CHAPTER XVII. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

"These words strengthened her, and she drew herself up.

"'Your name?' again asked Inspector Jealous.

"'Mrs. Weston,' she replied, with a certain hesitation, and a sudden color in her face.

"'Christian name?'

"'Mary,' said the woman, with a similar exhibition of unreadiness and confusion.

"'Mary Weston,' said Inspector Jealous. The equivocal signs were not lost upon him, but he made no comment. 'Married?'

"'I decline to answer.'

"Inspector Jealous merely nodded, and entered her reply in the book.

"'Where do you live?'

"'I will not tell you. You cannot compel me.' No defiance was expressed in her tone; it was imploring and appealing.

"'No,' said Inspector Jealous, 'we cannot compel you.'

"Then she was taken away to be searched, the report being that she had no property of any kind upon her person; 'not even a handkerchief,' was the remark.

"'That is all,' said Inspector Jealous to our reporter. 'She will be brought up to-morrow morning. If you are going to appear for her, eleven o'clock will be early enough.'

"With his consent our reporter then took the woman aside.

"'Tell me now what I can do for you,' he asked.

"'You will find my address on a card in my purse,' she replied. 'It is a long distance, two or three miles, think----'

"'I don't mind that.'

"'You need not knock or ring at the street door; the key I gave you will open it. But the passage will be dark when you enter it.'

"'I have matches with me. I shall find my way all right.'

"'Our rooms are on the first floor. My daughter will be awake. Do not alarm her by knocking loudly on the door.'

"'I will tap very gently. Go on.'

"'I do not know what you will say to her at first. A stranger--and at this late hour of the night----'

"'Do not agitate yourself. I will use my best skill and all my kindness to assure her that I come as a friend.'

"'I am sure you will, I am sure you will,' said the woman, taking his hand and kissing it. 'Heaven has been good to me to send me such a friend!'

"'Look at it in that light. What shall I say to your daughter after her first surprise is over? Do you not think you had better give me a few lines to her?'

"'Can I write them here?'

"'I think so; I will ask the Inspector.'

"He had no difficulty in obtaining permission, and was supplied with a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. Then the woman wrote:

quot;'My Darling Child,--The gentleman who brings this is a friend, a true friend, and I send this note by his hand to allay your fears at my absence. I cannot explain now why I do not come home to-night, but I will do so to-morrow when I return. Do not expect me till the afternoon, and do not be in the least alarmed about me. All is well, and there is hope in the future. God bless you, my darling. With fondest love,

;"'Your Devoted Mother.'"

"She gave the note to our reporter to read, and then put it in the envelope. On the envelope she wrote simply the name, 'Constance.'

"'She will be certain to question me,' said our reporter.

"'You have only to tell her that I desired you to say nothing, and that I wished to have the pleasure myself of communicating good news to her upon my return to-morrow. That will satisfy her. She loves me, has faith in me. Good news! Alas, alas!'

"'Keep up your courage. They will treat you kindly here for my sake, and you will see me in the morning. The few hours will soon pass.'

"'It will seem an eternity.'

"Feeling that it would be useless to prolong the interview, and anxious to go upon his errand, our reporter bade her good-night with a friendly pressure of the hand, commended her to the care of the kind Inspector, and left the station. He walked a little way into the Strand before he stopped to look at the card in the woman's purse; had he done so in Bow Street, a policeman might have seen him and reported the action, as he had just left the police station. By the light of a street lamp he read the address, 21 Forston Street, Kentish Town. There was no name on the card, but as there was no other writing in the purse he knew that this must be the address to which he was to go. He hailed a cab, and bade the man drive quickly.

"His compulsory examination of the purse had led to a knowledge of its contents--a small key and two pounds four shillings in gold and silver, in addition to the card. He thought himself justified in looking at the handkerchief which the woman had given him. It was of fine cambric, and in one corner were the initials E. B. According to the woman's statement, these were the initials of her name which she wished to keep from the eyes of the policeman, so that they might not lead to her identification. Then the name she gave to Inspector Jealous was false; she was not Mary Weston.

"This discovery would have damped the ardor of a less sympathetic and enthusiastic man than our reporter, and would have instilled in him a feeling of distrust. But our reporter is made of exceptional stuff, and the discrepancy did not weaken his faith in her. She had been frank with him; she had told him that she desired to keep her name from the knowledge of the police; the hesitation with which she had given the false name in the police station proved that she was not an adept in duplicity; and in addition, his brief association with her had inspired him with so much pity and confidence that it would have needed stronger evidence to shake him. The longer he thought of her, the firmer was his conviction that she was a lady of gentle culture, who had by some strange means been thrown into a cruel position, in which she had suffered some deep wrong. This in itself might not have been powerful enough to induce him to champion her cause, but what wooed and fixed him irresistibly was the strong impression that there existed between her and M. Felix a link which, found, would lead to the clearing up of the mystery.

"As the cab drew up at 21 Forston Street, Kentish Town, our reporter looked at his watch. It was two o'clock." Paying the cabman and dismissing him, our reporter paused a moment to consider his position and its surroundings.

