Chapter Nine.Denizens of Soho.A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs ofcaporalcigarettes of the most rank description.Bateman’s Buildings, Soho—where, on the second floor of one of the houses, this apartment was situated—is a thoroughfare but little known, even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner, whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its existence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly uninviting passage between a marine-store dealer’s and the shop of a small vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself at Bateman’s Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy, squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, in comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial air about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time, combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more conventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is still the French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, with cheap French cafés where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine withpotageand threeplatsfor less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at every turn.Within a small radius of Bateman’s Buildings several thousand strangers struggle for the bare necessaries of life—deluded Germans, Belgians, and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado, and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger, and crime.The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no exception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by reason of their funds being almost exhausted.They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling paraffin lamp between them.The silence was broken by the elder man.“You must admit, Pierre,” he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark bushy eyebrows slightly, “it is no use sitting down and giving vent to empty lamentations. We must act.”Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good looks which his features possessed.“Why can’t we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?” he suggested. “If we wait, something good may turn up.”“Remain and do nothing!” echoed Victor Bérard. “Are you an imbecile? While we rest, the chance may slip from us.”“There’s no fear of that,” Pierre replied confidently. “My opinion is that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to ourselves.”“Bah!” ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and disgust.“Well, speaking candidly,” continued Pierre, “do you really think it advisable to do anything just now?”“I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to carry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until the business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly.”“Exactly. That’s just my reason for remaining idle.”“The fact is, you’re afraid,” exclaimed Bérard, regarding him contemptuously.“Afraid of what?”“Of making a false move,” he replied; and then he added: “Look here, Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our various affairs satisfactorily, and there’s no reason why we should not be successful in this. It only requires tact and caution—qualities with which both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete we shall leave this wretched country.”“As for myself, I shouldn’t be sorry if we were going to-morrow,” remarked the younger man morosely. “I’m sick of the whole business.”“Oh, are you?” exclaimed Bérard fiercely. “What in the name of the devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward? We entered upon this affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are within an ace of success, you want to back out of it. You’re mad!”“Perhaps I am,” replied Pierre warmly. “But you are too enthusiastic, and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster.”“Disaster! You talk like a woman,” Bérard exclaimed. “How is it that other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in acontretemps, eh?”“Nom d’un chien! And what have we gained by them? Why, simply nothing. You have been clever, it’s true; but in this, if we don’t wait until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle. And if we do, you know the consequences.”“But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere.”“We must wait,” declared Pierre. “We ought to out of this wretched rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably. Do you think we’re likely to (unreadable).Je n’ai pas un rond,” he added in the argot of the criminal circles of Montmartre.Bérard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.“We can but try,” he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting it.At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.“Hark!” exclaimed the younger man. “She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.”The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.Her disguise was complete.“Well, you see I’m here as requested,” she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.“Ah,ma petite lapin, we’re glad you’ve come,” Bérard replied, with a smile. “If Mahomet can’t go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.”“That’s so,” she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. “I look nice in this get-up, don’t I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You’ve apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady,” she added reproachfully.The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.“Now, how have you been getting on?” she inquired.“Deuced badly,” Bérard replied. “We’re hard up and must have money.”“Money!C’est du réchauffé! Valérie cried in dismay.Mon Dieu! I’ve none. I’m almost penniless, and must have some from you.”“What?” cried Rouillier. “You can’t give us any?”“No, not a sou,” she replied. “An appearance such as I’m bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.”“Then how do you expect we can live?” asked Bérard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.“I’m sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as you’ve lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.”“This handsomesalonlooks like luxury, doesn’t it?” remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.“Well, certainly there’s nothing gorgeous about it,” she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.Bérard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.“Look here,” he said, gazing up at her suddenly. “It’s no use chattering like an insane magpie. What’s to be done?”“I don’t know, and I care very little,” she replied candidly. “I want money, and if I don’t get it the whole affair will collapse.”And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.“But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.”“Don’t talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And,” she added coolly, “I tell you Imusthave it.”The two men were silent. They knew Valérie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled, thoughtful faces.“Would that sum suffice until—?” Bérard asked mysteriously, giving her a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.“Yes,” she answered abruptly.“Couldn’t you make shift with five hundred?” he suggested hesitatingly.“No,” she said decisively; “it would be absolutely useless. I must have a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps twelve months, longer.”“And after that?” inquired Pierre.She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug, replied—“Well—I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or another.”All three smiled grimly.“How are matters progressing in that direction?” Victor asked, with a curious expression.“As favourably as can be expected,” replied Valérie in an indifferent tone. “If a woman ischicand decorous at the same time, and manages to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors.”“Have you seen the Sky Pilot?” inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.“Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after you.”“Shall I find him at the usual place?”“Yes; but it would not be safe to go there.”“Then I’ll write. I must see him to-morrow.”“Why?”“You wantle pognon?” he asked snappishly.“I do.”“Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid,” he said ominously.“Ah!” she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. “But you are not very hospitable,” she added. “Have you got anything to drink?”“Not a drop.”“Malheureux! you’ve fallen on evil times, my dears,” she said, laughing uneasily.Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The former she handed to Victor, saying,—“That’s all I can give you just now.”He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back in her chair whistling a few bars of a popularchansonette eccentrique.“Pierre,” Bérard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously apostrophising the “diable,” “we’re in a difficulty, and the only way we can obtain the money is by another—er—disappearance.”“What, again?” cried Valérie. “Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast enough already. He’s almost a skeleton now,” and she pointed at his lean figure derisively.“I don’t get enough to eat nowadays,” declared he, pulling a wry face.“Do stop your chatter, Valérie,” Victor said angrily, “I’m talking business.”“Oh, pardon, m’sieur?” and she pouted like a spoiled child.“It’s generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?” asked the younger man of his companion.“Two thousand sterling.”“Just the sum,” interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her enthusiasm. “We’ll divide it. When can I have my half?”“As soon as possible, but don’t be impatient, as hurried action means certain failure.”“All right,” she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips, and contemplating it. “You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody else,” she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.“What, are you going so soon?” asked the youngerhomme de faciende.“Yes, it’s late; and, besides, I can’t go straight home in such a get-up as this.”Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from laughing. When they grew serious again, she said—“Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don’t we?”Victor Bérard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. “You will promise me?”“Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks,” he replied. “Of course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans boldly, it will be all right.”“Bien,” she said in a satisfied tone. “And now you can both come out with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine; for,” she added, with a little mock curtsey, “I feel faint after all this exertion.”“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”
A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.
Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs ofcaporalcigarettes of the most rank description.
Bateman’s Buildings, Soho—where, on the second floor of one of the houses, this apartment was situated—is a thoroughfare but little known, even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner, whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its existence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly uninviting passage between a marine-store dealer’s and the shop of a small vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself at Bateman’s Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy, squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.
It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, in comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial air about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.
Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time, combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more conventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is still the French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, with cheap French cafés where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine withpotageand threeplatsfor less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at every turn.
Within a small radius of Bateman’s Buildings several thousand strangers struggle for the bare necessaries of life—deluded Germans, Belgians, and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado, and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger, and crime.
