will, Mr. Wigg."
"Here's to our better acquaintance, my dear."
"I'm sure you're kindness itself. Oh, Mr. Wigg, I 'ope nothing 'as 'appened to Mr. Felix."
"I hope so, too. My opinion is that he's out, and that the brass plate over the keyhole has got there by accident. But Nightingale always makes the worst of things. That's not my way. Wait till the worst comes, I say; it's time enough. You may worrit yourself to death, and be no better off for it after all."
In this strain they continued their conversation, Mrs. Middlemore declaring that it was quite a comfort to have Constable Wigg with her. She confided to him that she had a bit of money saved, and that Mr. Felix had said more than once that he would remember her in his will, which elicited from Constable Wigg the remark that he hoped Mr. Felix had made his will and had behaved as he ought to; "though, mind you," he added, "I don't believe anything's the matter with him, or that he's at home. It's all through that spectre cat, and as for bloodstains, they've got to be proved." A knocking and rattling at the street-door caused Mrs. Middlemore to cling very closely to him, and when she recovered her fright, they both went upstairs to let Constable Nightingale in.
"Is that you, Nightingale?" Constable Wigg called out before he turned the key.
"Yes, it's me," cried Constable Nightingale, without: "don't keep us waiting all night."
"He's got the locksmith with him," whispered Constable Wigg, with his lips very close to Mrs. Middlemore's ear. Then he threw open the street-door.
Constable Nightingale had somebody else with him besides the locksmith. Accompanying them was a tall, thin, gentlemanly-looking, but rather seedy young gentleman, who stepped quickly into the passage.
"Has anything took place?" inquired Constable Nightingale, glancing suspiciously from Constable Wigg to Mrs. Middlemore.
"Nothing," replied Constable Wigg. "There ain't been a sound in the house."
"Just as we turned the corner," said Constable Nightingale, with a motion of his hand toward the seedy young gentleman, "we met Dr. Lamb, who was coming home from a case, and as there's no knowing what might be wanted, I asked him to favor us with his company."
Mrs. Middlemore knew Dr. Lamb, who kept a chemist's shop in the neighborhood, and she gave him a friendly nod. It must have been a trying case that the young gentleman had come from, for he looked particularly shaky, and was rather unsteady on his legs. The locksmith now made some sensible remarks to the effect that he had been awakened from a sound sleep, and would like to get back to bed again; therefore, had they not better get to work at once? His suggestion was acted upon, and they all proceeded upstairs.
"I'll give him another chance," said Constable Nightingale, and he forthwith exerted the full strength of his lungs and hammered away at the door, to as little purpose as he had previously done. "There's nothing for it," he said, very red in the face, "but to force open the door in the name of the law."
The locksmith, who had brought a basket of tools with him, declared he would make short work of it, but after examining the door was forced to confess inwardly that this was an idle boast. It was of stout oak, and to remove the brass plate and pick the lock occupied him much longer than he expected. However, in the course of about twenty minutes the task was accomplished, and the door stood open for them to enter. Standing for a moment irresolutely on the threshold they were greeted by a blast of cold air. Constable Nightingale was the first to notice that the window was open, and he stepped into the room and closed it. The others followed, and were treading close on his heels when he waved them back, and pointed downward. There, on the floor, was a little pool of blood. They shuddered as they gazed upon it.
"I thought as much," said Constable Nightingale, the first to speak. "There's been foul play here. Who opened that window, and left it open on such a night? The cry for help you heard, Wigg, came from this room."
"But there's nobody here," said Constable Wigg.
"That's his bedroom," said Mrs. Middlemore, in an awestruck voice, pointing to a room the door of which was ajar.
They stepped softly toward it, Dr. Lamb now taking the lead. In an arm-chair by the side of the bed sat a man, his arms hanging listlessly down. Dr. Lamb shook him roughly.
"Wake up!"
But the figure did not move. Dr. Lamb leant over the recumbent form, and thrust his hand inside the man's waistcoat. Then, with his fingers under the man's chin, he raised the head, so that the face was visible.
"Good Lord!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "It's Mr. Felix! What's the matter with him?"
Dr. Lamb put his finger to his lips, and did not immediately reply. When he removed his hand the head dropped down again, hiding the face.
"If you want to know what's the matter with the man," he said, presently, "he's dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore.
"As a doornail," said Dr. Lamb.
CHAPTER VI.
THE "EVENING MOON" INDULGES IN A BOMBASTIC RETROSPECT, IN WHICH SOME VERY TALL AND VERY FINE WRITING WILL BE DETECTED BY THE OBSERVANT READER
"In pursuance of the policy which we inaugurated some four years since by the romance known as 'Great Porter Square,' we now present our readers with a story of today, which we with confidence declare to be as strange and exciting as that thrilling mystery, which may be regarded as the starting-point of a new and captivating description of journalism for the people. We use the term 'romance' advisedly, and are prepared to justify it, although the incidents which we set before hundreds of thousands of readers were true in every particular, and occurred in a locality with which every Londoner is familiar. We recall with pride the extraordinary variety of opinions which our publication of that story of real life, and the means we pursued to get at the heart of it, elicited. By many we were inordinately praised, by some we were mercilessly condemned. There were critics who declared that it was derogatory to the legitimate functions of a newspaper to present any matter of public interest in the garb in which we clothed it; there were others who, with a juster sense of the altered conditions of society by which we are ruled, and to which we are compelled to submit, declared that the new departure we made in the Great Porter Square Mystery was, to the general mass of readers, as wholesome as it was entertaining. Judging by results, these latter critics were most certainly in the right. The public read with eager avidity the details of that remarkable case as we published them, in our own original fashion, from day to day. The demand for copies of our several editions was so great that we were absolutely unable to satisfy it, and we are afraid that thousands of newspaper readers were compelled to pay exorbitant prices to the ragamuffins who vend the daily journals in the public streets. We made strong endeavors to put a stop to this extortion, but our efforts were vain, chiefly because the people themselves were content to pay three and four times the established price of the Evening Moon rather than be deprived of the pleasure of reading the tempting morsels with which its columns were filled. Letters of congratulation poured in upon us from all quarters, written by persons occupying the highest positions in society, as well as by others moving in the lowest stations, and from that time the success of the Evening Moon, as a journal which had firmly fixed itself in the affections of the people, was assured. If any excuse is needed for the system of journalism of which we were the first bold exponents, we might find it in the trite axiom that the ends justify the means, but we deny that any excuse whatever is required. It was no sentimental experiment that we were trying; we had carefully watched the currents of public opinion, and we started on our crusade to satisfy a need. The present state of society is such that the public insist upon
