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.

"How far do the woods extend?" I asked.

"You'll have to walk six or seven miles," she replied, "before you get
out of 'em--and mind you take care of the cliffs. They're dangerous."

"We shall see them, I suppose, before we come on them?"

"Oh, you'll see 'em right enough, but nobody goes nearer to 'em than
they can help."

She stood looking after us till thick clusters of trees hid us from
her sight.

"Step out, Sophy," I said, "we've got a long walk before us."

An explanation of the motive for my sudden visit to Glasserton will be
found in the following extracts from the _Fleetdyke Herald_:

THE FIRST EXTRACT.

"_Tampering with a Register Book. Strange Case_.--M. Bordier and his
son, Julian Bordier, of Swiss extraction, were charged with erasing a
name, and writing another over it, from a marriage entry in the
register book of marriages in the parish of Glasserton. Mr. Hare, the
registrar, stated that the accused visited him yesterday afternoon,
for the purpose, as they said, of verifying a copy of a marriage
certificate which they brought with them. The marriage in question was
solemnized over nineteen years ago, and, according to the entry as it
now stands, was between Gerald Paget and Emilia Braham, The elder of
the accused made the examination, and professed himself satisfied. He
then requested the registrar to step out of the office with him,
saying that he wished to make some private inquiries of him. The
registrar consented, and the two went outside for a few minutes, the
questions which M. Bordier asked relating to the witnesses to the
marriage, Julian Bordier meanwhile remaining alone in the office with,
the register book. Mr. Hare, who has been registrar for nine or ten
months only, answered the questions to the best of his ability, and
then M. Bordier summoned his son from the office, and the accused
departed. In the evening Mr. Hare had occasion to consult the register
book, and as a matter of curiosity he referred to the entry which his
visitors in the afternoon had called to verify. To his astonishment he
discovered that the name of the bridegroom had been erased, and the
name of Gerald Paget written over the erasure. His suspicions fell
immediately upon M. Bordier and Julian Bordier, and learning that they
had left the village, he obtained a warrant for their arrest, and,
with a policeman, started in pursuit. The accused were greatly
agitated when told to consider themselves under arrest, and the elder
of the two commenced an explanation, to which, however, Mr. Hare and
the constable refused to listen. He then begged to be permitted to
write and telegraph to London for legal and professional assistance
which, he said, would establish their innocence, and his request being
granted, he wrote and despatched both letters and telegrams. The
registrar having finished his evidence, the magistrate said the case
was quite clear, and asked the accused what they had to say in their
defence. M. Bordier, who assumed the office of spokesman, his son
preserving a somewhat scornful silence, handed the magistrate two
telegrams he had received from London in reply to those he had
despatched. M. Bordier said that he refrained from putting any
questions to the registrar, giving as a reason that he was ignorant of
the procedure in English Courts of Justice. The magistrate, having
read the telegrams, remarked that the names attached to them were
those of eminent and renowned gentlemen whose time must be very
valuable. As they promised to attend the court on the following
morning and were anxious to return on the same day the accused were
therefore remanded till to-morrow for the production of these
important witnesses from London."

THE SECOND EXTRACT.

"_Tampering with a Register Book. Strange and Important
Evidence.--Result_.--M. Bordier and his son, Julian Bordier, were
brought up on remand on the charge of altering a signature in a
marriage entry in the register book of the parish of Glasserton. Upon
the case being called Mr. Lawson, of the well-known firm of Lawson &
Lawson, St. Helen's, London, who said he appeared for the defence,
asked that Mr. Shepherd, the eminent expert in caligraphy, should be
allowed to examine the register book, and the application was granted.
The clerk read the evidence given yesterday by Mr. Hare, the
registrar, who stated, in reply to a question from the magistrate,
that he had nothing to add to it. Mr. Lawson then proceeded to
cross-examine the witness:

"'You state that the register book was examined in your
presence?'--'Yes.'

"'Was there any possibility of the signature being tampered with while
you were by?'--'It could not possibly have been done in my presence.'

"'Was M. Bordier left alone in the office with the book?'--'No.'

"'In point of fact, you did not lose sight of him during the whole of
the visit?'--'I did not.'

"'Not even for a moment?'--'Not for one moment.'

"'Then he could not have made the erasure or have written the name
over it?'--'He could not.'

"'You do not accuse him?'--'Of actually committing the offence, no. Of
being an accessory, yes. He called me out of the office to give his
accomplice time to do what he wished.'

"'We shall see. Only M. Julian Bordier could possibly have altered the
entry?'--'Only him.'