The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no exception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by reason of their funds being almost exhausted.
They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling paraffin lamp between them.
The silence was broken by the elder man.
“You must admit, Pierre,” he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark bushy eyebrows slightly, “it is no use sitting down and giving vent to empty lamentations. We must act.”
Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good looks which his features possessed.
“Why can’t we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?” he suggested. “If we wait, something good may turn up.”
“Remain and do nothing!” echoed Victor Bérard. “Are you an imbecile? While we rest, the chance may slip from us.”
“There’s no fear of that,” Pierre replied confidently. “My opinion is that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to ourselves.”
“Bah!” ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and disgust.
“Well, speaking candidly,” continued Pierre, “do you really think it advisable to do anything just now?”
“I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to carry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until the business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly.”
“Exactly. That’s just my reason for remaining idle.”
“The fact is, you’re afraid,” exclaimed Bérard, regarding him contemptuously.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of making a false move,” he replied; and then he added: “Look here, Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our various affairs satisfactorily, and there’s no reason why we should not be successful in this. It only requires tact and caution—qualities with which both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete we shall leave this wretched country.”
“As for myself, I shouldn’t be sorry if we were going to-morrow,” remarked the younger man morosely. “I’m sick of the whole business.”
“Oh, are you?” exclaimed Bérard fiercely. “What in the name of the devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward? We entered upon this affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are within an ace of success, you want to back out of it. You’re mad!”
“Perhaps I am,” replied Pierre warmly. “But you are too enthusiastic, and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster.”
“Disaster! You talk like a woman,” Bérard exclaimed. “How is it that other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in acontretemps, eh?”
“Nom d’un chien! And what have we gained by them? Why, simply nothing. You have been clever, it’s true; but in this, if we don’t wait until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle. And if we do, you know the consequences.”
“But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere.”
“We must wait,” declared Pierre. “We ought to out of this wretched rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably. Do you think we’re likely to (unreadable).Je n’ai pas un rond,” he added in the argot of the criminal circles of Montmartre.
Bérard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.
“We can but try,” he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting it.
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.
“Hark!” exclaimed the younger man. “She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
“Well, you see I’m here as requested,” she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
“Ah,ma petite lapin, we’re glad you’ve come,” Bérard replied, with a smile. “If Mahomet can’t go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.”
“That’s so,” she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. “I look nice in this get-up, don’t I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You’ve apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady,” she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
“Now, how have you been getting on?” she inquired.
“Deuced badly,” Bérard replied. “We’re hard up and must have money.”
“Money!C’est du réchauffé! Valérie cried in dismay.Mon Dieu! I’ve none. I’m almost penniless, and must have some from you.”
“What?” cried Rouillier. “You can’t give us any?”
“No, not a sou,” she replied. “An appearance such as I’m bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.”
“Then how do you expect we can live?” asked Bérard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.
“I’m sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as you’ve lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.”
“This handsomesalonlooks like luxury, doesn’t it?” remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
“Well, certainly there’s nothing gorgeous about it,” she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Bérard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.
“Look here,” he said, gazing up at her suddenly. “It’s no use chattering like an insane magpie. What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, and I care very little,” she replied candidly. “I want money, and if I don’t get it the whole affair will collapse.”
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.
“But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.”
“Don’t talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And,” she added coolly, “I tell you Imusthave it.”
The two men were silent. They knew Valérie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.
Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled, thoughtful faces.
“Would that sum suffice until—?” Bérard asked mysteriously, giving her a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.
Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.
“Yes,” she answered abruptly.
“Couldn’t you make shift with five hundred?” he suggested hesitatingly.
“No,” she said decisively; “it would be absolutely useless. I must have a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps twelve months, longer.”
“And after that?” inquired Pierre.
She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug, replied—
“Well—I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or another.”
All three smiled grimly.
“How are matters progressing in that direction?” Victor asked, with a curious expression.
“As favourably as can be expected,” replied Valérie in an indifferent tone. “If a woman ischicand decorous at the same time, and manages to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors.”
“Have you seen the Sky Pilot?” inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.
“Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after you.”
“Shall I find him at the usual place?”
“Yes; but it would not be safe to go there.”
“Then I’ll write. I must see him to-morrow.”
“Why?”
“You wantle pognon?” he asked snappishly.
“I do.”
“Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid,” he said ominously.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. “But you are not very hospitable,” she added. “Have you got anything to drink?”
“Not a drop.”
“Malheureux! you’ve fallen on evil times, my dears,” she said, laughing uneasily.
Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The former she handed to Victor, saying,—
“That’s all I can give you just now.”
He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back in her chair whistling a few bars of a popularchansonette eccentrique.
“Pierre,” Bérard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously apostrophising the “diable,” “we’re in a difficulty, and the only way we can obtain the money is by another—er—disappearance.”
“What, again?” cried Valérie. “Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast enough already. He’s almost a skeleton now,” and she pointed at his lean figure derisively.
“I don’t get enough to eat nowadays,” declared he, pulling a wry face.
“Do stop your chatter, Valérie,” Victor said angrily, “I’m talking business.”
“Oh, pardon, m’sieur?” and she pouted like a spoiled child.
“It’s generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?” asked the younger man of his companion.
“Two thousand sterling.”
“Just the sum,” interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her enthusiasm. “We’ll divide it. When can I have my half?”
“As soon as possible, but don’t be impatient, as hurried action means certain failure.”
“All right,” she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips, and contemplating it. “You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody else,” she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.
Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.
“What, are you going so soon?” asked the youngerhomme de faciende.
“Yes, it’s late; and, besides, I can’t go straight home in such a get-up as this.”
Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from laughing. When they grew serious again, she said—
“Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don’t we?”
Victor Bérard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. “You will promise me?”
“Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks,” he replied. “Of course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans boldly, it will be all right.”
“Bien,” she said in a satisfied tone. “And now you can both come out with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine; for,” she added, with a little mock curtsey, “I feel faint after all this exertion.”
