CHAPTER LIII. THE PORTRAIT OF GERALD PAGET.

At nine o'clock next morning Bob, Sophy, and I breakfasted together. Sophy's fears were abated, although she had not quite got over her fright. During breakfast I succeeded in dispelling it completely by imparting to her, in confidence, the opinion we had formed that M. Felix was alive, and that it was his veritable self, and not his ghost, she had seen on the previous night. She listened with her mouth and eyes wide open.

"You heard him speak, Sophy?" She nodded. "Ghosts can't speak. He caught hold of you; he lifted you up; you felt his touch?" She nodded again. "Ghosts can't touch; they can't make you feel them; they are made of air, Sophy; you can walk right through them. Be easy in your mind. If it was M. Felix you saw"--she nodded again two or three times--"then he is alive, and we intend to hunt him down."

I gave her time to revolve the matter over in her mind, and conversed with Bob while she went through the process.

"Crikey!" she exclaimed presently. "What a game it is! Then it must 'ave been 'im as scared me in the night when I left aunty asleep in the kitchen. I never could make out 'ow it was he knew 'is way about in the dark as he did. He's a deep 'un, he is, and no mistake. Well, of all the moves! But what did he do it for?"

"It would take too long to explain," I said, "and then you might not understand. We are going out soon, and you may as well come with us. It would not be safe, perhaps, to leave you here alone."

Bob and I had debated the advisability of sending Sophy back to London, and had agreed to keep her with us, at least for a time, as there was a likelihood of her being useful.

Our first task when we sallied forth was to endeavor to obtain some information of M. Bordier, but in this we were unsuccessful. Not a person of whom we inquired could give us the slightest satisfaction, and we were reluctantly compelled to abandon our quest. I discussed with Bob whether I should write an account of what had occurred to Emilia, and we decided I should not do so.

It would take too long to give her a description of all circumstances, and anything short of a full description would only agitate her. Then, in all probability, M. Bordier had returned to London, and had seen her. I dispatched a telegram to her, to the effect that if she had anything of importance to communicate to us she had better do so by telegraph. This done we walked to Tylney House. Our search for M. Bordier had occupied us three or four hours, and when we reached the gloomy-looking building it was two o'clock. To our surprise, the gate was open. Without hesitation we entered the grounds, and there we saw a van, and three men piling furniture on it. This furniture was of the commonest kind, and the men appeared to be in a hurry. We looked at each other in amazement. What did it all mean?

"A break-up, I should say," suggested Bob. "Peterssen giving up business."

"There's Crawley, the keeper," whispered Sophy, pulling my coat.

The man had lounged from the house, and was regarding the removal of the furniture with dissatisfaction. Bob stepped to his side and we followed.

"Hallo, Maria," said Crawley; "you've been up to some fine tricks, you have. But I'm hanged if I can make head or tail of it." Bob motioned to Sophy not to speak. "Have you two gentlemen come on business?" continued Crawley. "Well, you've come too late. The brokers are in, and we're sold up."

"Then we cannot see Dr. Peterssen," I said.

"No, you can't," replied Crawley. "He's gone for good."

"I owe you," said Bob, in a bland voice, "ten shillings. Here's the money. Do you want to earn a ten-pound note, which might swell into fifty? There's a gentleman friend of ours who would stand that, and more perhaps, for services rendered."

"What kind of services?" inquired Crawley, pocketing the ten shillings.

"Information. Truthful and accurate information. The ten pound note sure. That much we guarantee, and wouldn't mind giving half on account. The fifty-pound almost as sure. Here, let me speak to you aside."

They walked a little way from us, and I did not interrupt their conversation, which lasted some twenty minutes. At the end of that time Bob left Crawley to say a few words to me.

"Go back to the inn," he said, "you and Sophy, and wait for me. Will join you there in an hour or so. Crawley and I going to have a drink."

I obeyed him without wasting time in asking questions, and Sophy and I returned to the inn. It was a disappointment that a telegram from Emilia had not arrived. But before Bob made his appearance an incident occurred which profoundly agitated me. I was sitting at the table, making, as was usual with me, a record of what had happened, in the doing of which I had occasion to take some papers from my pockets. Among these papers which I placed on the table was the photograph of Gerald Paget which I had found in M. Felix's room, his name being written on the back. While I wrote, Sophy remained quiet. The girl has a discretion; she knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue. My writing done I took up the papers to put them in my pocket, and in doing so the photograph dropped to the ground. Sophy stooped and picked it up, and was about to give it to me, when her eyes fell on it.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If it ain't the pickcher of Number One!"

