The Mystery of M. Felix

"'Your boots are worn out, Sophy.'

"'There's 'ardly any sole to 'em,' remarked Sophy.

"'Would a pair of those fit you?'

"'Oh, come along. I don't want to be made game of.'

"'I am not doing so, Sophy,' said our reporter, slipping three half-crowns into her hand. 'Go in, and buy the nicest pair you can; and mind they fit you properly.'

"Sophy raised her eyes to his face, and our reporter observed, without making any remark thereon, that they were quite pretty eyes, large, and of a beautiful shade of brown, and now with a soft light in them. She went into the shop silently, and returned, radiant and grateful, shod as a human being ought to be.

"'Do yer like 'em?' she asked, putting one foot on the ledge of the shop window.

"'They look very nice,' he said. 'I hope they're a good fit?'

"'They're proper. 'Ere's yer change, and I'm ever so much obliged to yer.'

"The words were commonplace, but her voice was not. There was in it a note of tearful gratefulness which was abundant payment for an act of simple kindness. Utilitarians and political economists may smile at our statement that we owe the poor a great deal, and that but for them we should not enjoy some of the sweetest emotions by which the human heart can be stirred."

CHAPTER XIV.
SOPHY IMPARTS STRANGE NEWS TO THE REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON."

"The chambers occupied by our reporter are situated at the extreme river end of one of the streets leading from the Strand to the Embankment. They are at the top of the house, on the third floor, and a capacious bow-window in his sitting-room affords a good view of the river and the Embankment gardens. He describes his chambers as an ideal residence, and declares he would not exchange it for a palace. In daytime the view from his bow-window is varied and animated, in night-time the lights and shadows on the Thames are replete with suggestion. From this window he has drawn the inspiration for many admirable articles which have appeared in our columns, in which his play of fancy illumines his depiction of a busy city's life.

"He 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?" "Every word on it," I ses. "And yer'll do as yer ordered?" ses the voice. "Yes, I will," I ses. "Mind yer do," ses the voice, "or somethink orful 'll 'appen to yer. You'll be watched the 'ole day long, and if yer let on, look out for yerself. Now set yerself down on the stairs." I did, sir, and though I was froze almost to a stone, I never moved or spoke. It was that dark that I couldn't see a inch before my nose, even when I opened my eyes slyly, but I couldn't 'elp 'earing wot was going on. There was a creeping, and a bumping, and the sound of the street-door being unlocked and the chain being took down. Then everythink was quiet agin inside, and all I 'eerd was a policeman in the street outside, trying the doors as he passed on. When he'd got well out of the street, as near as I could tell, the street-door was opened without as much as a creak, and in another minute I 'eerd a low whistle. Then I got up; it was all a job, sir, 'cause I was cramped, but I managed it, and I crep' to the street-door, and shut it, and locked it, and put the chain up. I was glad enough to do it, I can tell yer, and I felt my way downstairs and got into bed. Aunt 'adn't as much as moved, and nobody knew nothink but me and the burgulers. That's all I know about last night.'

"It was enough, in all conscience; a strange story indeed, and related by such a common little waif as Sophy. Our reporter had not interrupted her once, but allowed her to proceed, in her own quaint and original way, to the end.

"'And you have told nobody but me, Sophy?' asked our reporter.

"'It ain't crossed my lips till this minute,' replied Sophy. 'I don't know wot I might 'ave done if I 'adn't seed you this morning. You spoke civil and nice to me, and I took to yer in a minute. Yer might 'ave knocked me down with a feather when I 'eered arter you'd gone wot the burgulers' little game was, and it come to me in a jiffy that you'd like to know wot 'ad become of Mr. Felix's body. "I'll wait till I see 'im agin," ses I to myself, "and then I'll tell 'im all about it." If you 'adn't come to aunt's to-night I should 'ave come to you.'

"'I am infinitely obliged to you,' said our reporter, 'We'll keep the matter to ourselves at present, and if there's any reward offered for the recovery of the body, or for any information that may lead to its recovery, it shall be yours, Sophy, every farthing of it.'

"Sophy's eyes glistened as she said, 'If they arsks me, then, why I adn't spoke before, I'll tell 'em I was too frightened by wot the burguler sed he'd do to me if I sed anythink about it.'

"'That excuse will do nicely. Did you hear the sound of many feet?'

"'I think it was only one man as was moving about,' replied Sophy, after a little consideration.

"'How do we account, then, for there being more than one man concerned in this singular robbery?'

"'Per'aps there wasn't more than one,' suggested Sophy quickly, 'and in course he 'ad to carry the body. It couldn't walk of itself, being dead.'

"'Quite so, my young logician-a compliment Sophy. Before you put up the chain, did you look out into the street?'