“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”
“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”
Chapter Ten.Deadly Pair.A month had elapsed.In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose—deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.“I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.“M’sieur Trethowen,” she announced.He followed quickly on the girl’s heels, with a fond, glad smile.“I must really apologise, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.“I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I’ve brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”“Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. “Yes, it is lovely,” she assented. “But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied with a smile; “really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow.”“Can I do anything for you?”“No, thanks,” she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.“No, no, at your feet; Valérie—always at your feet,” the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:“Non, ma jeunesse n’est pas morte,Il n’est pas mort ton souvenir.”But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.“Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?” she asked suddenly.He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.“Yes, frequently,” he said in turn. “We have known one another so long, that I look upon him as my best friend.”“Your best friend!” she echoed. “Ah! that is to be regretted. Then you could not have known him when he was a student in Paris.”“No; tell me about him,” Hugh asked anxiously.“Although I knew him, I shall say nothing beyond the fact that his was an unenviable reputation.”His lips were parted in surprise as he looked at her.“My darling,” he said, a trifle coldly, “you can’t expect me to judge my friend without being aware of his offence.”“His offence?” she exclaimed, with a start. “What—what do you mean? What do you know of his offence?”He was astonished at her sudden and intense interest.“Nothing beyond what you have just told me,” he replied calmly, although her strange agitation had not escaped him.It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wished to hide. Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.“Ah, I understand,” she said; “I thought you were referring to—other things.”The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strange letters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother’s papers. A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, in an endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but each time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her annoyance.Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton, he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his lips he regretted.“Valérie,” he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her eyes, “I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted with my brother?”The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, her delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.“What do you mean?” she gasped.“I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow.”“Murdered!” she cried hoarsely. “Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?”“Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident.”“Dieu!” she ejaculated, with a shudder. “I knew he was dead, but I was told he died of fever,” she said in a harsh, low voice.“Then you knew him?”“No—I—we were not acquainted,” she replied, endeavouring to remain calm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled. But it was only for a moment.“Strange that you did not know him,” Hugh said in a tone of distrust.“What caused you to think that he and I were friends?” she asked, rather haughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.He hesitated. He was on the point of telling her of his discovery and demanding an explanation, but he decided that such a course might be indiscreet.“Well,” he replied, “I had reason for believing so.”“What was your reason?” she inquired, breathless with anxiety, as if half fearing his reply.He had determined not to tell her the truth.“Oh, a very foolish one,” replied he, with a laugh. “It was a mere fancy.”“Only a fancy,” she said dreamily. “Are you sure it was nothing more?”“Why are you so anxious to know?” he demanded, raising her hand to his lips.“It’s feminine curiosity, I suppose,” she said, smiling.“Well, then, I assure you it was only an absurd notion that somehow took possession of me.”“An absurd notion,” she echoed absently. “Why, of course it is! How could I have known your brother when I have been so little in England?”“You might have met him in society.”“No; believe me, to my knowledge I have never seen him. If I had, what difference could it make?”“If you entertained any affection for him—”“What nonsense you are talking to-day, Hugh,” she interrupted, with a little derisive laugh. “I really believe you are jealous.”“Perhaps I am,” he admitted; “but, you see, I love so well that any such shortcoming you really must excuse.”He laughed inwardly at the glibness of his invention.But her manner had suddenly changed.“You will love me always, will you not, Hugh?” she whispered earnestly.“Yes, dearest; of course I shall,” he replied tenderly. “I have spoken unkindly—forgive me.”Bravely smothering a storm of rising sobs, she held him with both her small hands until she had sufficiently controlled herself to speak.“I thought a few moments ago that—that you no longer cared for me,” she said, with an effort, watching the effect of her words with wide-open, earnest eyes.“No, Valérie, you were mistaken,” he replied in a low, intense tone. “I love you, and nothing shall ever part us.”They had risen, and were standing together before the fireplace.For a moment she stared vacantly before her. Then she threw herself into his arms, and, clinging to him convulsively, hid her face upon his shoulder.“I love you, Hugh; I love you more than I have loved any man,” she murmured.He strained her to his heart—a heart remorseful, even miserable and unhappy. Not even her declaration of love brought him a ray of consolation, for the gnawing consciousness of some deep mystery connected with her past, and the danger of their love for one another, had crushed all happiness from his soul.And although he was feigning love and endeavouring to console her, yet there was no help for it—they were inseparable, their beings were knit together, their hearts were one.She possessed the fatal power of fascination. He was under her spell.With an effort to shake off the gloom that was possessing him, he spoke to her words of comfort.She tried to reply, but a great sob choked her utterance.Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying—“You must go, Hugh; you have been here too long, and I am not well to-day. I want to be alone.”“Yes, you are right,” replied he woefully. “I ought not to have caused you this pain. I am to blame.”Yet something of hope returned to him as he spoke, for she clasped her arms around his neck, and, clinging to him closely, fixed upon him a look of moving appeal.Slowly she drew down his head towards her face, and then gave him a warm, passionate kiss.“Good-bye, Hugh,” she said in a broken pleading voice. “Remember you have one who loves you more dearly than life.”“I’ve been a fool. Forgive me for speaking as I did,” he entreated.“Yes,” she replied, with a sigh; “if we love one another, why should there be any mistrust between us?”Why? Had he not cause for apprehension? he asked himself.But her arms were about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder. The sweet perfume of violets intoxicated him. In a moment he became convinced that she was terribly in earnest, and was confident of her intense affection.“I have no mistrust whatever, darling,” he said reassuringly, stroking her hair with infinite tenderness.“I—I am satisfied,” she murmured. “But tell me, Hugh, once more, that I shall be your wife.”“Yes, indeed you shall, dearest; I care for no one else but you,” said he, with a grave look.Her labouring heart throbbed against his as their lips met in a long last caress. His anguished soul invoked the blessing on her that his quivering lips refused to utter, and he tore himself away.He took one look back, and saw her totter a few steps after him with arms outstretched, then stop.Gazing upon her with a loving glance, he waved his hand, and passed out.When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments, looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts. Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, and sank upon it.The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happiness found vent in hysterical sobs.“I hate myself. It’s horrible, and yet I am powerless,” she cried passionately.Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose—deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
“I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
“M’sieur Trethowen,” she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl’s heels, with a fond, glad smile.
“I must really apologise, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
“I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I’ve brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”
“Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. “Yes, it is lovely,” she assented. “But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied with a smile; “really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thanks,” she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.
“No, no, at your feet; Valérie—always at your feet,” the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.
Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:
“Non, ma jeunesse n’est pas morte,Il n’est pas mort ton souvenir.”
“Non, ma jeunesse n’est pas morte,Il n’est pas mort ton souvenir.”
But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.
“Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?” she asked suddenly.
He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.
“Yes, frequently,” he said in turn. “We have known one another so long, that I look upon him as my best friend.”
“Your best friend!” she echoed. “Ah! that is to be regretted. Then you could not have known him when he was a student in Paris.”
“No; tell me about him,” Hugh asked anxiously.
“Although I knew him, I shall say nothing beyond the fact that his was an unenviable reputation.”
His lips were parted in surprise as he looked at her.
“My darling,” he said, a trifle coldly, “you can’t expect me to judge my friend without being aware of his offence.”
“His offence?” she exclaimed, with a start. “What—what do you mean? What do you know of his offence?”
He was astonished at her sudden and intense interest.
“Nothing beyond what you have just told me,” he replied calmly, although her strange agitation had not escaped him.
It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wished to hide. Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.
“Ah, I understand,” she said; “I thought you were referring to—other things.”
The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strange letters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother’s papers. A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, in an endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but each time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her annoyance.
Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton, he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his lips he regretted.
“Valérie,” he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her eyes, “I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted with my brother?”
The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, her delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.
“What do you mean?” she gasped.
“I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow.”
“Murdered!” she cried hoarsely. “Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?”
“Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident.”
“Dieu!” she ejaculated, with a shudder. “I knew he was dead, but I was told he died of fever,” she said in a harsh, low voice.
“Then you knew him?”
“No—I—we were not acquainted,” she replied, endeavouring to remain calm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.
Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled. But it was only for a moment.
“Strange that you did not know him,” Hugh said in a tone of distrust.
“What caused you to think that he and I were friends?” she asked, rather haughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.
He hesitated. He was on the point of telling her of his discovery and demanding an explanation, but he decided that such a course might be indiscreet.
