"'Thank yer for nothing,' said Sophy, proceeding to array herself. Spitting on the palm of her hand, she made a pretence of smoothing her hair. Then she looked at herself in a piece of looking-glass that was hanging on the wall, and turned her head this way and that, smirking most comically. Then she shook out her skirts, and looked over her shoulder to see that they hung becomingly. Then she tied a piece of string round one yawning boot. Then she put on her head something in straw that once might have been called a hat, but which had long since forfeited all claims to respectability. Then she fished out a poor little scarf, about six inches square, and pinned it round her shoulders with a coquettishness not devoid of grace. Her toilette completed, she asked-- "'Will I do?' "'Very nicely, Sophy,' said our reporter. But although he spoke gayly he was stirred by a certain pity for this little waif, who was so conspicuously animated by a spirit to make the best of things--a spirit which might with advantage be emulated by her betters--and who made a joke even of her poverty and rags. "'Much obliged,' said Sophy. 'Give us a kiss, aunty. Now I'm off.' "And off she was, but not without saluting our reporter with an elaborate courtesy. "Mrs. Middlemore waited till she heard the street-door slam, and then said, "'Did you ever see the likes of her?' "'I declare to you, my dear madam,' said our reporter, 'that the more I see of Sophy the more I like her. What have the police done? Anything?' "'Nothing, sir. I went and told 'em what 'ad 'appened, and two policemen came and looked at the bed, looked under it, looked in every room as you said they would, looked at me, and went away.' "'And they have not been here again?' "'No, sir.' "'Mrs. Middlemore, may I have another peep in M. Felix's rooms?' "'Certainly, sir.' "They went up together, Mrs. Middlemore breathing heavily, perfuming the air with a flavor of beer. There was an escritoire in the sitting-room, and our reporter examined it. "'I'll tell you what I'm looking for,' he said. 'I see pens, ink, and paper, denoting that M. Felix was occasionally in the habit of using them, but there is not a scrap of paper about with his writing on it. There is not even a monogram on the note paper. If we could find something, it might furnish a clue. He received letters, I suppose?' "'Oh, yes, sir.' "'And the presumption is that he answered them. Did you ever post any of his letters?' "'Never once, sir.' "'Here is a waste-paper basket; there must have been in it, at odd times, scraps of the letters he received and spoilt sheets of his own. Has your dust bin been emptied this week?'