"The street was very quiet; not a soul was visible. The houses in it struck the mean between rich and poor; some were two, some were three stories in height, and the rents (our reporter is a judge in such matters) would vary between forty and sixty pounds a year. This was sufficiently respectable, and he was pleased that his errand had not landed him in a poorer locality.

"But two o'clock in the morning. A strange hour to present himself for the first time, and under such suspicious circumstances, to a young lady waiting in anxious suspense for the return of her mother. It must be done, however, and the sooner done the better. He took out the latch key, opened the street door, closed it behind him, and stood in the dark passage. He did not wait now; he knew that he must go straight on with his task. Therefore he lit a match, and by the aid of its light made his way to the first floor landing. There were two doors, one a side door which he supposed led to the smaller room, the other a larger door facing him, through the crevices in which he saw the gleam of a lamp or candle. He knocked gently, and waited, holding in his hand the purse, the latch key, the handkerchief, and the letter which the woman had given him.

"Expedition now did not rest with him; it rested with the occupant of the chamber to which he desired admittance. But his gentle tapping, repeated again and again, met with no response. What should he do? To continue tapping, or to knock aloud, would arouse other inmates, and would subject him to an awkward examination. There was nothing for it but to try the handle. It turned in his hand, and the door was open.

"Still he paused upon the threshold, and said in his softest tones, 'Miss Constance! Miss Constance!' He received no reply, but heard a gentle breathing. Boldly he entered the room, and pushed the door behind him, but did not quite close it.

"There was a lamp alight on the table, and before it a book, the pages of which were divided and held apart by a miniature in a gold frame. Leaning back in a chair, one arm hanging listlessly down, the other resting on the table, the fingers just touching the miniature, was a young girl, the beauty of whose face was positively startling. Rather dark than fair, with features cut in the Greek mould, and long eyelashes veiling the sleeping eyes, with lips slightly parted, the picture was one upon which an artist would have loved to dwell. Her loosened hair, which was of a rich brown, hung upon her shoulders, but did not hide the exquisitely shaped ears; her hands were small and white, and the foot in a worked slipper which peeped beneath her dress was as beautifully formed. In silence our reporter gazed and admired.

"Truly puzzled was he how to act in a dilemma so bewildering. It was a contingency for which he had not mentally provided. Here he stood, a stranger, at two o'clock in the morning, in the presence of a young and lovely girl whose eyes had never rested on his face. What on earth was he to do?

"Her age could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and her likeness to the woman he had left in the Bow Street Police Station, left no room to doubt that she was her daughter, the Constance he had come to see. He coughed, and shuffled his feet, and shifted a chair, but these movements did not arouse the sleeping beauty. She slept calmly on, her bosom gently rising and falling as she breathed.

"He ventured to approach close to the table. The book the young girl had been reading was Scott's 'Ivanhoe,' and the miniature lying on the page was that of a young man, presumably of the better class. There was something singular in the aspect of this young man's eyes; they were open, but there was a vacant expression in them which, upon examining them more closely, led our reporter to suppose that the possessor was blind.

"As his movements were ineffective in arousing the young girl to consciousness, our reporter, without any distinct idea as to how he should proceed with his task, laid the purse, the key, and the handkerchief on the table close to the girl's hand. He retained the letter.

"Every moment that passed increased the awkwardness of his position, and he now ventured to touch the sleeper's arm. She moved slightly in her chair, and shifted the hand that rested upon the table so that it reached the miniature. Her fingers closed upon it.

"Again our reporter touched her arm, and in a low tone he called her by her name. The arm that had been hanging down was raised, and clasped his hand. 'Mamma!' she murmured, and she held his fingers with a tender clasp.

"'Really,' thought our reporter, 'this is growing more and more perplexing.' Presently, to his relief, her fingers relaxed, and he drew his released hand away. By this time he felt that bolder measures were necessary. Retreating to the door he overturned a chair, and hastily stepped into the passage. The ruse was successful; the young girl started to her feet, and called out Mamma! Is that you?'

"The answer she received was a tap at the door. Timidly she approached and opened it, but flew back into the room at the appearance of a stranger.

"'Do not be alarmed,' said our reporter, standing on the threshold; 'I come as a messenger from your mother.'

"'As a messenger from my mother!' she stammered, gazing at him from a safe distance in evident distress, 'I do not understand you, sir. Do not come nearer to me, or I shall call for assistance.'

"'I assure you there is no occasion,' said our reporter. 'I will not move a step into the room without your permission. Let me assure you that I feel my presence here as awkward as you must yourself; but I come, as I have said, from your mother, who has given me a letter for you. I am her friend, and she would be annoyed if you called unnecessarily for assistance. I sincerely apologize for my intrusion, but there was no help for it. Strange as is my appearance here, I come only in your mother's interests and yours.'

"'Indeed it is strange,' said the young girl, 'and I cannot help feeling alarmed and distressed.'

