and when she ain't got no money she hangs round the stage doors to see the actors and actresses go in and out. I don't believe she could stay away if it was to save her life.'
"'Persons in a much higher social position than ourselves,' said our reporter, turning every point to Sophy's advantage, 'are in the habit of hanging round stage doors. The stage is a great institution, Mrs. Middlemore, greater than ever it was before, and is courted-yes, my dear madam, courted-by the highest as well as the lowest in the land, from the Prince of Wales at the top to poor little Sophy at the bottom. Every fresh thing you tell me of Sophy makes me think better of her. But let us return to M. Felix. He would not allow you to have any person in the house, you say. What was his motive?'
"'I can't say, sir, except that he wanted to keep 'isself to 'isself.'
"'Did you expostulate with him?'
"'Did I what, sir?'
"'Did you tell him you would feel lonely without a companion occasionally?'
"'Not me, sir. M. Felix wasn't the kind of gentleman you could cross. He 'ad a way of speaking, when he was giving orders you couldn't mistake. His word was lore, and he meant it to be. You ain't forgetting, sir, that he was master 'ere?'
"'No, I'm not forgetting that. His orders, then, were to be obeyed without question?'
"'They was, sir. He said to me, "When people don't do as I tell 'em, Mrs. Middlemore, I get rid of 'em."'
"'A very dictatorial gentleman.'
"'Only when he was saying, "This is to be," or, "That is to be." At other times he was as smooth as marble, and always passed a pleasant word.'
"'He had visitors occasionally, I suppose?'
"'Oh, yes, sir, but I scarcely ever sor them. Nearly always he let 'em in and out 'isself.'
"'In a manner of speaking, then, he led a secret life?'
"'Some might call it so. Gentlemen living in chambers do all sorts of things.'
"'So I believe,' said our reporter, dryly.
"'And it ain't for the likes of us to question 'em. We've got our living to make, and if it pays us to be mum, mum we must be.'
"'I understand that. From what I can gather, Mrs. Middlemore, M. Felix had no family?'
"'Not that I know of, sir.'
"'As to his visitors, now, were they mostly ladies or gentlemen?'
"'Mostly ladies, sir.'
"'Have any of them been here to see his body?'
"'Not one, sir.'
"'That 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