"Mr. Lawson (to the Magistrate): 'This proves that M. Bordier could not
have made the erasure.'--Magistrate: 'Exactly.'

"Cross-examination resumed: 'It is not important to the case, but are
you familiar with the record of the marriage of Emilia Braham and
Gerald Paget, or between her and any other person?'--'No, I never had
occasion to refer to this particular entry.'

"'Were M. Bordier and his son the only visitors you received on that
day who wished to verify an entry in the register book?'--'The only
visitors.'

"'After they left you did you leave your office?'--'For an hour in the
evening.'

"'Before you discovered that the entry had been tampered with?'--'Yes,
before that.'

"'Who was in charge of the premises while you were away?'--'The
servant, Jane Seebold.'

"'When you made the discovery of the erasure, did you ask Jane Seebold
if anyone had called in your absence?'--'I did not.'

"'Did you at any time inform her that the book had been tampered
with?'--'I did not.'

"'You jumped at the conclusion that the gentlemen you accuse must be
guilty?'--'There is no other conclusion.'

"'That will do. Call Mr. Shepherd.'

"Mr. Shepherd stepped into the witness-box.

"Mr. Lawson: 'You are an expert in handwriting?'--'Witness: I am; it
is my profession.'

"'You have given evidence in many celebrated cases?'--'I have.'

"The Magistrate: 'Mr. Shepherd's name and reputation are well known.'

"'Have you examined the entry of the marriage between Emilia Braham
and Gerald Paget?'--'I have.'

"'There is an undoubted erasure of the signature of the
bridegroom?'--'There is.'

"'The name, Gerald Paget, as it now appears, has been recently
written?'--'Quite recently, within the past week. The state of the ink
in which the name is freshly written proves it.'

"'You put a marked emphasis upon the words "freshly written." Have you
a reason for doing so?'--'I have. Upon a careful examination of the
entry I am of the firm opinion that the name erased is the same as the
name written above the erasure. The letters have been very cleverly
traced.'

"The Magistrate: 'That sounds very strange.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'It does; but it is a puzzle that may be solved. Say that
there is here a question of property which would fall to the Emilia
Braham who is married according to this entry. To become possessed of
this property, she must prove her marriage with Gerald Paget. Some one
interested on the other side gets hold of the register book, and
erases the name of Gerald Paget. What name shall be substituted in its
place? What but that of Gerald Paget? This opens up the suggestion
that a friend of Emilia Braham (speaking of her in her maiden name)
has also paid a visit to the register, book, has erased the
bridegroom's name, and written in its place that of Paget, to prove
the said Emilia's marriage with him. A formidable suspicion is thrown
upon her, and the very entry upon which she relies is weighty evidence
against her.'

"The Magistrate: 'It is an ingenious theory, but I cannot see that it
has any bearing upon the present case.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'It has an indirect bearing. I have here a copy of the
marriage certificate, which I must ask you to compare with the entry
in the register book. You will see in the copy that the name is Gerald
Paget, and you cannot doubt that the copy is genuine."

"The Magistrate: 'There can be little doubt of that. The state of the
paper is a proof.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'If the copy had been lost, it would have greatly
strengthened those whose interests are opposed to Mrs. Paget's. I have
nothing further to ask you, Mr. Shepherd. Call Jane Seebold.'

"Jane Seebold was shown into the witness-box.

"'Your name is Jane Seebold?'--'Yes.'

"'You are in the service of Mr. Hare?'--'Yes.'

"'Do you remember the day before yesterday?'--'Yes.'

"'In the evening Mr. Hare went out for an hour?'--'Yes.'

"'Was the office in which the official books are kept open?'--'Yes, it
was, and I was sweeping it out.'

"'Did anybody call while you were so employed?'--'Yes, a gentleman.'

"'Did he inquire for any one?'--'Yes, my master.'

"'Well?'--'I told him he was out.'

"'What did he say to that?'--'He said he would wait for him.'

"'You allowed him to wait?'--'Yes.'

"'In the office?'--'Yes.'

"'What did you do while he waited?'--'I had work in other parts of the
house, and I went and did it.'

"'For how long was the gentleman left alone in the office?'--'Half an
hour, perhaps.'

"'Then you went in to him?'--'Yes, and he said he was going, and he
went.'

"'Did you tell your master of the gentleman's visit when he
returned?'--'No, I didn't.'

"'Why didn't you?' The witness hesitated. 'Why didn't you? Remember
that you are on your oath, and that if you prevaricate or speak
falsely you may get yourself into serious trouble. Why did you not
tell your master of the gentleman's visit?'--'Well, he gave me five
shillings, and told me to say nothing about it. I don't see that I've
done any harm.'