"'I didn't dare to.'

"'Then you don't know if there was a cab or a cart waiting at the door?'

"'I don't, sir.'

"'Did you hear the sound of wheels moving away after the door was secured?'

"'No, I didn't. Everythink was as still as still can be, inside and out.'

"'There must have been a vehicle of some sort, however, stationed near. A man couldn't carry a dead body through the streets very far without being caught. Perhaps he would not allow it to stand too near your aunt's house for fear of suspicion being excited. The natural conclusion is that a growler was engaged, and that it walked slowly to and fro in a given direction till he came up to it.'

"'That must 'ave been it, sir.'

"'If I give you five shillings, Sophy, can you take care of it?'

"'Rather! But you've done enough for me to-night, sir.'

"'Not half enough, my girl. Here's the money.'

"From the expression on Sophy's face she would have liked to resist the temptation, but it was too strong for her, so she took the two half-crowns, saying gleefully as she tied them in her money-box, I shall soon 'ave enough to buy wot I want.'

"'What is it you desire so particularly, Sophy? A new frock?'

"'No,' she replied. 'I want a pair of tights.'

"'In heaven's name, what for?'

"'To see 'ow I look in 'em.' Sophy glanced down at her legs, then stood straight up and walked a few steps this way and a few steps that, in glowing anticipation of the delights in store for her.

"'You would like to be an actress, Sophy?'

"'Wouldn't I? Jest! I can do a lot of steps, sir. Would you like to see me dance?'

"'Not to-night, Sophy,' said our reporter, thinking of the proprieties; 'I haven't time, and you had best get back as quick as you can to your aunt. I'll see you part of the way. I don't know what excuse you will give her for being absent so long.'

"'Let me alone for that. It ain't the fust time, and won't be the last.'

"'Well, come along, my girl.'

"They left the house without being observed, and our reporter saw Sophy as far as St. Martin's Lane, and then bade her good night. Before returning to his chambers he walked in the direction of the Embankment with the intention of taking a stroll there. It was a favorite promenade of his on fine nights, and on this night in particular he desired it, in order that he might think in the quietude of that grand avenue of the information he had gained. Elated as he was at the progress he was making in the elucidation of the mystery, he could not but be conscious that every new discovery he had made seemed to add to its difficulty. What he wanted now was a tangible clew, however slight, which he could follow up in a practical way. Little did he dream that everything was working in his favor, and that time and circumstance were leading him to the clew he was so anxious to possess.

"There was one thing in the story related to him by Sophy which greatly perplexed him. The child could not have assisted him to a satisfactory solution, for he was satisfied that she had disclosed all she knew of the events of the night, and he therefore had made no mention to her of the perplexing point. It was this. Sophy had told him that while she was sitting on the stairs with her eyes closed she heard the man unlock the street door and take the chain down. That being so, the question remained-how had he got into the house? Scarcely through the street door, for it was hardly likely that, having got in through it, he would have locked it and put the chain up, and thus created for himself a serious obstacle to his escape in the event of his being discovered before he had accomplished his work. Our reporter could think of no satisfactory answer to this question, and it had to take its place among other questions to which, in the present aspect of the case, no answers could be found.

"He had turned on to the Embankment by way of Westminster Bridge, and passing under the arch of the Charing Cross Railway bridge, was proceeding onward toward Waterloo when he saw something that caused him to quicken his steps in its direction. Fate or chance was about to place in his hands the link for which he was yearning-a link but for which the mystery of M. Felix might forever have remained unravelled."

CHAPTER XV.
A SINGULAR ADVENTURE ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT

"He saw before him, at a distance of some thirty yards, as nearly as he could judge, the figure of a woman standing upon the stone ramparts of the Embankment, close to Cleopatra's Needle. The light of a lamp was shining upon her form, which was stooping forward in the direction of the river.

"It had already been mentioned that the tide on this night was unusually high, and our reporter was apprehensive, from the position of the woman, that she was contemplating suicide. If so she had chosen a favorable moment to put her sad design into execution, for there was no person near enough to prevent her had she been expeditious. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but down before her on the rolling river. Our reporter hastened his steps, in fear least he should be too late to arrest her purpose.

"Unseen by them another man was approaching the woman, but not so rapidly as our reporter. This was a policeman who had emerged from the shadows of the Waterloo steps on the opposite side, and as, when he started, he was nearer to her than our reporter, they both reached her at the same moment. Each becoming aware of the other's presence, they would have shown recognition of it had not their attention been diverted by a sufficiently startling proceeding on the part of the woman. Still unaware that there were witnesses of her movements, she leaned forward at a perilous angle, and with all her strength threw some heavy object into the water. The force she used destroyed her balance, and she would have fallen into the river had not the policeman and our reporter laid violent hands upon her, and dragged her from her dangerous position on the ramparts.

