The Mystery of M. Felix. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

shall 'ear of it in a way you won't like.'"

      Constable Nightingale was silent a few moments, and then he said, briskly, "Let's us go and hunt up that cat."

      But although they searched the basement through they could not find it.

      "Perhaps," suggested Constable Wigg, "it got out of the house when we opened the street-door just now."

      "Perhaps," assented Constable Nightingale, laconically.

      Then they ascended the stairs to the ground floor, Constable Nightingale examining very carefully the marks of the cat's paws on the oilcloth.

      "Do you see, Mrs. Middlemore? Blood. There's no mistaking it. And I'm hanged if it doesn't go upstairs to the first floor."

      "You're not going up, Mr. Nightingale?" asked Mrs. Middlemore, under her breath, laying her hand on his arm.

      "If I know myself," said Constable Nightingale, patting her hand, "I am. Whatever happens, it's my duty and Wigg's to get at the bottom of this. What else did you call us in for?"

      "To be sure," said Mrs. Middlemore, helplessly, "but if you have any feeling for me, speak low."

      "I will, my dear. My feelings for you well you must know, but this is not the time. Look here at this stain, and this, and this. The spectre cat has been up these stairs. Puss, puss, puss, puss! Not likely that it'll answer; it's got the cunning of a fox. That's Mr. Felix's room, if my eyes don't deceive me."

      "Yes, it is."

      "But it don't look the same door as the one I have been through; it ain't the first time I've been here, you know. Where's the keyhole? I'll take my oath there was a keyhole when I last saw the door."

      "The key 'ole's 'id. That brass plate covers it; it's a patent spring, and he fixes it some'ow from the inside; he presses something, and it slides down; then he turns a screw, and makes it tight."

      "Can anyone do it but him?"

      "I don't think they can; it's 'is own idea, he ses."

      "See how we're getting on, Wigg. No one can work that brass plate but him; that shows he's at home." He knocked at the door, and called "Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

      "He'll give me notice to leave," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm sure he will. He's the last man in the world to be broke in upon like this."

      "Leave it to me, my dear," said Constable Nightingale, "I'll make it all right with him. What did he say to me when I was on this beat? I told you, you remember, Wigg. 'Constable,' says he, 'you're on night duty here.' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' says he, 'I live in this house, and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.' That was a straight tip, and I'm looking after him now. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

      But though he called again and again, and rapped at the door twenty times, he received no answer from within the room.

      "It's singular," he said, knitting his brows. "He must be a sound sleeper, must Mr. Felix. I'll try again."

      He continued to knock and call "loud enough," as he declared, "to rouse the dead," but no response came to the anxious little group on the landing.

      "There's not only no keyhole," said Constable Nightingale, "but there's no handle to take hold of. The door's for all the world like a safe without a knob. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix! Don't you hear us, sir? I've got something particular to say to you."

      For all the effect he produced he might have spoken to a stone wall, and he and Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore stood looking helplessly at each other.

      "I tell you what it is," he said, tightening his belt, "this has got beyond a joke. What with the silence, and the bloodstains, and the man with the red handkercher round his neck as run out of the house while Wigg and me was talking together outside, there's more in this than meets the eye. Now, Mrs. Middlemore, there's no occasion for us to speak low any more; it's wearing to the throat. Have you got any doubt at all that the brass plate there couldn't be fixed as it is unless somebody was inside the room?"

      "I'm certain of it, Mr. Nightingale, I'm certain of it."

      "Then Mr. Felix, or somebody else, must be there, and if he's alive couldn't help hearing us, unless he's took a sleeping draught of twenty-horse power. There's a bell wire up there; Wigg, give me a back."

      Constable Wigg stooped, and Constable Nightingale stood on his back and reached the wire, which he pulled smartly for so long a time that Constable Wigg's back gave way, and brought Constable Nightingale to the ground somewhat unexpectedly. Certainly every person in the house possessed of the sense of hearing must have heard the bell, which had a peculiar resonant ring, and seemed on this occasion to have a hundred ghostly echoes which proclaimed themselves incontinently from attic to basement. No well-behaved echo would have displayed such a lack of method.

      "Oughtn't that to rouse him?" asked Constable Nightingale.

      "It ought to," replied Mrs. Middlemore, "if-" and then suddenly paused, the "if" frozen on her tongue.

      "Ah," said Constable Nightingale, gravely, "if!"

      There was a window on the landing, and he opened it. The snow dust floated through it, but in less quantities, and there was a perceptible abatement in the violence of the storm. He closed the window.

      "It ain't so bad as it was. Mrs. Middlemore, do you think I could force this door open?"

      "Not without tools," said Mrs. Middlemore. "It's made of oak."

      "No harm in trying," said Constable Nightingale. "Here, Wigg, give us a pound."

      They applied their shoulders with a will, but their united efforts produced no impression.

      "It's got to be opened," said Constable Nightingale, "by fair means or foul. Wigg, do you know of a locksmith about here?"

      "I don't."

      In point of fact Constable Nightingale knew of one, but it was at some little distance, and he did not want to leave Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore alone.

      "There's one in Wardour Street," he said.

      "Is there?" said Constable Wigg. "I'm new to the neighborhood, and I'm certain I shouldn't be able to find it."

      "All right," said Constable Nightingale, briskly, seeing his way out of the difficulty, "we'll go together."

      "And leave me alone 'ere after what's happened!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "Not if you was to fill my lap with dymens! That 'orrid cat 'd come and scare the life out of me!"

      "We can't all go," mused Constable Nightingale, with a stern eye on his comrade, "and I ain't a man to shirk a duty; but don't go back on a pal, Wigg, whatever you do."

      "Nobody could ever bring that against me, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, in an injured tone; "and I don't know what you're driving at."

      "I hope you don't," said Constable Nightingale, by no means softened, "that's all I've got to say. I hope you don't. You'd better both see me to the door, and shut it after me. And mind you keep your ears open to let me in when I come back."

      Constable Nightingale, a victim to duty, was presently battling with the storm through the deserted streets, while Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore, at the housekeeper's suggestion, made their way to the warm kitchen, where she brewed for her companion a stiff glass of grog. "What did Mr. Nightingale mean," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "when he said never go back on a pal?"

      "I'd rather not say," replied Constable Wigg, and then appeared suddenly to come to a different conclusion.

      "But why not? The last of my wishes would be to vex you, and when you're curious you like to know, don't you, my-I beg you a thousand pardons-don't you, ma'am?"

      "Mr. Wigg," observed Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm a woman, and I do like to know. Oh!" she cried, with a little shriek, "was that somebody moving upstairs?"

      "No, my dear, no. Keep close to me; I will protect you and proud of the chance, as who wouldn't be? When Nightingale threw out that hint, he meant, if I'm not mistook, that a lady should have only one admirer, hisself."

      "Well, I'm sure!"

      "He's not a