“Well,” he replied, “I had reason for believing so.”
“What was your reason?” she inquired, breathless with anxiety, as if half fearing his reply.
He had determined not to tell her the truth.
“Oh, a very foolish one,” replied he, with a laugh. “It was a mere fancy.”
“Only a fancy,” she said dreamily. “Are you sure it was nothing more?”
“Why are you so anxious to know?” he demanded, raising her hand to his lips.
“It’s feminine curiosity, I suppose,” she said, smiling.
“Well, then, I assure you it was only an absurd notion that somehow took possession of me.”
“An absurd notion,” she echoed absently. “Why, of course it is! How could I have known your brother when I have been so little in England?”
“You might have met him in society.”
“No; believe me, to my knowledge I have never seen him. If I had, what difference could it make?”
“If you entertained any affection for him—”
“What nonsense you are talking to-day, Hugh,” she interrupted, with a little derisive laugh. “I really believe you are jealous.”
“Perhaps I am,” he admitted; “but, you see, I love so well that any such shortcoming you really must excuse.”
He laughed inwardly at the glibness of his invention.
But her manner had suddenly changed.
“You will love me always, will you not, Hugh?” she whispered earnestly.
“Yes, dearest; of course I shall,” he replied tenderly. “I have spoken unkindly—forgive me.”
Bravely smothering a storm of rising sobs, she held him with both her small hands until she had sufficiently controlled herself to speak.
“I thought a few moments ago that—that you no longer cared for me,” she said, with an effort, watching the effect of her words with wide-open, earnest eyes.
“No, Valérie, you were mistaken,” he replied in a low, intense tone. “I love you, and nothing shall ever part us.”
They had risen, and were standing together before the fireplace.
For a moment she stared vacantly before her. Then she threw herself into his arms, and, clinging to him convulsively, hid her face upon his shoulder.
“I love you, Hugh; I love you more than I have loved any man,” she murmured.
He strained her to his heart—a heart remorseful, even miserable and unhappy. Not even her declaration of love brought him a ray of consolation, for the gnawing consciousness of some deep mystery connected with her past, and the danger of their love for one another, had crushed all happiness from his soul.
And although he was feigning love and endeavouring to console her, yet there was no help for it—they were inseparable, their beings were knit together, their hearts were one.
She possessed the fatal power of fascination. He was under her spell.
With an effort to shake off the gloom that was possessing him, he spoke to her words of comfort.
She tried to reply, but a great sob choked her utterance.
Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying—
“You must go, Hugh; you have been here too long, and I am not well to-day. I want to be alone.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied he woefully. “I ought not to have caused you this pain. I am to blame.”
Yet something of hope returned to him as he spoke, for she clasped her arms around his neck, and, clinging to him closely, fixed upon him a look of moving appeal.
Slowly she drew down his head towards her face, and then gave him a warm, passionate kiss.
“Good-bye, Hugh,” she said in a broken pleading voice. “Remember you have one who loves you more dearly than life.”
“I’ve been a fool. Forgive me for speaking as I did,” he entreated.
“Yes,” she replied, with a sigh; “if we love one another, why should there be any mistrust between us?”
Why? Had he not cause for apprehension? he asked himself.
But her arms were about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder. The sweet perfume of violets intoxicated him. In a moment he became convinced that she was terribly in earnest, and was confident of her intense affection.
“I have no mistrust whatever, darling,” he said reassuringly, stroking her hair with infinite tenderness.
“I—I am satisfied,” she murmured. “But tell me, Hugh, once more, that I shall be your wife.”
“Yes, indeed you shall, dearest; I care for no one else but you,” said he, with a grave look.
Her labouring heart throbbed against his as their lips met in a long last caress. His anguished soul invoked the blessing on her that his quivering lips refused to utter, and he tore himself away.
He took one look back, and saw her totter a few steps after him with arms outstretched, then stop.
Gazing upon her with a loving glance, he waved his hand, and passed out.
When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments, looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts. Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, and sank upon it.
The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happiness found vent in hysterical sobs.
“I hate myself. It’s horrible, and yet I am powerless,” she cried passionately.
Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.
Chapter Eleven.The Fourth Passenger.“I think the trick is almost accomplished.”“So do I.”“Is everything ready?”“Yes; but remember, we must keep very cool. A false step means ruin.”The man addressed laid his finger significantly upon his lips and replied—“Of course. I quite understand.”This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman’s Buildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valérie, and the two men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were Victor Bérard and the Rev. Hubert Holt. In every particular they were dissimilar. The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-looking rings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most unassuming and orthodox cut. Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasily toward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the table facing each other.“Come,” exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, “fill your glass. Good stuff like this never hurts one.”His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised his head, and stammered—“You’re—you’re right,mon ami. Such cognac warms the blood this weather. Let’s have another glass before we go.”He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curious that when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed features strangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, with closely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-looking face. The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheeks were flushed, and as he grasped his glass his lean bony hand had the appearance of the talons of a bird of prey.Bérard and his clerical companion continued their conversation in an undertone.The Rev. Hubert Holt, upon whom the international gang of adventurers had long ago bestowed the sobriquet of “The Sky Pilot,” certainly did not, amid such surroundings, present the appearance of a spiritual guide. True, he was the shining light of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, where he held the office of curate, but as a clerical luminary he was by no means of the chalk-and-water type. On the contrary, he could wink wickedly at a pretty girl, drink a glass of “fizz,” or handle a billiard cue in a style only acquired by long practice. Nevertheless, he was considered thoroughly devout by his aged and antiquated vicar, and not having joined the ranks of Benedicts, was consequently the principal attraction at mothers’ meetings and other similar gatherings of the more enlightened parishioners of the mean and squalid parish of St. Barnabas. They, however, were in blissful ignorance of the character of his associates, otherwise it is more than probable that the pulpit and altar of the transpontine church would have been at once occupied by mother fledgling pastor.“Suppose the whole business came to light? How should I fare?” asked the sable-coated ecclesiastic thoughtfully, after they had been in conversation some minutes.“Bah!Vous-vous moquez des gens! Besides, you are always safe, surrounded as you are by a cloak of honesty. I tell you, the game can never be detected.”“Don’t be too confident; it’s a bad habit. Hugh Trethowen may suspect.Il est dégourdi, and if he should discover anything, depend upon it we should have the utmost difficulty in clearing ourselves. Somehow, I don’t like the fellow; he knows too much.”“What nonsense you talk,” replied the Frenchman impatiently. “He can never know the truth. He loves Valérie, and you ought to know her well enough to recognise her consummate tact and ingenuity.”“Exactly. But why are you so positive that strict secrecy will be observed?”“Because—because the only person who knew the secret has been silenced.”“Who?” demanded Holt in a hoarse whisper.“Egerton.”The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor a few moments.“Well, I tell you candidly I don’t half like it,” he remarked apprehensively.“Content yourself; neither of us are such imbeciles as to run any risks. Have you not already assisted us and shared our profits?”Holt bit his lip. It was an allusion to unpleasant reminiscences.“That is so,” he admitted, twirling the small gold cross suspended from his watch-chain. “And what is the extent of my remuneration this time?”“One hundred pounds.”“The job is worth double.”“You’ll not have a sou more, so think yourself lucky to get what I offer.”