"'It is natural you should,' said our reporter, speaking, as he had spoken all through in his most respectful tone, as a gentleman would speak to a lady; 'but read your mother's letter. See--I throw it as close to you as I can, and if you wish me to enter after you have read it, I will do so; not otherwise, upon my honor as a gentleman.'

"He threw the letter into the room, but it did not quite reach her. With timid steps, keeping her eyes fixed upon our reporter, the young girl reached the letter, and quickly retreated to the position she deemed safe, from which she read what her mother had written.

"'You may enter, sir,' she said, 'but do not close the door.'

"'I will leave it open,' said our reporter, and entered the room, but kept a little apart from the young girl, whom we will now call by her proper name, Constance.

"'I have been waiting up for my mother's return, sir,' she said, 'and I cannot even now understand her absence. Where did you leave her?'

"I may not answer your questions,' replied our reporter. 'It is at her own request I do not do so. She desired me to say that she wishes to communicate the good news to you herself when she returns to-morrow. You see my lips are sealed, and I cannot, as a gentleman, violate the confidence your mother reposed in me.'

"'You have nothing more to say, sir, and will leave me now, I hope.' Then she murmured softly, 'Good news? Oh, if I dared to hope it!'

"'I will leave you this instant,' said our reporter, and was about to do so when Constance's eyes fell upon the purse, and the key, and the handkerchief which he had deposited on the table.

"'A moment, sir, I beg,' she said. 'How came these here? They are my mother's.'

"'Yes, she gave them to me,' said our reporter, with pardonable duplicity, 'to hand them to you, in order that you might be satisfied I came from her, and that I am here only as a messenger.'

"'Yes, I understand that, sir, but how came they here?'

"'I must speak frankly,' said our reporter, smiling. 'After admitting myself into the house by means of the latchkey, I came upstairs and knocked at your door, but could not make myself heard. As I did not wish to arouse other people in the house I took the liberty of trying whether the door was locked. It was not, and I entered. Seeing you asleep I endeavored by some slight sounds to awake you, but did not succeed. Then I placed the articles on the table, and overturning this chair, retreated from the room, to lessen any alarm you might feel at my appearance. It is the truth, believe me.'

"'I do believe you, sir, and I thank you for your consideration, but it's all very strange and distressing to me.'

"'It would be stranger were it not. And now, having fulfilled my mission, I will take my leave.'

"'Only one more question, sir,' said Constance, imploringly. 'My mother is in no danger?'

"'She is not. You will see her to-morrow, and I hope myself to see you again, so that I may be justified in your eyes.'

"'You are justified already, sir, and I beg you to pardon me for my doubts. I must wait till the morning. My mother will come, will she not, in the morning?'

"'Does she not say in her letter that it will not be till the afternoon?'

"'Oh, yes, I forgot, but I am confused and troubled. Will you see her before then?'

"'Yes, I have an appointment with her.'

"'Where, sir?'

"'I must not tell you. Remember the injunction your mother laid upon me. I have no alternative but to respect it.'

"'You are right, sir. Pardon me.' She held out her hand, and our reporter advanced to take it; but she withdrew it before he touched it. Even now her doubts and fears were not dispelled. 'Good-night, sir.'

"'Good-night,' said our reporter, and turned to go.

"But now it was his turn to linger. Something, in the room which he had not before observed attracted him. It was a simple article enough, a red silk handkerchief which might be worn around the neck.

"'Good-night, sir,' repeated Constance.

"'Good-night,' he said. 'Excuse me.'

"Then he left the room. As he descended the stairs he heard the key turned in the door of Constance's room.

"He did not call a cab when he reached the street; he had subject for thought, and like most men he could reflect with greater freedom and ease when his limbs were in motion.

"A red silk handkerchief--merely that. Why should it have made so strong an impression upon him? The explanation might be far-fetched, but since he had pledged himself to the elucidation of the mystery of M. Felix, he had become microscopical in his observation of trifles which might by some remote possibility have a bearing upon it. On the night of the death of M. Felix a man was seen escaping from the house in Gerard Street in which M. Felix lived; and this man wore round his neck a red scarf. It was this coincidence which now occupied his thoughts. The possession of a red silk scarf was common enough; thousands of persons in London could produce such an article, and shop windows abounded with them; but this particular scarf, in connection with the exciting incidents of the night, and in its indirect relation to the advertisement from the Evening Moon, which Constance's mother had preserved with such care, suddenly assumed immense importance in the eyes of our reporter. His thoughts wandered to the scene on the Thames Embankment, and he felt himself becoming morbidly anxious to know what it was that Constance's mother had thrown into the river. That it had some connection with the mystery upon which he was engaged he had not the least doubt. Would its discovery, by throwing direct suspicion upon Constance's mother, assist or retard the progress of his mission? To-morrow would show, and he must await the event with patience. One reflection afforded him infinite satisfaction; his hand, and his alone, of all the millions of persons who had no absolute direct interest in it, was on the pulse of the mystery, and every step he took strengthened him in his resolution to run it to earth without the aid of the officials of Scotland Yard."