"There has been murder done," I said. "He is dead."
"Yes," said Sophy in a low tone, as she stooped over the body. "He's dead this time, and no mistake.
"Dead this time!" I repeated in wonder.
"Don't yer see who it is?" she asked. "It's Mr. Felix!"
M. Felix! This, then, was the end of the ill-spent life. The evil record was thus suddenly snapped, and the man who was supposed to have died in Gerard Street, Soho, on the night of the 16th of January, lay dead before me in the lonely Deering Woods, his last breath but just drawn.
"Are you sure, Sophy?"
"Ain't you sure?"
"I cannot be. I never saw him in life."
"I can't be mistook. It's Mr. Felix--but oh, ain't it orfle! who could 'ave done it?"
"Who, Sophy? Who but his companion in crime, Dr. Peterssen?"