"I returned to my room in the inn. Sophy was still dozing. I began to be beset by doubts. What if the stranger who had introduced himself to me as M. Bordier should turn out not to be M. Bordier, after all? What if the letter he gave me to read from Mrs. Braham should be a forged letter? I am greatly to blame. I deserve to have my head punched." By the time I came to the end of this strange story Sophy had finished her supper, and now came nearer to us. "Well, Bob," I said, "you have made a mess of it." "Admitted," said Bob. "Take your share of the blame. You should not have run away to London. Relieve my doubts. Was it, or was it not, M. Bordier who came here?" "It was certainly M. Bordier," I replied. "The lady you call Mrs. Braham gave him such a letter as you have described, and it is scarcely possible any other person could have obtained possession of it." "That is some satisfaction. All the same, I have behaved like a fool. I ought not to have allowed him to escape me. I ought to have laid violent hands on him, and detained him till your arrival." "You would not have succeeded, Bob. From the opinion I have formed of him he would not have submitted, and you would have found yourself worsted. If the document he discovered is what I hope it is, he has a better right to it than you or I. And now, Sophy," I said, turning to the girl, "what is this scare of yours which has taken all the blood out of your face?" "Stop a bit," said Bob. "It is Sophy's desire that things should be led up to. Let us lead up to this." Sophy nodded, and I said, "Go on, Bob." "Well," said he, "I woke Sophy up when I got back here, and told her it was best she should go to bed. Her room was ready for her, and she was dead tired. She refused, and said she would wait up for you--I had told her I had sent you a telegram to come down immediately. I would not let her wait up, but insisted upon her going to bed. She gave in, and I took her to her room. Imagine my surprise. An hour before your arrival she rushed into this room with a face as white as a sheet, and fell down all of a heap into the corner there. I thought she must have had a nightmare, but I could get nothing out of her. She was too frightened to be left alone, and when I started to meet you at the station she came with me. Tried to pump her on the road. Useless. Offers of bribes thrown away. Not a word would she say of the cause of her fright. She promises to be more communicative to you." "Speak out, Sophy," I said. "I have no secrets from Mr. Tucker, and he must hear what you have to tell." "You'll never believe me," said Sophy, in a low, fear-stricken tone, "but if it's the last I ever speak it's the truth, and the 'ole truth, and nothink but the truth. I sor it as plain as I see you." "Saw what?" I asked. "The ghost of Mr. Felix," she replied. CHAPTER LII. THE GHOST OF M. FELIX.