"'You can step down.'

"The Magistrate: 'Stop a moment. Where were the official books while
the gentleman was in the office?'--'In their proper place--the desk.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'Was the desk locked?'--'The lock's been broke all the
time I've been in the place.'

"'So that all a person had to do to get hold of the books was to lift
the lid?'--'Yes.'

"The Magistrate: 'Your conduct was very reprehensible.'

"The witness then left the box.

"Mr. Lawson: 'We have brought the inquiry now to this point. Supposing
the erasure to have been made on the day in question, the commission
of the offence lies between M. Julian Bordier and the person who
visited the registrar's office in his absence.'

"The Magistrate: 'Quite so. I think the registrar should keep these
important public books in a more secure place--in an iron safe.'

"The Registrar: 'I am not supplied with one, your Worship, and I
cannot afford to buy one. My servant's evidence comes upon me as a
surprise.'

"The Magistrate: 'I repeat what I said. These official records should
be kept in safer custody. The authorities should provide proper
receptacles for them.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'I shall proceed now to prove that it is an utter
impossibility that M. Julian Bordier can be guilty of the offence with
which he and his father are charged. Call Mr. Wordsworth.'

"This gentleman, whose name and fame are world-renowned, then gave his
evidence, which was short, conclusive, and surprising.

"'You are an oculist?'--'I am.'

"'You are attending M. Julian Bordier?'--'Yes.'

"'Is that the gentleman?'--'That is the gentleman.'

"'What are you attending him for?'--'For his sight.'

"'Could he the day before yesterday have erased a name from the
register book and written another name above it?'--'It is utterly
impossible.'

"'Why?'--'Because he was blind. He is blind now; His eyes are open,
but he cannot see. It is against my express wish that he left London.
If he does not return immediately and abide by my instructions, I
shall despair of restoring his sight.'

"M. Bordier: 'May I say a word?'

"The Magistrate: 'Certainly.'

"M. Bordier: 'I came to Glasserton to compare the copy of a marriage
certificate with the original entry. My son's happiness hung upon this
proof, and he insisted upon accompanying me. He would not be
dissuaded, and although I feared there was a risk, I yielded to his
wish. When we were arrested I endeavored to explain matters to the
registrar and the officer, but they would not listen to me. Ignorant
of the methods of English courts of justice, I thought it wisest to
obtain counsel and assistance from London. That is all I have to say.'

"Mr. Lawson: 'Is it necessary, your worship, for me to address you?'

"The Magistrate: 'No. The gentlemen are discharged, and I regret that
they have had to submit to this trial. I trust, Mr. Wordsworth, that
you will be able to cure M. Julian Bordier.'

"Mr. Wordsworth: 'If he will be guided by me, I hope to restore his
sight.'

"The parties then left the court."

CHAPTER LVI.

NIGHT IN DEERING WOODS.

I had a twofold object in going to Glasserton. In the first place I
wished to see for myself the original record of the marriage in the
register book; in the second place I wished to obtain from the
registrar's servant, Jane Seebold, a description of the visitor she
allowed to remain in the office while her master was absent from the
house. It was evident that she had no knowledge of the purpose of the
visit which M. Bordier and his son Julian paid to the registrar in the
morning; and it was equally evident that the man who bribed her to
silence was the man who erased the signature. I had no doubt that it
was either M. Felix or Dr. Peterssen, who by this artful trick hoped
to pave the way to a doubt of the genuineness of Emilia's marriage
with Gerald Paget. The scoundrels had no idea that the copy of the
marriage certificate had been found, or that M. Bordier and his son
were in the village on the same day as themselves. All that they
wished to do was to make some provision for a possible contingency in
the future. If, as was very likely, they read the case in the
newspaper, they must have been confounded by the conviction that they
were hoist with their own petard. Another thing, I was now satisfied
that when I left Bob I had started on a true trail, despite the
knavish devices of Dr. Peterssen's tool, Crawley.

The walk through Deering Woods was a dreary one, but it would have
been much more dreary had it not been for Sophy, who was always
entertaining and original, and never more so than on the present
occasion. I let her partly into my confidence, and she was delighted
to know that she had been the direct means of throwing light on a
cruel injustice. We trudged along side by side, the most amicable and
agreeable of companions.

"It'll wake aunty tip when she 'ears everything," said Sophy. "She'll
think me good for something now."

"You are the best and brightest little girl in my acquaintance,
Sophy," I said.

"I didn't take _you_ in, did I?" she asked.