“If I refuse?”“You dare not,” interrupted Victor in a changed tone. “Think of what your future would be if Valérie uttered one word.”“Yes—yes,” Holt replied, with a fierce frown. “I know I’ve linked myself with you. I’m your cat’s-paw, however detestable your shady transactions are.”“You always receive money for your services.”“Yes,” he muttered between his teeth. “Gold with a curse upon it.”Bérard shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly and said—“I suppose we shall each owe an ornamental wax taper to St. Jean le Baptiste for to-night’s manoeuvre.” Turning away he went to a drawer, from which he took a card-case and some letters, placing them in his pocket.“Now, Sky Pilot,” he continued resolutely, as he walked up to where Holt stood, “are you ready?” The curate held his breath.“Very well,” he replied, after a brief pause, “I suppose I must do the bidding of my masters.”“It would be best—that is, if you respect your position as a holy man,” the Frenchman replied, with a mocking laugh.“Come, gentlemen,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the pair seated at the table. “It’s time we started, or we shall not keep our appointment.”“There is no immediate hurry, is there?” asked Chavoix in a husky voice.“Yes,” Bérard replied, “we must be at West Brompton at eight.”“In that case I’m ready,” said he, rising, at the same time casting a longing look at the unfinished bottle of cognac before him. With unsteady gait he stumbled across the room, and, with the assistance of Pierre, arrayed himself in his overcoat and hat—not, however, without some difficulty and much good-humoured banter.The other men sought their outdoor garments, and descended the stairs together, Bérard remaining behind a moment to blow out the lamp and lock the door.A few minutes later they were strolling across Soho Square, which, at that hour, was dismal and deserted. A four-wheeled cab stood on the opposite side of the square, and they hailed it. When they had entered the conveyance, Holt gave the coachman orders to drive to the underground station at Charing Cross with all possible speed.While passing along the more unfrequented thoroughfares the interior of the vehicle was dark, and of this Pierre and Victor took advantage. As for Chavoix, he had arrived at the drowsy state of intoxication, and quickly sank into a corner, where the rocking of the rickety old vehicle soon lulled him into a heavy slumber.Pierre, who was seated at his side, turned and grasped his hand. First satisfying himself of the man’s unconsciousness, he slowly, and with deliberate caution, unbuttoned his overcoat. As he accomplished this without rousing him, Bérard withdrew from his pocket a card-case, a folded paper, and several other articles.Not a word was uttered. With much dexterity Pierre also unbuttoned the black frock-coat Chavoix wore, and, diving his hand into the breast-pocket, abstracted an old morocco letter-case, with some loose cards and about half a dozen letters. Hastily glancing at these, he transferred them to his own pocket, while, at the same time, Bérard bent over and carefully substituted them for those he had just produced.After feeling in both pockets of the sleeping man’s vest, as if to reassure himself that nothing remained, Pierre commenced to rebutton the overcoat. While so engaged Chavoix stirred uneasily and uttered a grunt, but a moment afterwards he subsided again into the dull, heavy slumber of intoxication, thus allowing the expert pickpocket to accomplish his task.As the cab rumbled down Villiers Street, Bérard grasped him roughly by the shoulder, exclaiming in French—“Wake up, old fellow. Come; pull yourself together.”Starting, rubbing his eyes, and with a muttered and husky, “Pardon, messieurs,” he commenced a profuse apology for sleeping in their company. This, however, was suddenly interrupted by the vehicle coming to a standstill before the station.The four men alighted, and Holt, after a brief consultation with Bérard, took first-class tickets for West Brompton.Pierre’s arm afforded Chavoix a friendly aid as they descended to the platform; for, although the latter was not sufficiently inebriated to attract attention, yet his equilibrium was slightly disarranged.When the train drew up they entered an empty first-class compartment, and continued their journey westward, a decidedly jovial quartette.On leaving the next station, Westminster, Pierre remarked that he had developed a great thirst, and, curiously enough, Holt immediately produced a nickel travelling flask filled with brandy, which he held up triumphantly. Amid the laughter which followed an assertion of Chavoix’s, to the effect that priests always appreciated good liquor, Pierre took the flask, and, unscrewing the top, placed the mouth to his lips.Then he handed it to Adolphe.“I’m so thirsty that I feel as if I could drink all that’s in the flask,” remarked the latter.“You couldn’t do it in your present state,” argued Bérard incredulously.“It’s very strong,” commented Pierre. “I doubt whether you could drain it at one draught. In fact, I’m open to bet you half a sovereign that you won’t.”“Bah! it’s just as easy as winking,” replied the intoxicated man, regarding the flask with a complacent smile. “With m’sieur’s permission I’ll drink his health.”“By all means,” replied Holt, with a laugh. “I’m really afraid, however, that we shall be compelled to see you home afterwards.”“Never fear; I’m safe enough in your hands,” he answered, with a grin. “If there’s one thing I’m more fond of than another, it’s good cognac. See!”He lifted the flask to his lips, and drained it at one pull.Scarcely had he done so when he uttered a loud cry of pain, clutching convulsively at his throat.“Diable! it’s—it’s stronger than I bargained for!” he gasped, with an effort to laugh. “I feel as if everything—why, it’s all going round.Mon dieu! You have—”He struggled to his feet, but reeled back upon the cushions, and in a few moments was unconscious.By this time the train had left St. James’s Park, and was travelling at a fair speed midway between that station and Victoria.When it arrived at the latter place three men only were in the compartment, and they alighted. They did not speak, but hurried along the platform as if unknown to one another. Victor and the curate of St. Barnabas gained the street. The former jumped into a hansom, gave the driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and South Coast Railway.Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange. Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway leading to the Chatham and Dover station. Gaining the platform, he glanced up at the great clock. It was twenty-six minutes past eight. Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket, was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed. Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment, then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office and purchased a ticket for Brussels.“Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?” he asked of the man.“Yes, sir; she leaves at eight-thirty, sharp. This way, please.”They hurried together to where the train stood, and the man, after depositing the valise under the seat of an empty first-class compartment, received his tip and withdrew.Pierre then entered, but before he had time to arrange his belongings and comfortably ensconce himself the guard slammed the door, and the train glided away on its journey to the sea.Another had been added to the long list of London mysteries.
“I think the trick is almost accomplished.”
“So do I.”
“Is everything ready?”
“Yes; but remember, we must keep very cool. A false step means ruin.”
The man addressed laid his finger significantly upon his lips and replied—
“Of course. I quite understand.”
This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman’s Buildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valérie, and the two men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were Victor Bérard and the Rev. Hubert Holt. In every particular they were dissimilar. The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-looking rings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most unassuming and orthodox cut. Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasily toward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the table facing each other.
“Come,” exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, “fill your glass. Good stuff like this never hurts one.”
His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised his head, and stammered—
“You’re—you’re right,mon ami. Such cognac warms the blood this weather. Let’s have another glass before we go.”
He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curious that when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed features strangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.
Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, with closely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-looking face. The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheeks were flushed, and as he grasped his glass his lean bony hand had the appearance of the talons of a bird of prey.
Bérard and his clerical companion continued their conversation in an undertone.