"'Just in time, thank God!' said our reporter.

"'Just too late,' retorted the policeman. 'A moment sooner, and we should have saved her baby.'

"'Her baby!' exclaimed our reporter.

"'Yes. Didn't you hear the poor thing give a scream?'

"'No.'

"'You must be hard of hearing. First a sob, then a scream. Now, then, own up!'

"He shook the woman roughly, but obtained no response from her. She was cowering to the flagstones, her face hidden in her hands.

"Our reporter is not the stamp of man to stand idly by while the life of a human being is in danger. He stripped off his coat and waistcoat with the speed of lightning.

"'That's your sort,' said the policeman. 'I can't swim; you can.'

"'Not a stroke,' said our reporter, and was about to plunge into the river when the woman sprang up and caught his arm.

"'For God's sake,' she said, trembling with agitation, 'do not risk your life for nothing.'

"'Your baby is drowning,' cried our reporter. 'Let me go!' He strove vainly to extricate himself from her clutch.

"'You shall not, you shall not!' said the woman. 'As Heaven is my judge, I have done no wrong. I have no baby; I came out alone. You are a gentleman. By all that is sacred I speak the truth!'

"'The policeman says he heard a scream.'

"'He is mistaken. I beg you to believe me. Oh, unhappy woman that I am? Have I not one friend in all the wide world?'

"It was not alone her words that carried conviction with them, it was her deep distress, and the evident sincerity with which she spoke. Moreover, now that our reporter had the opportunity of observing her closely, he saw that she was not of a common stamp. There was a refinement in her voice and manner which impressed him.

"'I believe you,' he said, and slowly put on his waistcoat and coat.

"'The chance is lost,' said the policeman, with a scornful smile; 'the poor thing is dead by this time. A put-up job, my man. I wasn't born yesterday.'

"He had noted the dialogue between the woman and our reporter, some portion of which had escaped him, and his suspicions were aroused. He was not entirely without justification. Seeing upon one side of her a policeman, and on the other side a gentleman, the woman, being undoubtedly of the better class, had gravitated naturally toward our reporter. Thus at once was established, without premeditation, a conflict of interests in the eyes of the policeman. He represented the Law, which is invariably more suspicious than sympathetic. Opposing him were two strangers who might be in collusion. Hunting in couples, one of either sex, was a common trick of the criminal classes, with which every policeman is familiar. The officer with whom we are dealing was not of an analytic turn; he jumped rather at conclusions than motives; therefore, he pronounced the verdict first and examined the evidence afterward, or left it to others to examine. All that he was honestly concerned in was the performance of his duty.

"'Did you not hear her say,' said our reporter, 'that she was alone, and no baby with her?'

"'I heard something of the sort,' replied the policeman, candidly, believing it is another matter. 'I believe in my own ears. Are you a confederate of hers?'

"Our reporter laughed, and his laugh strengthened the policeman's suspicions and excited his ire.

"'Perhaps you will both deny,' he said, 'that something was thrown into the river.'

"'I certainly heard a splash,' said our reporter, and he looked at the woman for confirmation, but she said nothing.

"'We'll fish it up, whatever it is,' said the policeman. 'If it isn't a baby-which I say it is, as I heard it cry-it's stolen property. Pretty nigh as bad.' So saying, he blew his whistle.

"The sound terrified the woman; she clung to our reporter.

"'What need is there to summon assistance?' asked our reporter.

"'I know what I'm up to,' replied the policeman. 'I'll trouble you to come to the police station.

"'I intend to do so. Are you going to charge this lady?'

"A grateful sob escaped the woman, produced by the reference to her as a lady no less than by the considerate tone in which it was made.

"'If you're particularly anxious to know,' said the policeman, 'I am going to charge you both.'

"Much amused, our reporter asked, 'What do you charge her with?'

"'First, with drowning her baby; next, with attempting to commit suicide.' He paused in the middle of the sentence to blow his whistle again.

"'And what is your charge against me?'

"'Aiding and abetting. Come,' he said to the woman, putting his hand under her chin and attempting to raise her face to the light, 'let me have a look at you. A hundred to one I've seen you before.'

"He was so rough that the woman cried out.

"'Be very careful,' said our reporter, in a warning tone. 'If you use violence it will go against you.'

"'It will go against you,' retorted the policeman, who was losing his discretion.

"'That is to be seen,' said our reporter, gravely, 'when we reach the police-station. Meanwhile, you are acting outside your right in compelling this lady to look you in the face.'

"'Very well,' said the policeman, surlily, beginning to be shaken by the temperate conduct of our reporter, 'I hear assistance coming; I'll wait.'