"No, indeed," I replied. "It was a lucky day for me when I first met
you."

"Not so lucky for you as for me," she said. "I've got a silver watch."

"It will turn into a gold one by the time you're a woman."

"Will it?" she exclaimed. "Shan't I be proud!"

About half way through the woods I saw the cliffs of which the
landlord's daughter had warned me. In the dark they would have been
dangerous indeed to one unfamiliar with them. At some time or other
there had been a great landslip, which had opened up a chasm of great
depth; in parts slight fences had been put up, but there were spaces
entirely unprotected, and I was thankful we had been warned of the
danger. It was half-past seven by my watch when we reached Glasserton,
and I had no difficulty in finding the registrar's house. He was at
home when I called, and did not receive me too cordially. He had been
upset by the trial, and it was with the greatest difficulty I
succeeded in obtaining a glance of the original entry of the marriage.
It was only by bribery and threats that I effected my purpose, and I
had to use extreme persuasion to induce him to grant me an interview
with Jane Seebold. I elicited very little from her in consequence of
the state of confusion she was in, but I was satisfied in my own mind
that it was M. Felix who had tampered with the book. From her
imperfect description of the man I judged that he must in some way
have disguised himself for the purpose of the visit, and I was
assisted to this conclusion partly by the height of her visitor, who
she said was not a tall man. Dr. Peterssen was not less than six feet,
and having to decide between him and M. Felix I decided unhesitatingly
in favor of the latter. The registrar had been in Glasserton but three
or four years, whereas Jane Seebold had been in it all her life, and I
learned from her that two of the three witnesses to the marriage, the
doctor and the old wagoner, had long been dead. At nine o'clock my
inquiries were ended, and Sophy and I started back for the inn.

"Tired, Sophy?" I asked.

"Not a bit," she answered, cheerfully, "I could walk all night."

Still we did not get along so fast as in the early part of the
evening; it would have been cruel to take unfair advantage of Sophy's
indomitable spirit; the girl would have walked till she dropped, and I
had some consideration for her. Therefore it was that we did not reach
the middle of Deering Woods till past ten, by which time the moon had
risen. When I was not talking to Sophy my mind was occupied by the
task upon which I had been engaged. Since my first introduction to the
Mystery of M. Felix a great deal had been accomplished. The mystery
has been practically solved, although the public were not yet in
possession of the facts. Emilia's agony was over, as I believed, for
my wildest dreams would not have compassed what was to occur during
the next few weeks; she had been fortunate in gaining a champion so
noble and generous as M. Bordier, and her daughter's happiness was
assured. I could understand now her anxiety as to M. Bordier's silence
since his discovery of the copy of the marriage certificate, and I
divined his reason for it. With a horror of publicity, and out of
regard for her, he did not wish her to become acquainted with his and
his son's arrest until he himself informed her of it, and he
entertained a hope that the report of the case would not get into the
London papers. I also now understood her anxious references to M.
Julian's state of health; they bore upon his failing sight, to restore
which he and his father had come to London. The young man had been
imprudent, but I trusted to Mr. Wordsworth's assurances that he could
make a cure of him if Julian would abide by his instructions. I had no
doubt, now that Emilia's good name was established, that Julian would
submit to the guidance of this eminent oculist, whose heart was as
kind as his skill was great.

So far, all was well, but I was not satisfied; I could not consider my
task accomplished till I had brought Dr. Peterssen and M. Felix to the
bar of justice and restored to Emilia's arms the husband she believed
she had lost in Switzerland.

Sophy broke in upon my musings.

"Is there a man in the moon?" she asked.

"They say so," I answered, lightly.

"I see 'is face," said Sophy, "as plain as plain can be."

We were near the fallen cliffs as these words passed between us, and
before I had time to utter another my attention was arrested by the
sound of a shot.

"What's that?" cried Sophy.

"A gun or pistol fired," I replied, "and not far off."

"I don't mean the firing," said Sophy, "I mean the scream. Didn't yer
'ear it?"

"No, Sophy, no scream reached my ears."

"It reached mine. I can 'ear anything, if it's in the next street."

"Was it after or before the shot?" I asked.

"About the same time, I think. They come both together."

"Let us go and see what it is, if you're not afraid."

"Me afraid," she said contemptuously, and she ran before me in the
direction from which the sounds had proceeded. We had not gone fifty
yards before we both stopped simultaneously, with an exclamation of
horror on our lips. On the ground before us lay the body of a man,
pressing his hand to his heart, from which the blood was flowing. He
struggled into a sitting posture, and was endeavoring to rise to his
feet, when he fell back with a groan, and moved no more.