The Rev. Hubert Holt, upon whom the international gang of adventurers had long ago bestowed the sobriquet of “The Sky Pilot,” certainly did not, amid such surroundings, present the appearance of a spiritual guide. True, he was the shining light of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, where he held the office of curate, but as a clerical luminary he was by no means of the chalk-and-water type. On the contrary, he could wink wickedly at a pretty girl, drink a glass of “fizz,” or handle a billiard cue in a style only acquired by long practice. Nevertheless, he was considered thoroughly devout by his aged and antiquated vicar, and not having joined the ranks of Benedicts, was consequently the principal attraction at mothers’ meetings and other similar gatherings of the more enlightened parishioners of the mean and squalid parish of St. Barnabas. They, however, were in blissful ignorance of the character of his associates, otherwise it is more than probable that the pulpit and altar of the transpontine church would have been at once occupied by mother fledgling pastor.
“Suppose the whole business came to light? How should I fare?” asked the sable-coated ecclesiastic thoughtfully, after they had been in conversation some minutes.
“Bah!Vous-vous moquez des gens! Besides, you are always safe, surrounded as you are by a cloak of honesty. I tell you, the game can never be detected.”
“Don’t be too confident; it’s a bad habit. Hugh Trethowen may suspect.Il est dégourdi, and if he should discover anything, depend upon it we should have the utmost difficulty in clearing ourselves. Somehow, I don’t like the fellow; he knows too much.”
“What nonsense you talk,” replied the Frenchman impatiently. “He can never know the truth. He loves Valérie, and you ought to know her well enough to recognise her consummate tact and ingenuity.”
“Exactly. But why are you so positive that strict secrecy will be observed?”
“Because—because the only person who knew the secret has been silenced.”
“Who?” demanded Holt in a hoarse whisper.
“Egerton.”
The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor a few moments.
“Well, I tell you candidly I don’t half like it,” he remarked apprehensively.
“Content yourself; neither of us are such imbeciles as to run any risks. Have you not already assisted us and shared our profits?”
Holt bit his lip. It was an allusion to unpleasant reminiscences.
“That is so,” he admitted, twirling the small gold cross suspended from his watch-chain. “And what is the extent of my remuneration this time?”
“One hundred pounds.”
“The job is worth double.”
“You’ll not have a sou more, so think yourself lucky to get what I offer.”
“If I refuse?”
“You dare not,” interrupted Victor in a changed tone. “Think of what your future would be if Valérie uttered one word.”
“Yes—yes,” Holt replied, with a fierce frown. “I know I’ve linked myself with you. I’m your cat’s-paw, however detestable your shady transactions are.”
“You always receive money for your services.”
“Yes,” he muttered between his teeth. “Gold with a curse upon it.”
Bérard shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly and said—
“I suppose we shall each owe an ornamental wax taper to St. Jean le Baptiste for to-night’s manoeuvre.” Turning away he went to a drawer, from which he took a card-case and some letters, placing them in his pocket.
“Now, Sky Pilot,” he continued resolutely, as he walked up to where Holt stood, “are you ready?” The curate held his breath.
“Very well,” he replied, after a brief pause, “I suppose I must do the bidding of my masters.”
“It would be best—that is, if you respect your position as a holy man,” the Frenchman replied, with a mocking laugh.
“Come, gentlemen,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the pair seated at the table. “It’s time we started, or we shall not keep our appointment.”
“There is no immediate hurry, is there?” asked Chavoix in a husky voice.
“Yes,” Bérard replied, “we must be at West Brompton at eight.”
“In that case I’m ready,” said he, rising, at the same time casting a longing look at the unfinished bottle of cognac before him. With unsteady gait he stumbled across the room, and, with the assistance of Pierre, arrayed himself in his overcoat and hat—not, however, without some difficulty and much good-humoured banter.
The other men sought their outdoor garments, and descended the stairs together, Bérard remaining behind a moment to blow out the lamp and lock the door.
A few minutes later they were strolling across Soho Square, which, at that hour, was dismal and deserted. A four-wheeled cab stood on the opposite side of the square, and they hailed it. When they had entered the conveyance, Holt gave the coachman orders to drive to the underground station at Charing Cross with all possible speed.
While passing along the more unfrequented thoroughfares the interior of the vehicle was dark, and of this Pierre and Victor took advantage. As for Chavoix, he had arrived at the drowsy state of intoxication, and quickly sank into a corner, where the rocking of the rickety old vehicle soon lulled him into a heavy slumber.
Pierre, who was seated at his side, turned and grasped his hand. First satisfying himself of the man’s unconsciousness, he slowly, and with deliberate caution, unbuttoned his overcoat. As he accomplished this without rousing him, Bérard withdrew from his pocket a card-case, a folded paper, and several other articles.
Not a word was uttered. With much dexterity Pierre also unbuttoned the black frock-coat Chavoix wore, and, diving his hand into the breast-pocket, abstracted an old morocco letter-case, with some loose cards and about half a dozen letters. Hastily glancing at these, he transferred them to his own pocket, while, at the same time, Bérard bent over and carefully substituted them for those he had just produced.
After feeling in both pockets of the sleeping man’s vest, as if to reassure himself that nothing remained, Pierre commenced to rebutton the overcoat. While so engaged Chavoix stirred uneasily and uttered a grunt, but a moment afterwards he subsided again into the dull, heavy slumber of intoxication, thus allowing the expert pickpocket to accomplish his task.
As the cab rumbled down Villiers Street, Bérard grasped him roughly by the shoulder, exclaiming in French—
“Wake up, old fellow. Come; pull yourself together.”
Starting, rubbing his eyes, and with a muttered and husky, “Pardon, messieurs,” he commenced a profuse apology for sleeping in their company. This, however, was suddenly interrupted by the vehicle coming to a standstill before the station.
The four men alighted, and Holt, after a brief consultation with Bérard, took first-class tickets for West Brompton.
Pierre’s arm afforded Chavoix a friendly aid as they descended to the platform; for, although the latter was not sufficiently inebriated to attract attention, yet his equilibrium was slightly disarranged.
When the train drew up they entered an empty first-class compartment, and continued their journey westward, a decidedly jovial quartette.
On leaving the next station, Westminster, Pierre remarked that he had developed a great thirst, and, curiously enough, Holt immediately produced a nickel travelling flask filled with brandy, which he held up triumphantly. Amid the laughter which followed an assertion of Chavoix’s, to the effect that priests always appreciated good liquor, Pierre took the flask, and, unscrewing the top, placed the mouth to his lips.
Then he handed it to Adolphe.
“I’m so thirsty that I feel as if I could drink all that’s in the flask,” remarked the latter.
“You couldn’t do it in your present state,” argued Bérard incredulously.
“It’s very strong,” commented Pierre. “I doubt whether you could drain it at one draught. In fact, I’m open to bet you half a sovereign that you won’t.”
“Bah! it’s just as easy as winking,” replied the intoxicated man, regarding the flask with a complacent smile. “With m’sieur’s permission I’ll drink his health.”
“By all means,” replied Holt, with a laugh. “I’m really afraid, however, that we shall be compelled to see you home afterwards.”
