT.
L. CLEVER SOPHY.
LI. SOPHY MAKES A STRANGE STATEMENT.
LII. THE GHOST OF M. FELIX.
LIII. THE PORTRAIT OF GERALD PAGET.
LIV. OBTAIN AN EXPLANATION FROM EMILIA.
LV. TREACHERY.
LVI. NIGHT IN DEERING WOODS.
LVII. THE CAVERN IN THE CLIFF.
LVIII. FRIENDS TO THE RESCUE.
LIX. FROM THE COLUMNS OF THE "THE EVENING MOON," UNDER
THE HEADING, "THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX SOLVED."
LX. ROBERT AGNOLD'S LAST WORDS.
THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX.
CHAPTER I.
A CRY FOR HELP FLOATS THROUGH THE NIGHT.
"Help!"
Through the whole of the night, chopping, shifting winds had been
tearing through the streets of London, now from the north, now from
the south, now from the east, now from the west, now from all points
of the compass at once; which last caprice--taking place for at least
the twentieth time in the course of the hour which the bells of Big
Ben were striking--was enough in itself to make the policeman on the
beat doubtful of his senses.
"What a chap hears in weather like this," he muttered, "and what he
fancies he hears, is enough to drive him mad."
He had sufficient justification for the remark, for there were not
only the wild pranks of Boreas to torment and distract him, but there
was the snow which, blown in fine particles from roofs and gables, and
torn from nooks where it lay huddled up in little heaps against stone
walls (for the reason that being blown there by previous winds it
could get no further), seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in whirling
into his face, which was tingling and smarting with cold, and as a
matter of course into his eyes, which it caused to run over with
tears. With a vague idea that some appeal had been made officially to
him as a representative of law and order, he steadied himself and
stood still for a few moments, with a spiritual cold freezing his
heart, even as the temporal cold was freezing his marrow.
"Help!"
The bells of Big Ben were still proclaiming the hour of midnight. If a
man at such a time might have reasonably been forgiven the fancy that
old Westminster's tower had been invaded by an army of malicious
witches, how much more readily might he have been forgiven for not
being able to fix the direction from which this cry for help
proceeded? Nay, he could scarcely have been blamed for doubting that
the cry was human.
For the third time--
"Help!"
Then, so far as that appeal was concerned, silence. The cry was heard
no more.
The policeman still labored under a vague impression that his duty lay
somewhere in an undefined direction, and his attitude was one of
strained yet bewildered attention. Suddenly he received a terrible
shock. Something touched his foot. He started back, all his nerves
thrilling with an unreasonable spasm of horror. Instinctively looking
down, he discovered that he had been ridiculously alarmed by a
miserable, half-starved, and nearly whole-frozen cat, which, with the
scanty hairs on its back sticking up in sharp points, was creeping
timorously along in quest of an open door. Recovering from his alarm,
the policeman stamped his feet and clapped his hands vigorously to
keep the circulation in them.
His beat was in the heart of Soho, and he was at that moment in Gerard
Street, in which locality human life is represented in perhaps
stranger variety than can be found in any other part of this gigantic
city of darkness and light. As a protection against the fierce wind he
had taken refuge within the portal of the closed door of an old house
which lay a little back from the regular line of buildings in the
street. Little did he dream that the cry for help had proceeded from
that very house, the upper portion of which was inhabited by a
gentleman known as M. Felix by some, as Mr. Felix by others. Well
named, apparently, for although he was not young, M. Felix was
distinguished by a certain happy, light-hearted air, which marked him
as one who held enjoyment of the pleasures of life as a kind of
religion to be devoutly observed. The lower portion of the house was
occupied by the landlady, Mrs. Middlemore, who acted as housekeeper to
M. Felix. It was the nightly habit of this estimable woman to go for
her supper beer at half-past eleven, and return, beaming, at a few
minutes after twelve.
These late hours did not interfere with the performance of her duties,
because M. Felix was by no means an early riser, seldom breakfasting,
indeed, before noon. Despite the inclemency of the weather, Mrs.
Middlemore had not deviated on this night from her usual custom. She
was a widow, without responsibilities, and no person had a right to
meddle with her affairs. Besides, as she frequently remarked, she was
quite able to take care of herself.
A welcome diversion occurred to the constable who was stamping his
feet within the portal of Mrs. Middlemore's street door. A brother
constable sauntered up, and accosted him.
"Is that you, Wigg?"
"As much as there's left of me," replied Constable Wigg.
"You may well say that," observed the new-comer, who rejoiced in the
name of Nightingale. "It's all a job to keep one's self together. What
a night!"
"Bitter. I've been regularly blown off my feet."
"My case. I'm froze to a stone. The North Pole ain't in it with this,
and whether I've got a nose on my face is more than I'd swear to.
Anything up?"
"Nothing, except----"
"Except what?" asked Constable Nightingale, as his comrade paused. He
put his hand to his nose as he asked the question, his reference to it
having inspired doubts as to his being still in possession of the
feature.