I rushed to his side and bent over him.

"There has been murder done," I said. "He is dead."

"Yes," said Sophy in a low tone, as she stooped over the body. "He's
dead this time, and no mistake.

"Dead this time!" I repeated in wonder.

"Don't yer see who it is?" she asked. "It's Mr. Felix!"

M. Felix! This, then, was the end of the ill-spent life. The evil
record was thus suddenly snapped, and the man who was supposed to have
died in Gerard Street, Soho, on the night of the 16th of January, lay
dead before me in the lonely Deering Woods, his last breath but just
drawn.

"Are you sure, Sophy?"

"Ain't _you_ sure?"

"I cannot be. I never saw him in life."

"I can't be mistook. It's Mr. Felix--but oh, ain't it orfle! who could
'ave done it?"

"Who, Sophy? Who but his companion in crime, Dr. Peterssen?"

At this moment, from an unseen hand behind, Sophy was struck to the
ground. Her scream of pain was frozen on her lips, and she lay prone
before me.

"You infernal villain," I cried, and turned.

The moon was shining brightly, and by its light I saw the form of Dr.
Peterssen. In his upraised hands he held a heavy stake. I strove to
avoid the blow, and received it on my arm. Before I could recover
myself the stake was raised again, and again it descended upon me,
this time upon my head. The earth swam round. Again I was struck with
savage violence, and as I fell the last thing I saw was the moon with
a face in it which smiled upon me in the likeness of Dr. Peterssen.

CHAPTER LVII.

THE CAVERN IN THE CLIFF.

I opened my eyes in darkness. How long I had remained insensible I did
not know, nor did I know where I was. All that I was conscious of at
first was a dull pain in my head, but presently I was sensible of
other facts. My hands were tied behind me, and my mouth was gagged, so
that I could only utter unintelligible moans. To my astonishment my
moans were answered by similar sounds at a short distance from me.
Pain and suffering are selfish and dominant qualities, and some few
moments passed before I thought of my brave Sophy. Then it occurred to
me that the moans I heard proceeded from her, and that she was in the
same condition as myself. My immediate feeling was one of thankfulness
that she was alive. In vain did I strive to free my hands; in vain did
I strive to speak intelligible words; in vain did I strive to pierce
the black darkness in which we were enveloped. I did not know whether
it was day or night, and I shuddered to think of the fate in store for
us. Soon I found myself forgetting my own peril entirely, and dwelling
only upon poor Sophy's. Bitterly did I reproach myself for bringing
her to this pass, for it was I, and I alone, who was responsible for
the doom which would surely overtake her. I had no doubt that we were
imprisoned here to die, and it was I who had sealed her fate.

My thoughts did not flow steadily and uninterruptedly. Every now and
then I relapsed into unconsciousness, and when I revived it seemed to
me as if I took up quite naturally the thread of my reflections at the
point at which they were broken off. These intervals of insensibility
may have been long or short for all I knew. I was starving; I was
parched; I would have given the world for a drink of water; but I can
say truthfully that if water had been available for only one of us, I
would have set my lips hard and given the relief to my companion in
misery. I have read of exquisite tortures inflicted upon unfortunate
people by barbarous nations--aye, and by some civilized nations as
well--but no tortures could have been keener than those I endured.
Minutes were like hours, hours like days. It was impossible under such
conditions to keep count of time.

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 man[oe]uvre."

"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.

"I did not come an hour too soon," said Bob, when he had concluded his
story.

"Not an hour, Bob. I believe I could not have lived another day."

A telegram was brought into me. It was from M. Bordier: "We shall be
with you to-night. Have not informed Mrs. Paget of the particulars.
Not advisable to agitate her unnecessarily. Decide when we meet."
Other telegrams were also brought to me, and I learned from them that
my sister, a friend on the staff of the _Evening Moon_, and Mrs.
Middlemore would also soon be with me. Bob had been thoughtful enough
to arrange for the despatch of news from the court in which the trial
was taking place. Seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock, and the
court was still sitting. The Judge was summing up, and had expressed a
desire that the trial should be finished that night.

"He is of the opinion," I said to Bob, "that the jury will not be long
in giving their verdict."

"It looks like it," said Bob.

"Does this strike you as guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," replied Bob.

A note was here delivered to me from the counsel for the defense: "I
cannot leave the court. The Judge will soon finish his summing up,
which is unfavorable to the prisoner. He anticipates a rapid decision
on the part of the jury, and a verdict of guilty. If your news is
really of importance and, advantageous to the prisoner, come to the
court immediately."

