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let himself in with his latch-key, and Sophy followed close on his heels up the silent stairs. On the third floor another latch-key admitted them to the privacy of his chambers.
"'It will be dark for a moment, Sophy,' he said; 'you are not frightened, I hope?'
"'Not a bit,' replied Sophy.
"It may not be unworthy of remark that she never again addressed him as 'old 'un, which he ascribed to the little incident of the purchase of the pair of boots. It had raised him to an altitude which rendered so familiar an appellation out of place.
"In less than a minute he had lit the gas in his sitting-room, and Sophy stood gazing around in wonder and delight. Our reporter is a gentleman of taste, no mere grub working from hand to mouth. He entered the ranks of journalism from choice, and possesses a private income which renders him independent of it; thus he is enabled to surround himself with luxuries which are out of the reach of the ordinary rank and file of his brother workers, who one and all have a good word for him because of the kindnesses they have on numerous occasions received at his hands.
"Sophy looked round on the books and pictures and valuable objects with which the room was literally packed, and her appreciation-little as she understood them-was expressed in her eyes.
"'This is my den, Sophy,' said our reporter. 'What do you think of it?'
"As he spoke he applied a lighted match to a couple of bachelor's wheels in the stove, and in an instant a cheerful fire was glowing.
"'Well, I never!' exclaimed Sophy. 'It's magic.'
"'No, Sophy, sober fact. Single life nowadays is filled with innumerable conveniences to keep a fellow from the path of matrimony. This little bachelor's wheel'-holding one up-'is a formidable foe to anxious mammas with marriageable daughters. But I am talking above you, Sophy; pardon the flight. Go to the window there; you will see the river from it.'
"He stood by her side while she gazed upon the wonderful sight, too little appreciated by those who are familiar with it. The moon was shining brightly, and the heavens were dotted with stars; long lines of lights were shining in the water, animated as it were with a mysterious spiritual life by the shifting currents of the river. It was at this moment that Sophy gave expression to a remarkable effort at grammar.
"'I say, 'ow 'igh the Thames are!'
"Our reporter was amused, and did not correct her. 'Yes, Sophy, the river has reached an unusual height. And now, little one, as time is flying, let us proceed to business.'
"Sophy, brought down to earth, retired from the window, and stood by the table, at which our reporter seated himself. He could not prevail upon her to take a chair.
"'I can talk better standing,' she said. 'Before I tell what I got to tell, I'd like to know wot aunt said of me when you and 'er was up in Mr. Felix's rooms this morning. You know. When I'd jest got out of bed.'
"'Nothing very particular, Sophy,' said our reporter, 'except that you were a sound sleeper.'
"'You arksed 'er that?' said Sophy, shrewdly.
"'Yes, You see, Sophy, I was naturally anxious to learn all I could of the strange disappearance of M. Felix's body. It was there last night when you and your aunt went to bed; it was not there this morning when you got up.'
"'Aunt couldn't tell yer much.'
"'She could tell me nothing. She went to bed, and though she has passed bad nights this week-'
"'Oh, she sed that, did she?'
"'Yes.'
"'Meaning that she don't sleep much?'
"'Yes, that undoubtedly was her meaning.'
"'Well, go on, please,' said Sophy.
"'Though she has passed bad nights lately, it was a fact that last night she slept very soundly. Then the idea occurred to me to come down and ask you whether you had heard anything in the night-because, you know, Sophy, that M. Felix's body could not have disappeared from the house without some sound being made. We do not live in an age of miracles. The body could not have flown up the chimney, or made its way through thick walls. There is only one way it could have been got out, and that was through the street door.'
"'Right you are,' said Sophy.
"'Now, Sophy, I am sure you are a sensible little girl, and that I can open my mind freely to you.'
"'You can that. I ain't much to look at, but I ain't quite a fool neither.'
"'I am certain you are not. I cannot tell you how deeply I am interested in this mysterious affair, and how much I desire to get at the bottom of it. Whoever assists me to do this will not repent it, and somehow or other I have an idea that you can help me. If you can, I will be a real good friend to you.'
"You've been that already, the best I ever sor. I took you in once this morning, and I ain't going to do it agin.'
"'How did you take me in, Sophy?'
"'I told yer I didn't wake up last night, didn't I?'
"'You did, Sophy.'
"'And that I didn't 'ear no noise?'
"'Yes.'
"'They was crammers. I did wake up in the middle of the night, and I did 'ear a noise.'
"'Sophy,' said our reporter, repressing his excitement as well as he could, 'I feel that you are going to do me a good turn.'
"'Aunt's a awful liar,' said Sophy.
"'Is she?'
"'She ses she sleeps light, and I sleep sound. It's all the other way. She goes to bed and drops off like the snuff of a candle, and she snores like a pig. I sleep on and off like. I don't let aunt know it, 'cause I don't want to be rushed out of bed till I've a mind to git up, so I pretend to be fast asleep, and I let her shake me as much as she likes. I do not lay snuggled up; and I was laying like that last night all the while aunt was snoring fit to shake the 'ouse down, when I 'eerd wot sounded like somethink movin' upstairs. I wasn't scared-yer don't know Sophy if yer think that. "I'll see what it is," thinks I, "if I die for it." So I creeps out of bed, and stands quiet a bit in the dark, without moving.'
"'You are a brave little girl, Sophy, and I am proud of you.'
"'I stands listening and wondering, and the sound of somethink moving upstairs goes on. Moving quite soft, sir, jest as if it didn't want to be 'eerd. "Blowed if I don't go up," thinks I, "and find out wot it's all about." I wouldn't light a candle, 'cause that might wake aunt, and I wanted to 'ave it all to myself. Well, sir, I creeps to the door in my bare feet and opens it, and goes into the passage. Sure enough, I ain't deceived; there is somethink on the stairs. Up I creeps, as soft as a cat, feeling my way by the bannisters, till I git to the passage that leads to the street-door. Then somethink 'appens to me that upsets the applecart. I ketches my toe agin a nail, and I screams out. But that's nothink to what follers. A 'and claps itself on my mouth, and somebody ses, "If yer move or speak out loud I'll kill yer!" If I sed I wasn't frightened at that I'd be telling yer the biggest crammer of the lot, but I pulls myself together, and I whispers under my breath, "Wot is it? Burgulers?" "Yes," ses the voice, "burgulers, as'll 'ave yer blood if yer don't do as yer told." "I'll do everythink yer want," I ses, "if yer don't 'urt me. My blood won't do yer a bit o' good; it ain't much good to me as I knows on. Is there more than one of yer?" "There's a band of us," ses the voice. "Who's downstairs?" "Only aunt," I ses. "Ain't there nobody else in the 'ouse?" arsks the voice. "Not a blessed soul," ses I, "excep' the corpse on the fust floor." "Take yer oath on it," ses the voice. "I 'ope I may never move from this spot alive," ses I, "if it ain't the truth I'm telling of yer!"
"Now jest listen to me," ses the voice. "You do as yer told, or you'll be chopped into ten thousan' little bits. Set down on the stairs there, and shut yer eyes, and don't move or speak till you 'ear a whistle; it won't be a loud 'un, but loud enough for you to 'ear. Then you git up, and shut the street-door softly-you'll find it open-and lock it and put up the chain. Then go downstairs without speaking a word, and if yer aunt's awake and arsks yer wot's the matter, say nothink; if she's asleep, don't wake her. When she gits up in the morning don't say nothink to 'er, and don't answer no questions about us. You understand all that?"