The Mystery of M. Felix. B. L. Farjeon

is strange. He might almost as well have died on a desert island.'

      "'Yes, sir. That's the reason why we've been all at sea what to do. There was nobody to give directions.'

      "'It is certainly a perplexing situation, unprecedented in my experience. Should you happen to meet any of the persons who were in the habit of visiting him, would you be able to identify them?'

      "'I don't think I should, sir.'

      "'Supposing that he came by his death in a violent way--I don't say it is so, because the medical evidence does not favor that conclusion--but supposing that this evidence was misleading, and was proved to be so, there is nobody to take up the matter authoritatively, to take measures, I mean, to bring the guilty party to justice?'

      "'Nobody, sir.'

      "'Only the police?'

      "'Yes, sir, only the police?'

      "'And all they have succeeded in doing is to make things uncomfortable for you?'

      "'Yes, sir,' sighed Mrs. Middlemore, 'that's all they've done. I said to Mr. Nightingale, "A nice friend you've been," I said. I couldn't 'elp saying it after all I've gone through.'

      "'Is it Constable Nightingale you are speaking of?'

      "'Yes, it is.'

      "'Is he an old friend of yours?'

      "'He was on the beat 'ere before Mr. Wigg.'

      "'Ah; and that is how you got to know him?'

      "'Yes.'

      "'He knew M. Felix, probably?'

      "'Mr. Felix made a point of being always friendly with the policemen on the beat.'

      "'Sensible man. Tipped them, I daresay?'

      "'They'd best answer that theirselves. He never give me nothing to give 'em.'

      "'What did Constable Nightingale say when you made that remark to him?'

      "'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Middlemore, with sudden reserve.

      "'Surely he must have made some remark, to the effect that he was your friend, or words bearing the same meaning?'

      "'He didn't say nothing.'

      "Our reporter gave up the point; it was his cue to keep Mrs. Middlemore in a good humor.

      "'I'll have one more look in the bedroom,' he said.

      "At first his scrutiny was not rewarded by any discovery, but, passing his hand over the pillows on the bed, he felt something hard beneath them, and upon lifting them up he saw a six-chambered revolver, loaded in every barrel.

      "'Lord save us!' cried Mrs. Middlemore, starting back.

      "'Did you not know it was here?'

      "'No, sir, this is the first time I ever saw it. I never knew he kep' one.'

      "'Do the police know?'

      "'They didn't mention it, sir.'

      "'Well, we will leave it where it is. Don't touch it, Mrs. Middlemore; it's loaded.'

      "Before he replaced it, however, he made the following note in his pocket-book: 'A Colt's double-action revolver, nickel plated, six shots, No. 819.' And, unseen by Mrs. Middlemore, he scratched on the metal with his penknife the initial F. Then he looked at his watch, and said--

      "'It is nearly ten o'clock. My advice now is that you go and give the alarm to the police that the body of M. Felix has vanished.'

      "'You'll go along with me, sir?'

      "'No, for your sake I had better not be seen. Give me two minutes to get away, and then go for the police at once. I will come and see you again, and help you in every way I can.'

      "Shaking her hand, and leaving half a sovereign in it, our reporter, accompanied by Mrs. Middlemore, went to the street door, and left her standing there."

       CHAPTER XI.

      THE "EVENING MOON" IS INUNDATED WITH CORRESPONDENCE CONCERNING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY OF M. FELIX.

      "As was to be expected, the news of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix caused the greatest excitement. In small villages trifling incidents are sufficient to create an interest; in great cities events of magnitude are required to stir the pulses of the people; and in both village and city, to arouse the public from their normal condition of apathy, it is necessary that the incidents must have local color. Soho was sufficiently central, and, it may be added, sufficiently mixed and mysterious in the character of its population, to fulfil this imperative condition of popularity. Every resident in London knows the locality, and is to some extent familiar with it; it is contiguous to the most fashionable thoroughfares; it is within a stone's throw of theatres of magnificent proportions; it gives shelter to foreign princes deposed for a time from their high estate, and to foreign votaries of vice of both sexes who, being outlaws, cannot pursue their infamous courses in their native lands. If we were asked which part of London contains the most varied material for the weaving of modern romance we should unhesitatingly point to the region of Soho. A careless stroller through those thoroughfares little dreams of the strange and wondrous life which beats beneath the apparently placid, the undeniably squalid, aspect of this pregnant locality. The elderly woman, poorly clad and closely veiled, who glides past him is a prominent member of a Royal family who for a long period held the reins of power in one of the greatest European nations; she lives now in a garret upon dry bread and German sausage, and makes her own bed and fire. Yesterday she wore a crown of diamonds, to-day she wears a crown of sorrow. The attenuated man, whose worn-out garments hang loosely upon his spare body, and who is now studying carte du jour in the window of a low French restaurant, nervously fumbling at the same moment the few loose coins in his pocket, was, in years gone by, one of the greatest financiers in the world; yesterday he dealt in millions, had scores of carriages and hundreds of servants, paid fabulous prices for rare gems and pictures, and provided funds for mighty wars; to-day he is debating whether he can afford an eighteen-penny dinner. The man with an overhanging forehead, who strides onward with teeth closely set, and the fingers of whose hands are continually clinching and unclinching, is the head of a secret society whose members number hundreds of thousands, and whose deed of blood shall next week convulse the world with horror. We could dwell long upon this fascinating theme, but our business is with M. Felix, and we must not wander from him.

      "As we have already stated, we were the first to give the public the intelligence of his strange disappearance, and so intense was the interest the news excited that our printing-machines could not supply one-fourth of the demand for the various editions of our journal. The letters we received upon the subject would form a curious chapter in a new 'Curiosities of Literature.'

      "'Dear sir' (wrote one correspondent), 'you speak of the disappearance of the body of M. Felix as an unparalleled incident. Allow me to correct you, and from my own experience to furnish your readers with an identical case. It is now ten years ago since I formed the acquaintance of a gentleman of great attainments and peculiar habits, and whose nationality was always a matter of curiosity with me. Once or twice I delicately approached the subject, but he skilfully evaded it, and I did not feel warranted in pressing it. He was a wonderful chess-player, an accomplished linguist, and his knowledge of the niceties of every new discovery in science was simply marvellous. He had only one failing--he drank and smoked too much. In those days I also was a free liver. We were both single men, I certainly, he presumably; there are topics upon which it is good breeding to preserve a friendly delicacy. We met frequently, and dined together at least twice a week, at my expense. He was a good judge of wine and liquor, and very choice in his food. Being much superior to me in this respect, I invariably left it to him to decide where to dine and to arrange the courses. Perhaps occasionally we took half a bottle of wine too much, but that is neither here nor there. It was no one's business but our own. He took a peculiar interest in all new inventions, and was in the