I gave the note to Bob to read, and rose.

"Sophy," I said, "are you strong enough to come with me? I am going to
the court."

"I'm ready," said Sophy.

"Yes, Agnold," said Bob, "you must go."

He ran down, and by the time we reached it a trap was waiting for us.

"Have a couple of traps in waiting," I said to him, "and the moment
the persons I expect arrive bring them to the court. Especially Mrs.
Paget, M. Bordier, and Mrs. Middlemore, and send also any telegrams
that may come."

"Depend upon me, Agnold," said the good fellow. "Not a point shall be
missed." He waved his hand as we drove away, and called out, "Good
luck!"

And now I must encroach upon the columns of the _Evening Moon_ for a
description of the events of this agitating night. A cooler head and a
steadier hand than mine have made the record, and all that I have to
do is to vouch for its accuracy.

CHAPTER LIX.

FROM THE COLUMNS OF THE "THE EVENING MOON," UNDER
THE HEADING, "THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX SOLVED."

"The stirring incidents of a great city are so numerous, and so
pressing in their demands upon the space of the local papers, that it
occasionally happens that incidents as stirring and exciting which
occur at a distance from the Metropolis are either overlooked or
dismissed in a short paragraph at the bottom of a column. This
happened in a trial for murder which took place in the Midland
Circuit, and, were it not that this particular case bears directly
upon the mystery known as The Mystery of M. Felix, its remarkable
features would probably have escaped notice in the Metropolitan
journals. The circumstances of the case, so far as they were known to
the public on the day on which the trial took place, are as simple as
they are singular. A man was found murdered in Deering Woods. He was a
stranger in the neighborhood, and nothing was found on him which could
establish his identity. His pockets were empty, and his underclothing
was unmarked. He met his death by a shot fired from a revolver, and
the bullet was extracted from his body. In the same woods on the same
night a man suspected of the murder was taken into custody. He had in
his possession a six-barrelled revolver, and one of the barrels had
been discharged. Upon being questioned he refused to answer, but
looked vacantly about him. The bullet which was extracted from the
body of the murdered man fitted the discharged barrel, and was similar
to the bullets, with which the remaining five barrels were loaded. The
accused, who was properly committed for trial, was, like the victim, a
stranger in the neighborhood, and bore about him nothing that could
lead to his identification. His silence was a suspicious element in
the charge against him, and the revolver with which the deed was done
being found upon him, there was little room for doubt that he was the
murderer. What the motive for the crime could have been it is
impossible to say; if it were robbery the stolen property was
carefully hidden away, for no traces of it were discovered. The
evidence was simple, but appeared to be complete, and the accused lay
in prison until the Assizes, which were held soon after he was
committed. At the trial he preserved the same stubborn silence as he
had maintained before the magistrate. Asked to plead, he made no
answer, and a plea of not guilty was recorded. He had no counsel, and
one was assigned to him. The young barrister to whom the defence was
entrusted had a difficult task before him. He could obtain not the
least assistance from the prisoner, who stood in the dock apparently
unconcerned regarding his fate. But it is said that there could
occasionally have been observed on his features a pitiful expression,
which aroused the sympathy of the spectators. This expression has been
described by an onlooker as that of a man who had borne the cruellest
and bitterest of buffets in his course through life, and who had been
brought to a pass in which he looked upon death as the kindest mercy
which could be meted out to him. There were women in court who sobbed
as they gazed upon his sad and hopeless face, and yet could not have
accounted for their tears on any other ground than those of
unreasoning sentiment. That this mute and unconscious appeal had a
powerful effect upon the jury will be seen a little further on; it
certainly led them to act in a manner which is perhaps unprecedented
in a trial for murder in an English court of justice. It will be seen
that there were very few witnesses. The surgeon who extracted the
bullet, a gun-maker who testified that the barrel had been recently
discharged, and that the bullet was one of six with which the weapon
had been loaded, the constables who arrested the prisoner--these were
all that were called for the prosecution. The Crown counsel elicited
all the facts in a fair and impartial manner, and it was evident that
he considered the case conclusive. The cross-examination was skilfully
conducted, severe tests being applied to the evidence respecting the
bullet; but the witnesses remained unshaken. The cross-examination of
the constables was directed principally to the demeanor and conduct of
the prisoner. Did he make any resistance?--No. When he was arrested,
was he endeavoring to make his escape?--It did not appear so; he was
wandering through the woods. Was it, to all appearance, an aimless
wandering?--Yes. Did he make any excuses for, or give any explanation
of his presence in the woods?--He did not utter a single word. Did he
endeavor to hide or get rid of the revolver?--No. For the defence a
physician who had examined the prisoner was called. His testimony was
to the effect that the prisoner was afflicted with melancholia, and
that his mind was in such a condition as to render him irresponsible
for his actions. It was clear that the line set up for the defence was
that the prisoner was insane. The cross-examination of the physician
somewhat damaged the weight of his evidence. Did he base his belief
that the prisoner was afflicted with melancholia and was not
responsible for his actions on the circumstance of his refusing to
speak?--Partly, but only to a slight extent. Had he not met in his
professional experiences with cases in which persons accused of crime
preserved an obstinate and dogged silence for the express purpose of
being considered insane and irresponsible?--Yes, there had been such
cases. Scanty as was the evidence it occupied several hours. Counsel
for the defence made an eloquent and impassioned defence on the plea
of irresponsibility and insanity, and then the prosecuting counsel
addressed the jury. He dealt in hard and plain facts; he spoke coldly
and without passion; he refused to entertain the line of the defence,
and said it was more than likely that the prisoner's demeanor
proceeded from a cunning nature, and that he hoped by this means to
escape the consequences of a ruthless murder committed in cold blood.
The Judge, who said that there was no reason why the trial should not
be concluded that night, and that the Court would sit late to receive
the verdict, summed up dead against the prisoner. Following in the
train of the counsel for the Crown, he laid down the law in the
clearest manner, and he directed the jury to consider certain issues
and be guided by them, and to perform conscientiously the duty for
which they were called together. At a quarter to ten o'clock the jury
retired, and the Judge left the court, with directions that he should
be called when the jury returned.

