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."