“Never fear; I’m safe enough in your hands,” he answered, with a grin. “If there’s one thing I’m more fond of than another, it’s good cognac. See!”
He lifted the flask to his lips, and drained it at one pull.
Scarcely had he done so when he uttered a loud cry of pain, clutching convulsively at his throat.
“Diable! it’s—it’s stronger than I bargained for!” he gasped, with an effort to laugh. “I feel as if everything—why, it’s all going round.Mon dieu! You have—”
He struggled to his feet, but reeled back upon the cushions, and in a few moments was unconscious.
By this time the train had left St. James’s Park, and was travelling at a fair speed midway between that station and Victoria.
When it arrived at the latter place three men only were in the compartment, and they alighted. They did not speak, but hurried along the platform as if unknown to one another. Victor and the curate of St. Barnabas gained the street. The former jumped into a hansom, gave the driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and South Coast Railway.
Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange. Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway leading to the Chatham and Dover station. Gaining the platform, he glanced up at the great clock. It was twenty-six minutes past eight. Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket, was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed. Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment, then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office and purchased a ticket for Brussels.
“Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?” he asked of the man.
“Yes, sir; she leaves at eight-thirty, sharp. This way, please.”
They hurried together to where the train stood, and the man, after depositing the valise under the seat of an empty first-class compartment, received his tip and withdrew.
Pierre then entered, but before he had time to arrange his belongings and comfortably ensconce himself the guard slammed the door, and the train glided away on its journey to the sea.
Another had been added to the long list of London mysteries.
Chapter Twelve.“A Crooked Bit of Business.”Mr Bernard Graham was sitting in his gloomy office in Devereux Court one afternoon a few days later.His elbows rested upon his littered writing-table, his pince-nez poised upon his thin nose, and he was absorbed in the technicalities of a document when his lad entered with a card.“I’ll see him in one moment,” he exclaimed, glancing at the card, and the youth withdrew.Leaning back in his chair his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful expression.“It’s a crooked bit of business at best,” he said, aloud to himself, “but the money is bequeathed in legal form, duly signed and witnessed; therefore, as far as I can see, nobody can prove to the contrary. I was rather apprehensive of the results, but, there—I suppose it was merely an absurd fancy.”He touched the gong beside him, and almost immediately Victor Bérard, his face wreathed in smiles and wearing a gardenia in his coat, was ushered in.“So the preliminaries have been carried out satisfactorily,” exclaimed the solicitor, as he motioned his client to a seat opposite him.“Yes—so far,” he answered in excellent English.“Ah! I read the account in the papers, and saw at once you had had a hand in the matter.”“Your shrewdness scarcely astonishes me,mon copain,” replied Victor, with a laugh, “especially when you knew that our exchequer was almost at vanishing point, and that we had decided on repeating the little ruse that has proved so remunerative formerly. We have workedà coup perdu, and, of course, all in the interest of the grand scheme.”“On this occasion there was no hitch, I suppose?”“None. There is not even a shadow of suspicion,” he replied, dropping into a whisper. “The body, when discovered upon the rails half an hour after we had left the train, was scarcely recognisable. The post-mortem revealed that the dead man had been drinking heavily, and the intelligent jury have this morning returned a verdict of accidental death. Here’s theGlobe—just out. Read for yourself.”He spoke between the whiffs of a cigarette, which he held daintily between his fingers.“Most satisfactory. His death is believed to have been due to a fall from the carriage. But the identification? You have not told me,” asked Graham anxiously.“He was identified by the papers upon him; therefore now the verdict has been given, you will wait, say, a week, so as not to appear in too great a hurry, then proceed to act as before.”The other nodded, and removed his eyeglasses. His face preserved its keen craftiness.“Nothing will transpire later? I mean nothing to our detriment.”“Nothing can. It is absolutely impossible for the truth to be known unless you or I divulge it ourselves, and I think that is not probable,” he replied, with a mysterious smile.“Scarcely. It would be an ugly matter for both of us.”The Frenchman affected not to hear the reply. He twirled his carefully-waxed moustaches, and took a long, steady glance at his well-dressed figure in the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf.“Well, Graham,” he said, “you know how to carry the business through. Holt and myself are at your disposal any time you require us, but don’t delay a day longer than necessary, for I tell you candidly we must have the money.”“I assure you, my dear Bérard, I shall get the matter completed as soon as possible, for despatch will be the best course for all parties concerned, eh? Besides, as a matter of fact—”The sentence was interrupted by the entry of the clerk with a second card.Mr Graham pushed the vestige of grey hair from his forehead. He looked puzzled and perplexed when he read the name of the person who desired an interview; but, quickly regaining his habitual coolness, he intimated to the lad that the request should be granted in a few minutes.“Have you—er—anything more to say to me?” he asked, turning to Bérard. “I can do nothing in the matter for at least a week,” he continued, “but if Mr Holt and yourself will attend here at noon the day after to-morrow we can transact the necessary formalities, and take the first step towards realising.”“That will suit admirably,” Bérard replied, with satisfaction. “I will not detain you longer, for I know you are busy;” and, shaking hands with his legal adviser, he made his exit by the door communicating direct with the passage.“My most fervent hope is that our usual good luck will not desert us,” the old solicitor reflected, when the Frenchman had departed.Having again touched the gong, the door opening into the clerk’s office admitted another client—Hugh Trethowen.“Well, Graham, how are you?” he exclaimed, gayly tossing his hat and stick upon the table, and flinging himself into the chair just vacated by Victor.“Thanks, I’m very well, Mr Hugh. Full of business, you know—full of business. Now, what is it you wish to consult me upon?”“A rather delicate matter.”The old man’s face grew grave, and much of the hectic flush vanished from his cheek. Readjusting the inevitable pince-nez, he leaned back and looked sharply at his visitor.“A delicate matter,” the solicitor repeated slowly. “Any financial difficulty—eh?”“No, not at all,” he laughed. “It’s with regard to a lady.”“Ah,” ejaculated the solicitor, heaving an unmistakable sigh of relief.“What I want to know, Graham, is whether you, as my late brother’s adviser, were aware that he was acquainted with a French lady named Dedieu?”So suddenly was the question put that it caused him to start slightly. Although it was a poser, Bernard Graham was not nonplussed.“Dedieu?—Dedieu?” he repeated thoughtfully, at the same time nervously twirling a quill between his fingers. “The name is uncommon, and not at all familiar to me. I—I’m sure I don’t remember ever hearing it before.”“You don’t believe, then, that my brother ever knew such a person?” asked Hugh.“Well, really, how is it possible that I should know?” asked Graham, with suavity. “It was scarcely likely he would make me acquainted with matters of that description.”Hugh plied him with several well-directed questions, but the old man’s memory was peculiarly vacant at that moment. He shook his head, reiterating his statement that his mind was perfectly blank upon the subject, declaring emphatically that he never heard of such a young person as Mademoiselle Valérie, whoever she was.Such an element of truth did this statement possess, and so blandly was it delivered, that Hugh felt perfectly satisfied. For some time past he had been very much perturbed by the curious discovery of the photograph and letters, but his misgivings were now set at rest by this reassurance.“Well, if you really don’t know her, I need not take up any more of your time,” he remarked, rising.“I assure you, Mr Hugh, as the trusted adviser of your family, it would give me the utmost pleasure to assist you if I could, but her existence is quite unknown to me,” protested the old man. “Was she a friend of yours, may I ask?” he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his dim eye.“Well, yes, Graham. I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance.”“Ah, I thought so. Young men are not so eager about a woman’s antecedents unless they love her.”“Form your own conclusions, Graham. I’ve an appointment, so good-day.”Laughing gayly, he departed, the old man bowing him out obsequiously.After he had gone, the occupant of the dingy chamber stood for a long time before the fire cleaning his pince-nez upon his silk handkerchief, thinking over the errands of his two clients—so strangely dissimilar, yet so closely allied.