"It was at this stage of the inquiry that the case promised to assume
a new aspect. Our reporter, Mr. Agnold, with whom our readers are
acquainted, and to whom the public are indebted for the light thrown
upon the Mystery of M. Felix, entered the court in the company of the
young girl, Sophy, and immediately fell into earnest conversation with
the counsel for the defence. Their conversation lasted a considerable
time, during which the counsel took copious notes, breaking off
occasionally to put questions to Sophy, who answered them readily.
Once the counsel turned Sophy's attention to the prisoner, and she
moved toward him. He, turning, saw her, and greeted her with a smile
of much sweetness, to which she pitifully responded. This sign of
mutual recognition, indicating as it did an acquaintanceship between
the prisoner and the young girl, heightened to fever-pitch the
interest and excitement of the spectators, but before any explanation
of the incident could be given, the return of the jury was announced.
Almost at the same moment the Judge made his appearance. The names of
the jury were about to be called out, when the counsel for the defence
rose for the purpose of making a remark, but was desired by the Judge
to resume his seat until the verdict of the jury was given.

"Counsel for the defence: 'If your Lordship knew the importance of the
observations I wish to make----'

"The Judge: 'I must request you to be seated until we have done with
the jury. Then I will hear you.'

"The jury having answered to their names, were asked if they had
agreed upon a verdict; whereupon the following conversation took
place:

"The Foreman of the Jury: 'My Lord, the jury wish me to say that they
are morally convinced that the prisoner is not guilty.'

"The Judge: 'That is not a verdict. It is not a question of being
morally convinced; it is a question of being legally convinced.'

"The Foreman: 'But the jury have the strongest moral doubts, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'They would not be sufficient to lead to a verdict. The
doubts must be legal doubts. It is not for me to influence you one way
or another. I have put the facts of the case before you, and it is
upon those facts you must decide and pronounce your verdict.'

"The Foreman (after a brief consultation with his brother jurymen):
'Our verdict, my Lord, is Not guilty.'

"The Judge: 'Upon what grounds have you arrived at your verdict?'

"The Foreman: 'Upon the grounds of moral conviction, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'It is my duty to tell you again that those grounds are
insufficient. Sentiment has nothing whatever to do with a criminal
case. I must request you to retire and reconsider your verdict.'

"The Foreman: 'With all respect, my Lord, it is useless. We have
resolved to return no other verdict than the one we have given, and
upon the grounds I have stated.'

"Several of the jury gave audible assent to their foreman's words.

"The Judge: 'I cannot receive your verdict, accompanied by your
statement. You will retire and give the matter further consideration.'

"The Foreman: 'If we are locked up all night, my Lord, we shall return
no other verdict.'

"The Judge: 'I do not wish to be harsh or oppressive. Equally with
yourselves I have a duty to perform. If you do not rightly comprehend
any part of the evidence, say so, and I will explain it to you.'

"The Foreman: 'We have no doubts, my Lord. We understand the evidence
thoroughly.'

