CHAPTER LX.
ROBERT AGNOLD'S LAST WORDS
I resume and conclude the Mystery of M. Felix in my own person. What transpired after the incidents of that exciting night is soon related. Before Gerald Paget was released Dr. Peterssen was put on his trial for the murder. The minor charge of his attempt upon Sophy's life and mine was set aside, and was only incidentally referred to in the evidence and speech of the prosecuting counsel. Guilt was never more clearly proved than his. The revolver with which the murder was committed was the same he had purloined from the rooms in Gerard Street, when he sent Mrs. Middlemore upon a false errand to the Bow Street Police Court. On this head Mrs. Middlemore's evidence was valuable; but my evidence on the point was still more valuable. The initial "F." I had scratched on the metal, and the entry I had made in my pocket book, "A Colt's double-action revolver, nickel-plated, 6 shots, No. 819," enabled me to swear positively to the weapon. Peterssen's own confession of guilt to me when Sophy and I were imprisoned in the cavern in Deering Woods was fatal, and Sophy, who was one of the two heroines of this celebrated trial, won the admiration of all England by the manner in which she gave her evidence. It was imperative that Emilia should be called, and she narrated with great feeling all the circumstances of her brief but fateful acquaintance with Peterssen during the honeymoon tour in Switzerland. There was found upon Peterssen a large sum of money in bank notes, and the manager of the bank in which the murdered man, under the name of M. Felix, kept his account, proved, by the numbers on the notes, that they had been paid to Peterssen's victim across the bank counter. Another witness called was George Street's father, upon whom Peterssen had so long and so successfully imposed. He testified that Gerald Paget was not his son, and said that on every occasion on which he desired to see the patient, Peterssen had declared that a fatal result would be the certain consequence of an interview. Gerald Paget was brought into court, but he was so weak and ill that his evidence could not be taken. The case, however, was complete without him. There was practically no defence; the jury debated for a few minutes only, and brought in a verdict of guilty; the villain was sentenced, and he paid the penalty of his crimes. For Leonard Paget, alias M. Felix, no pity was expressed; the fate he had met with was richly deserved.
Needless to say that the case excited immense interest, and it was universally admitted that its sensational disclosures were without parallel in the history of crime. I may mention that Crawley was not traced; up to this day he has succeeded in concealing himself; but his hour will come.
After all was said and done, I think that Sophy held rank as the heroine of the mystery. A daily paper suggested that a subscription should be got up for her; to this suggestion practical effect was given, and money flowed in from all ranks and classes of people. Close upon a thousand pounds were subscribed; so Sophy is rich. Fame has not turned her head. She said to me but yesterday, "I ain't proud; not a bit of it. Whenever you want me, Mr. Agnold, you'll find me ready." In time she will improve in her language, and one day she may be really a lady.
The words Sophy addressed to me were spoken in Geneva, where these lines are being written. The wedding of Constance Paget and M. Julian Bordier took place yesterday, and we were invited to it. The father of the bride was present. The rescue from his living tomb, the new and happier life, and the care and devotion of his wife Emilia, upon whose sweet face he never tires of gazing, has already brought about a great change for the better, and confident hopes are entertained that before long his reason will be permanently restored. It is pleasant to be able to record that the kind and skilful oculist who had given evidence in what I may call the marriage certificate case has made a cure of M. Julian Bordier. He can see, and the terror of blindness no longer afflicts him.
This morning the oculist (who gave himself a week's holiday to attend the wedding) and I had a chat about M. Felix, whose supposed death in Gerard Street, Soho, caused so great a sensation. He has been hunting up cases of suspended animation, and he read to me half a dozen, each of which lasted for a much longer time than M. Felix's. Since Peterssen's trial there has been a great deal written in newspapers and magazines concerning these instances of apparent death, and wonder has been expressed that, upon M. Felix's disappearance, no one thought it was likely that he had gone through such an experience. My answer to this expression of wonder is that it is easy to be wise after the event.
While we were engaged in our conversation, the oculist and I were sitting at a window of the house which Constance and her husband are to occupy when they return from their honeymoon. The window overlooks a garden in which Emilia and Gerald are walking.
"A good and sweet woman," said the oculist, smiling at Emilia, who had looked up and smiled at us. "She deserves happiness."
"She will have it," I said. "The clouds have disappeared from her life. Her trials are over."