"The measured tread of another policeman was heard in the near distance. Our reporter stood still, perfectly calm and self-possessed.

"The woman, now sobbing bitterly, drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and a piece of paper, which she undesignedly and unwittingly drew forth with it, fluttered to the ground. Only the sharp eyes of our reporter saw it, and he stooped and picked it up. He glanced at it without attracting the attention of the policeman, and what he saw both greatly astonished him and influenced his future course with respect to the woman. He felt instinctively that he held in his hand a thread, however slight and slender, in the Mystery of Monsieur Felix.

"Our readers will remember that in certain editions of the Evening Moon we inserted an advertisement referring to the death of M. Felix, but lest the precise terms of that advertisement should be forgotten by them we reprint it here, to refresh their memory. The advertisement ran as follows:

"'The Strange Death of M. Felix, in Gerard Street, Soho. Persons who had private or other interviews with M. Felix between the hours of eight in the morning and twelve at night on the 16th of January, or who are in possession of information which will throw light upon the circumstances surrounding his death, are urgently requested to call at the office of the Evening Moon, at any time after the appearance of this advertisement. Liberal rewards will be paid to all who give such information, and the best legal assistance is offered by the proprietors of this journal, entirely at their own expense, to all, who may desire it and who are in any way interested in M. Felix's death.'

"Up to the present time the advertisement had been productive of no result of any value. A great many persons had called at our office respecting it, but they knew nothing that was likely to be of assistance to us; their aim was to obtain money without giving an equivalent for it. That the step we took, however, was not useless was proved by what our reporter now held in his hand. It was the advertisement, cut carefully from our journal, pasted upon a sheet of note-paper, and framed, as it were, in clear lines of red ink. Surely it was not without reason that the woman had been thus painstaking with this extract. Surely there must be some connecting link between her and M. Felix, whose death and subsequent disappearance were still enveloped in mystery. Thus thought our reporter the moment his eyes fell upon the advertisement.

"The approach of the second policeman afforded him an opportunity of speaking to her concerning it. While the two policemen were talking, the second asking for information, the first giving it, he exchanged a few words with the woman.

"'You have dropped something,' he said.

"She put her hand hastily in her pocket and discovered her loss.

"'I have it,' said our reporter.

"'It is only a piece of paper,' said the woman; 'give it back to me.'

"'You had better let me keep it,' he said. 'You will be charged and searched at the police-station-'

"She interrupted him, saying, in a pitiful voice, 'Will they not let me go-oh will they not let me go?'

"'They will not,' replied our reporter, 'and they are not to be blamed. They are merely doing their duty. You have acted in a way which throws suspicion upon you-'

"'I have done nothing wrong,' she said, interrupting him again; and that she regarded him as being well disposed toward her was proved by her speaking in a low tone, notwithstanding her anguish of mind, 'indeed, indeed I have not!'

"'I believe you; they will not. I will not ask you what you have done; if you confide in me it must be of your own free will; but you may truly believe that I am desirous and willing to be your friend, your sincere and earnest friend. Something more; I may be able to assist you in a manner you little dream of. The paper you have dropped is an advertisement from the Evening Moon, referring to the death of M. Felix.' She shivered at the name, raised her eyes, and dropped them again. This gave him an opportunity of observing that they were of a peculiar and beautiful tinge of blue, and the soft pathetic light they shed touched him deeply. 'Be patient a moment,' he continued; 'I must have a little private talk with you before we get to the police station, and I think I can manage it.' He had seen and recognized the face of the second policeman, who now, as he came forward, greeted him respectfully. 'Your comrade here,' said our reporter, jocosely, 'believes that I am engaged in some unlawful conspiracy. You know who I am. Set his mind at rest.'

"It happened fortunately that this second policeman and our reporter were old acquaintances, and had spent many an hour together in the still watches of the night. A few words whispered in the ear of the first policeman settled his doubts.

"'I beg your pardon, sir,' he said, apologetically, 'but mistakes will happen in the best regulated families.' A remark which denoted that the worthy and zealous officer was not deficient in a sense of humor.

"'A mistake has happened here,' said our reporter. 'I presume that you do not now intend to charge me with aiding and abetting.'

"'Not a bit of it, sir. It was only my joke.'

"'You have a queer way of airing your jokes, but I cannot reasonably complain; you had grounds for suspicion. And now about this lady.'

"'Don't ask me to neglect my duty, sir. I must take her to the station.'

"'She denies that she has done anything wrong.'

"'They all do that, sir.'

"'Do you persist in your charges against her?'

"'Well, sir, about the baby I won't be sure now; it's as likely as not I was mistaken in thinking I heard it scream; but we'll try to prove the rights of the thing. I don't give way, sir, in my belief that she attempted to commit suicide.'