"The Judge: 'Oh, if you cannot agree----'

"The Foreman: 'We are thoroughly agreed, my Lord.'

"The Judge: 'You will retire.'

"The jury were then conducted out of court.

"The Judge, addressing counsel for the defence: 'I am ready to hear
you now.'

"Counsel: 'My Lord, during your Lordship's absence from court, while
the jury were considering their verdict, the most important
revelations have been made to me.'

"The Judge: 'Bearing upon this case?'

"Counsel: 'Bearing directly upon this case. Two persons are present
now, who, if I had been able to call them, would have thrown an
entirely different light upon the case. One of them is personally
acquainted with the prisoner, the other does not know him personally,
but knows his name.'

"The Judge 'The Crown is not represented. The learned counsel is not
in court. I cannot now hear statements from other persons; but you can
go on with your statement. His name is known, you say?'

"Counsel: 'Yes, my Lord. It is Gerald Paget.'

At this mention of his name the prisoner became violently agitated.
His countenance was convulsed, and he stretched forth his arms, which
trembled from excess of emotion.

"The Judge: 'The prisoner appears to be ill. Is there a doctor in
court?'

"The prisoner (speaking for the first time): 'I am not ill. I want to
hear what he has to say.'

"Counsel: 'For nineteen years he has been supposed to be dead, and, in
pursuance of a diabolical plot, has been confined in a private
madhouse as another person. It is this cruel imprisonment which has
reduced him to the condition in which we now see him.'

"The Judge: 'Your statement is an extraordinary one.'

"Counsel: 'I shall be able, my Lord, to establish its truth, and the
truth of other facts as extraordinary. The strange story which has
been revealed to me is too lengthy and complicated to narrate at this
hour, but if your Lordship will adjourn until to-morrow I undertake to
prove the unfortunate prisoner's innocence, and also the guilt of the
man who should now be standing in his place.'

"The Judge: 'Is the man known? Can he be found?'

"Counsel: 'He is known, and is now in prison under another charge
which is directly connected with the murder for which the prisoner has
been tried.'

"The Judge: 'If your statements are true the case is unprecedented.'

"Counsel: 'It is, my Lord. The person who is guilty of the murder was
the prisoner's keeper. There has hitherto been no identification of
the murdered man; I am now in a position to prove who he was. He bore
the name of Leonard Paget.'

"The Judge: 'Paget is the name of the prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'They were half brothers. There is a question of property
involved.'

"An officer of the court here presented himself, and said that the
jury wished to speak to the judge.

"The Judge: 'Let them be brought in.'

"Upon this being done, the Judge asked the foreman what he had to say.

"The Foreman: 'It is simply, my Lord, that there is not the remotest
possibility of our returning any other verdict than that we have
delivered, and in the precise terms in which we have delivered it.
There is not the slightest difference of opinion between us; we are
absolutely unanimous.'

"The Judge: 'As I have already told you, it is no verdict. Officer,
what is that noise?'

"Counsel: 'Witnesses from London have just arrived, my Lord, who are
ready to prove the truth of the statements I have made.'

"An extraordinary scene ensued. One of the newly-arrived witnesses was
a lady, whose eyes travelled round the court, and finally rested upon
the prisoner. In this lady our readers will have no difficulty in
recognizing Emilia Paget The moment she saw the prisoner a look of
incredulous joy sprang into her eyes.

"'Merciful God!' she cried. 'Has the dead returned to life? Am I awake
or dreaming?'

"The Prisoner, with a wild scream: 'Emilia!'

"Emilia: 'It is his voice! Gerald! Gerald!'

"She rushed to the prisoner, and no attempt was made to restrain her.
Throwing her arms round his neck she drew his head down to her breast.
Convulsive sobs shook their frames.

"Counsel, solemnly: 'My Lord, the prisoner is this lady's husband,
whom she has mourned as dead for nineteen years.'

"The Foreman of the Jury: 'My Lord, if anything was needed to prove
the justice of our verdict, the proof is now supplied.'

"The Judge: 'You are discharged. The Court is adjourned. Remove the
prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'My Lord, my Lord! May not this afflicted couple be allowed
a few minutes' intercourse?'

"The Judge: 'I leave it to the discretion of the officers in charge of
the prisoner.'

"Counsel: 'Direct them my lord. Say that it may be allowed.'

"The Judge: 'It may be allowed. But all the persons not directly
concerned in this unparalleled case must retire.'

"Slowly and reluctantly the spectators left the court in a state of
indescribable excitement."

CHAPTER LX.

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