Mr Bernard Graham was sitting in his gloomy office in Devereux Court one afternoon a few days later.
His elbows rested upon his littered writing-table, his pince-nez poised upon his thin nose, and he was absorbed in the technicalities of a document when his lad entered with a card.
“I’ll see him in one moment,” he exclaimed, glancing at the card, and the youth withdrew.
Leaning back in his chair his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful expression.
“It’s a crooked bit of business at best,” he said, aloud to himself, “but the money is bequeathed in legal form, duly signed and witnessed; therefore, as far as I can see, nobody can prove to the contrary. I was rather apprehensive of the results, but, there—I suppose it was merely an absurd fancy.”
He touched the gong beside him, and almost immediately Victor Bérard, his face wreathed in smiles and wearing a gardenia in his coat, was ushered in.
“So the preliminaries have been carried out satisfactorily,” exclaimed the solicitor, as he motioned his client to a seat opposite him.
“Yes—so far,” he answered in excellent English.
“Ah! I read the account in the papers, and saw at once you had had a hand in the matter.”
“Your shrewdness scarcely astonishes me,mon copain,” replied Victor, with a laugh, “especially when you knew that our exchequer was almost at vanishing point, and that we had decided on repeating the little ruse that has proved so remunerative formerly. We have workedà coup perdu, and, of course, all in the interest of the grand scheme.”
“On this occasion there was no hitch, I suppose?”
“None. There is not even a shadow of suspicion,” he replied, dropping into a whisper. “The body, when discovered upon the rails half an hour after we had left the train, was scarcely recognisable. The post-mortem revealed that the dead man had been drinking heavily, and the intelligent jury have this morning returned a verdict of accidental death. Here’s theGlobe—just out. Read for yourself.”
He spoke between the whiffs of a cigarette, which he held daintily between his fingers.
“Most satisfactory. His death is believed to have been due to a fall from the carriage. But the identification? You have not told me,” asked Graham anxiously.
“He was identified by the papers upon him; therefore now the verdict has been given, you will wait, say, a week, so as not to appear in too great a hurry, then proceed to act as before.”
The other nodded, and removed his eyeglasses. His face preserved its keen craftiness.
“Nothing will transpire later? I mean nothing to our detriment.”
“Nothing can. It is absolutely impossible for the truth to be known unless you or I divulge it ourselves, and I think that is not probable,” he replied, with a mysterious smile.
“Scarcely. It would be an ugly matter for both of us.”
The Frenchman affected not to hear the reply. He twirled his carefully-waxed moustaches, and took a long, steady glance at his well-dressed figure in the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf.
“Well, Graham,” he said, “you know how to carry the business through. Holt and myself are at your disposal any time you require us, but don’t delay a day longer than necessary, for I tell you candidly we must have the money.”
“I assure you, my dear Bérard, I shall get the matter completed as soon as possible, for despatch will be the best course for all parties concerned, eh? Besides, as a matter of fact—”
The sentence was interrupted by the entry of the clerk with a second card.
Mr Graham pushed the vestige of grey hair from his forehead. He looked puzzled and perplexed when he read the name of the person who desired an interview; but, quickly regaining his habitual coolness, he intimated to the lad that the request should be granted in a few minutes.
“Have you—er—anything more to say to me?” he asked, turning to Bérard. “I can do nothing in the matter for at least a week,” he continued, “but if Mr Holt and yourself will attend here at noon the day after to-morrow we can transact the necessary formalities, and take the first step towards realising.”
“That will suit admirably,” Bérard replied, with satisfaction. “I will not detain you longer, for I know you are busy;” and, shaking hands with his legal adviser, he made his exit by the door communicating direct with the passage.
“My most fervent hope is that our usual good luck will not desert us,” the old solicitor reflected, when the Frenchman had departed.
Having again touched the gong, the door opening into the clerk’s office admitted another client—Hugh Trethowen.
“Well, Graham, how are you?” he exclaimed, gayly tossing his hat and stick upon the table, and flinging himself into the chair just vacated by Victor.
“Thanks, I’m very well, Mr Hugh. Full of business, you know—full of business. Now, what is it you wish to consult me upon?”
“A rather delicate matter.”
The old man’s face grew grave, and much of the hectic flush vanished from his cheek. Readjusting the inevitable pince-nez, he leaned back and looked sharply at his visitor.
“A delicate matter,” the solicitor repeated slowly. “Any financial difficulty—eh?”
“No, not at all,” he laughed. “It’s with regard to a lady.”
“Ah,” ejaculated the solicitor, heaving an unmistakable sigh of relief.
“What I want to know, Graham, is whether you, as my late brother’s adviser, were aware that he was acquainted with a French lady named Dedieu?”
So suddenly was the question put that it caused him to start slightly. Although it was a poser, Bernard Graham was not nonplussed.
“Dedieu?—Dedieu?” he repeated thoughtfully, at the same time nervously twirling a quill between his fingers. “The name is uncommon, and not at all familiar to me. I—I’m sure I don’t remember ever hearing it before.”
“You don’t believe, then, that my brother ever knew such a person?” asked Hugh.
“Well, really, how is it possible that I should know?” asked Graham, with suavity. “It was scarcely likely he would make me acquainted with matters of that description.”
Hugh plied him with several well-directed questions, but the old man’s memory was peculiarly vacant at that moment. He shook his head, reiterating his statement that his mind was perfectly blank upon the subject, declaring emphatically that he never heard of such a young person as Mademoiselle Valérie, whoever she was.
Such an element of truth did this statement possess, and so blandly was it delivered, that Hugh felt perfectly satisfied. For some time past he had been very much perturbed by the curious discovery of the photograph and letters, but his misgivings were now set at rest by this reassurance.
“Well, if you really don’t know her, I need not take up any more of your time,” he remarked, rising.
“I assure you, Mr Hugh, as the trusted adviser of your family, it would give me the utmost pleasure to assist you if I could, but her existence is quite unknown to me,” protested the old man. “Was she a friend of yours, may I ask?” he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his dim eye.
“Well, yes, Graham. I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance.”
“Ah, I thought so. Young men are not so eager about a woman’s antecedents unless they love her.”
“Form your own conclusions, Graham. I’ve an appointment, so good-day.”
Laughing gayly, he departed, the old man bowing him out obsequiously.
After he had gone, the occupant of the dingy chamber stood for a long time before the fire cleaning his pince-nez upon his silk handkerchief, thinking over the errands of his two clients—so strangely dissimilar, yet so closely allied.