"A minute or two ago," said Constable Wigg, "I had half a fancy that I
heard somebody cry out 'Help!'"
"Ah! Did you go?"
"How could I? I wasn't sure, you know."
"Who could be sure of anything," remarked Constable Nightingale,
charitably, "on such a night?"
"Nobody. It must have been the wind."
"Not a doubt of it. If anybody told me he saw Polar bears about I
shouldn't dispute with him." Then Constable Nightingale took a step
forward, and glanced up at the windows of the front rooms occupied by
M. Felix, in which shone a perfect blaze of light. "He must be jolly
warm up there."
"Who?" inquired Constable Wigg, his eyes following his comrade's
glance.
"Mr. Felix."
"And who's Mr. Felix when he's at home?"
"Why, you don't mean to say you don't know him!"
"Never heard of him. I've only been on the beat two nights."
"I forgot. He's a trump, a regular A-one-er. You're in for a good tip
or two. I was on night duty here this time last year, and he behaved
handsome. Tipped me at Christmas, and tipped me at New Year's. Half a
sov. each time. And at other times, too. Altogether he was as good as
between four and five pounds to me while I was here."
"That's something like," said Constable Wigg, with something of eager
hope in his voice; "not many like him knocking around. But"--with
sudden suspicion--"why should he be so free? Anything wrong about
him?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Constable Nightingale, blowing on his
ice-cold fingers. "He's a diamond of the first water--a tip-top swell,
rolling in money. That's what's the matter with Mr. Felix. Don't you
wish you had the same complaint? 'Constable,' said he to me, when I
came on this beat last year, 'you're on night duty here, eh?' 'Yes,
sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' he says, acting like a gentleman; 'I
live in this house'--we were standing at this very door--'and I always
make it a point to look after them as looks after me.'"
"And a very good point it is," remarked Constable Wigg, with growing
interest, "for a gentleman to make."
"I thought so myself, and I found it so. 'And I always make it a
point,' says he, of 'looking after them as looks after me.' Fact is,
Wigg, he comes home late sometimes, with a glass of wine to much in
him, and he knows the usefulness of us. Carries a lump of money about
him, and likes to feel himself safe. Never what you call drunk, you
know. Just a bit sprung, as a real gentleman should be, and always
with a pleasant word ready. So, whenever I met him coming home late,
I'd walk behind him to his door here, and give him good-night; which
he appreciated."
"Much obliged to you for the information, Nightingale."
"Ought to do these little turns for one another, Wigg. The man who was
on the beat before me gave me the office, and it's only friendly for
me to give it to you." Constable Nightingale looked pensively over the
shoulder of his brother constable, and added, "I behaved liberal to
him."
"I'll do likewise to you," said Constable Wigg, "if anything happens."
"Was sure you would, Wigg," responded Constable Nightingale, briskly.
"What would the force be worth if we didn't stick together? When I see
Mr. Felix I'll put in a good word for you. He took a regular fancy to
me, and told me if I got the beat again to come to him immediate. Once
you see him, you can't miss knowing him. Tall and slim, with hair
getting gray. No whiskers; only a mustache, curled. Speaks with a
foreign accent--parleyvooish. His clothes fit like a glove. Patent
leather boots always, except when he wears shoes; white tie generally.
I remember Mrs. Middlemore----"
"Who's she?"
"His landlady. A most respectable woman--made of the right stuff. Ah,
a real good sort she is! Goes out every night for her supper beer
between eleven and twelve."
"I must have seen her half an hour ago."
"Of course you did. If it was to rain cats and dogs or snowed for a
month, she wouldn't miss going. Has she come back?"
"No."
"She stops out as a rule till about this time; fond of a gossip, you
know. Most of us are. She'll be here soon, if she can keep her feet.
The snow's getting thicker--and listen to the wind! Let's get close to
the door. Well, I remember Mrs. Middlemore coming out to me one night,
and saying, 'You're wanted up there,' meaning in Mr. Felix's
rooms----"
Constable Wigg interposed. "Just now you said parleyvooish."
"So I did, and so I meant."
"Speaks with a foreign accent, you said."
"I don't deny it."
"And you keep on saying Mr. Felix."
"Well?"
"Shouldn't it be Monseer?"
"Well, perhaps; but not Monseer--Monshure."
"I give in to you, Nightingale; I'm not a French scholar."
"Let's call him Mr., for all that. Monshure twists the tongue unless
you're born there."
"I'm agreeable. Call him Mr. if you like. Hallo!"
The exclamation was caused by Mrs. Middlemore's street door being
suddenly opened without any preliminary warning from within, and with
such swiftness and violence that the policemen almost fell through it
into the passage. As they were recovering their equilibrium a man
stepped out of the house, or rather stumbled out of it, in a state of
great excitement. He had a crimson scarf round his neck; it was
loosely tied, and the ends floated in the wind. The little bit of
color shone bright in the glare of white snow. Its wearer pulled the
door after him and hurried along the street, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, and taking no notice of the policemen, who
strained their eyes after him. He walked very unsteadily, and was soon
out of sight.