"What?" I cried.

"It is," she said, looking at it with absolute tenderness. "It's the image of 'im, though he's older now than when it was took; but it's 'is face as clear as clear can be."

"Sophy," I said, rising in my excitement, "are you mad? Do you know what you are saying?"

"'Course I do. It's Number One I tell yer. I'll take my Bible oath on it!"

"You must be dreaming," I said. "This is the portrait of a gentleman who died many years ago."

"If he's dead," she persisted, "he's come to life agin, like Mr. Felix. It's Number One's pickcher, and nobody else's."

She was so positive that I was confounded by the possibilities her statement opened up, supposing her not to be mistaken. Nothing that I said could shake her conviction.

"I know 'is face as well as I know your'n," she said. "I can't be mistook. It's the pickcher of Number One."

At this juncture Bob entered the room. Anxious as I was to hear his news I first explained the incident to him, and it was an additional surprise to me when he ranged himself on Sophy's side.

"I accept everything," he said. "No villainy too monstrous for Peterssen. Corroborative evidence handy. Crawley!"

The man was outside in the passage, and at the summons he came in.

"Know this portrait?" asked Bob, handing it to him.

"Of course I do. It's Number One. How did you get hold of it?"

"Never mind. Are you positive it is his portrait?"

"I'll swear to it."

"That will do. Go and get something to eat, and be ready when I call you. Mind, no drinking."

Crawley gone, Bob turned his attention to me.

"Before I tell you arrangements entered into with Crawley, finish about this picture. Sophy says, portrait of Number One. Crawley will swear it. I believe it--name of Gerald Paget back of picture. Deduction--portrait of Gerald Paget. Further deduction--Number One and Gerald Paget same person. Startling--but Peterssen and M. Felix, damned scoundrels, pair of them. No villainy too monstrous for them. In circumstance of Number One and Gerald Paget being same person, his solution of Peterssen's power over M. Felix. What does lady we are working for overhear? Overhears Peterssen threaten to ruin M. Felix; overhears him refer to a pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago. Overhears him ask M. Felix if he has forgotten his brother Gerald. Not idle words. On the contrary, deeply, darkly significant. To my mind, quite clear--and convincing. Splendid links of circumstantial evidence. Gerald Paget alive instead of dead, additional reason for M. Felix's disappearance. Threatened not on two sides, but on three. Peterssen--Gerald Paget--Gerald Paget's wife. Desperate fix for M. Felix. Your opinion, Agnold?"

"Coincides with yours, Bob. Light is truly breaking in upon this mystery."

"Right you are. Now to explain Crawley. Have taken him in our service--for one month, certain--thirty shillings a week. Matters brought to satisfactory conclusion, promise of passage to America, with few pounds in his pocket. No doubt M. Bordier will do what we wish, and indemnify us. If not, won't ruin us. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"I come now to Peterssen and Tylney House. Briefly. Things been going wrong for some time past. Peterssen in pecuniary difficulties. Dunned on all sides for money owing. Tradesmen threaten to stop supplies. Last night, Peterssen in frightful rage. Door of private room locked. Key missing. Door forced open. Something stolen from room. Crawley doesn't know what. We do. Sophy, otherwise Maria, nowhere to be found. Row between Peterssen and Crawley. Peterssen accuses Crawley of treachery. Crawley calls him another. At midnight Crawley hears bell ring. Peterssen answers it--admits visitor. Crawley doesn't see him. Visitor sleeps there--is there this morning--but Crawley can't catch sight of him. Keeps himself dark. Crawley sent on bogus errand. Occupies him three hours. Returns to find visitor gone, Peterssen gone, Number One gone. Note left for Crawley from his master. Concern burst up. In note, small sum for wages due. Not half what is due. Crawley furious, but helpless. I have enlisted him. He is to assist us to track Peterssen. That's all."

"Bob," said I, "Peterssen must be hunted down and brought to justice."

"He must," said Bob, "and shall be."

"There is some fresh villainy hatching," I said. "If possible we must prevent it. You will stand by me?"

"To the end," said Bob.