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

       CHAPTER I.

      A CRY FOR HELP FLOATS THROUGH THE NIGHT.

      "Help!"

      Through the whole of the night, chopping, shifting winds had been tearing through the streets of London, now from the north, now from the south, now from the east, now from the west, now from all points of the compass at once; which last caprice--taking place for at least the twentieth time in the course of the hour which the bells of Big Ben were striking--was enough in itself to make the policeman on the beat doubtful of his senses.

      "What a chap hears in weather like this," he muttered, "and what he fancies he hears, is enough to drive him mad."

      He had sufficient justification for the remark, for there were not only the wild pranks of Boreas to torment and distract him, but there was the snow which, blown in fine particles from roofs and gables, and torn from nooks where it lay huddled up in little heaps against stone walls (for the reason that being blown there by previous winds it could get no further), seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in whirling into his face, which was tingling and smarting with cold, and as a matter of course into his eyes, which it caused to run over with tears. With a vague idea that some appeal had been made officially to him as a representative of law and order, he steadied himself and stood still for a few moments, with a spiritual cold freezing his heart, even as the temporal cold was freezing his marrow.

      "Help!"

      The bells of Big Ben were still proclaiming the hour of midnight. If a man at such a time might have reasonably been forgiven the fancy that old Westminster's tower had been invaded by an army of malicious witches, how much more readily might he have been forgiven for not being able to fix the direction from which this cry for help proceeded? Nay, he could scarcely have been blamed for doubting that the cry was human.

      For the third time--

      "Help!"

      Then, so far as that appeal was concerned, silence. The cry was heard no more.

      The policeman still labored under a vague impression that his duty lay somewhere in an undefined direction, and his attitude was one of strained yet bewildered attention. Suddenly he received a terrible shock. Something touched his foot. He started back, all his nerves thrilling with an unreasonable spasm of horror. Instinctively looking down, he discovered that he had been ridiculously alarmed by a miserable, half-starved, and nearly whole-frozen cat, which, with the scanty hairs on its back sticking up in sharp points, was creeping timorously along in quest of an open door. Recovering from his alarm, the policeman stamped his feet and clapped his hands vigorously to keep the circulation in them.

      His beat was in the heart of Soho, and he was at that moment in Gerard Street, in which locality human life is represented in perhaps stranger variety than can be found in any other part of this gigantic city of darkness and light. As a protection against the fierce wind he had taken refuge within the portal of the closed door of an old house which lay a little back from the regular line of buildings in the street. Little did he dream that the cry for help had proceeded from that very house, the upper portion of which was inhabited by a gentleman known as M. Felix by some, as Mr. Felix by others. Well named, apparently, for although he was not young, M. Felix was distinguished by a certain happy, light-hearted air, which marked him as one who held enjoyment of the pleasures of life as a kind of religion to be devoutly observed. The lower portion of the house was occupied by the landlady, Mrs. Middlemore, who acted as housekeeper to M. Felix. It was the nightly habit of this estimable woman to go for her supper beer at half-past eleven, and return, beaming, at a few minutes after twelve.

      These late hours did not interfere with the performance of her duties, because M. Felix was by no means an early riser, seldom breakfasting, indeed, before noon. Despite the inclemency of the weather, Mrs. Middlemore had not deviated on this night from her usual custom. She was a widow, without responsibilities, and no person had a right to meddle with her affairs. Besides, as she frequently remarked, she was quite able to take care of herself.

      A welcome diversion occurred to the constable who was stamping his feet within the portal of Mrs. Middlemore's street door. A brother constable sauntered up, and accosted him.

      "Is that you, Wigg?"

      "As much as there's left of me," replied Constable Wigg.

      "You may well say that," observed the new-comer, who rejoiced in the name of Nightingale. "It's all a job to keep one's self together. What a night!"

      "Bitter. I've been regularly blown off my feet."

      "My case. I'm froze to a stone. The North Pole ain't in it with this, and whether I've got a nose on my face is more than I'd swear to. Anything up?"

      "Nothing, except----"

      "Except what?" asked Constable Nightingale, as his comrade paused. He put his hand to his nose as he asked the question, his reference to it having inspired doubts as to his being still in possession of the feature.

      "A minute or two ago," said Constable Wigg, "I had half a fancy that I heard somebody cry out 'Help!'"

      "Ah! Did you go?"

      "How could I? I wasn't sure, you know."

      "Who could be sure of anything," remarked Constable Nightingale, charitably, "on such a night?"

      "Nobody. It must have been the wind."

      "Not a doubt of it. If anybody told me he saw Polar bears about I shouldn't dispute with him." Then Constable Nightingale took a step forward, and glanced up at the windows of the front rooms occupied by M. Felix, in which shone a perfect blaze of light. "He must be jolly warm up there."

      "Who?" inquired Constable Wigg, his eyes following his comrade's glance.

      "Mr. Felix."

      "And who's Mr. Felix when he's at home?"

      "Why, you don't mean to say you don't know him!"

      "Never heard of him. I've only been on the beat two nights."

      "I forgot. He's a trump, a regular A-one-er. You're in for a good tip or two. I was on night duty here this time last year, and he behaved handsome. Tipped me at Christmas, and tipped me at New Year's. Half a sov. each time. And at other times, too. Altogether he was as good as between four and five pounds to me while I was here."

      "That's something like," said Constable Wigg, with something of eager hope in his voice; "not many like him knocking around. But"--with sudden suspicion--"why should he be so free? Anything wrong about him?"

      "Not a bit of it," replied Constable Nightingale, blowing on his ice-cold fingers. "He's a diamond of the first water--a tip-top swell,