ROBERT AGNOLD'S LAST WORDS.
I resume and conclude the Mystery of M. Felix in my own person. What
transpired after the incidents of that exciting night is soon related.
Before Gerald Paget was released Dr. Peterssen was put on his trial
for the murder. The minor charge of his attempt upon Sophy's life and
mine was set aside, and was only incidentally referred to in the
evidence and speech of the prosecuting counsel. Guilt was never more
clearly proved than his. The revolver with which the murder was
committed was the same he had purloined from the rooms in Gerard
Street, when he sent Mrs. Middlemore upon a false errand to the Bow
Street Police Court. On this head Mrs. Middlemore's evidence was
valuable; but my evidence on the point was still more valuable. The
initial "F." I had scratched on the metal, and the entry I had made in
my pocket book, "A Colt's double-action revolver, nickel-plated, 6
shots, No. 819," enabled me to swear positively to the weapon.
Peterssen's own confession of guilt to me when Sophy and I were
imprisoned in the cavern in Deering Woods was fatal, and Sophy, who
was one of the two heroines of this celebrated trial, won the
admiration of all England by the manner in which she gave her
evidence. It was imperative that Emilia should be called, and she
narrated with great feeling all the circumstances of her brief but
fateful acquaintance with Peterssen during the honeymoon tour in
Switzerland. There was found upon Peterssen a large sum of money in
bank notes, and the manager of the bank in which the murdered man,
under the name of M. Felix, kept his account, proved, by the numbers
on the notes, that they had been paid to Peterssen's victim across the
bank counter. Another witness called was George Street's father, upon
whom Peterssen had so long and so successfully imposed. He testified
that Gerald Paget was not his son, and said that on every occasion on
which he desired to see the patient, Peterssen had declared that a
fatal result would be the certain consequence of an interview. Gerald
Paget was brought into court, but he was so weak and ill that his
evidence could not be taken. The case, however, was complete without
him. There was practically no defence; the jury debated for a few
minutes only, and brought in a verdict of guilty; the villain was
sentenced, and he paid the penalty of his crimes. For Leonard Paget,
alias M. Felix, no pity was expressed; the fate he had met with was
richly deserved.
Needless to say that the case excited immense interest, and it was
universally admitted that its sensational disclosures were without
parallel in the history of crime. I may mention that Crawley was not
traced; up to this day he has succeeded in concealing himself; but his
hour will come.
After all was said and done, I think that Sophy held rank as _the_
heroine of the mystery. A daily paper suggested that a subscription
should be got up for her; to this suggestion practical effect was
given, and money flowed in from all ranks and classes of people. Close
upon a thousand pounds were subscribed; so Sophy is rich. Fame has not
turned her head. She said to me but yesterday, "I ain't proud; not a
bit of it. Whenever you want me, Mr. Agnold, you'll find me ready." In
time she will improve in her language, and one day she may be really a
lady.
The words Sophy addressed to me were spoken in Geneva, where these
lines are being written. The wedding of Constance Paget and M. Julian
Bordier took place yesterday, and we were invited to it. The father of
the bride was present. The rescue from his living tomb, the new and
happier life, and the care and devotion of his wife Emilia, upon whose
sweet face he never tires of gazing, has already brought about a great
change for the better, and confident hopes are entertained that before
long his reason will be permanently restored. It is pleasant to be
able to record that the kind and skilful oculist who had given
evidence in what I may call the marriage certificate case has made a
cure of M. Julian Bordier. He can see, and the terror of blindness no
longer afflicts him.
This morning the oculist (who gave himself a week's holiday to attend
the wedding) and I had a chat about M. Felix, whose supposed death in
Gerard Street, Soho, caused so great a sensation. He has been hunting
up cases of suspended animation, and he read to me half a dozen, each
of which lasted for a much longer time than M. Felix's. Since
Peterssen's trial there has been a great deal written in newspapers
and magazines concerning these instances of apparent death, and wonder
has been expressed that, upon M. Felix's disappearance, no one thought
it was likely that he had gone through such an experience. My answer
to this expression of wonder is that it is easy to be wise after the
event.
While we were engaged in our conversation, the oculist and I were
sitting at a window of the house which Constance and her husband are
to occupy when they return from their honeymoon. The window overlooks
a garden in which Emilia and Gerald are walking.
"A good and sweet woman," said the oculist, smiling at Emilia, who had
looked up and smiled at us. "She deserves happiness."
"She will have it," I said. "The clouds have disappeared from her
life. Her trials are over."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mystery of M. Felix, by B. L. Farjeon