Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.Studio Secrets.“If you please, sir, a lady wants to see you very particularly.”“A lady, Jacob,” exclaimed Hugh Trethowen, who was in the lazy enjoyment of a cigar and a novel in his sitting-room, at the close of a dull, wet January day. “Who is she?”“I don’t know, sir. She wouldn’t give her card.”“Young?”“Yes, sir.”“Pretty?”“Well, I suppose I’m not much of a judge at my time of life, Master Hugh,” protested the old servant.“Get along with you,” laughed his master. “You can yet distinguish a pretty girl from a fossilised hag, I’ll be bound. Show her in, and let’s have a look at her.” Rising, he glanced at himself in the mirror, settled his tie, and smoothed his hair; for the appearance of a lady was an unusual phenomenon at his rooms.When the door opened he walked towards it to welcome his visitor, but halted halfway in amazement.“Why, Dolly, is it you?” he exclaimed, gripping her gloved hand.“Yes, Mr Trethowen; I—I don’t think I ought to have come here—to your chambers,” she replied, glancing round the room rather timidly; “but I wanted to tell you something.”“Surely there’s no harm in interviewing the lion in his den, is there?” he asked, laughing. “Come, let me help you off with your cloak.”At first she hesitated, declaring that she could only remain a few minutes, but eventually he persuaded her to allow him to remove the fur-lined garment—an Operation in which he displayed a rather excessive amount of care.Then he drew up a cosy armchair to the fire, and as she seated herself in it she commenced a desultory conversation, evidently loth to touch upon the matter of importance that had brought her thither.Men at Hugh Trethowen’s age are impressionable. They love, hate, and forget all in one day. For a brief period one fair daughter of Eve is thought enchanting and divine, but in the majority of cases another, fairer still, whose charms are increasingly bewitching, steps in and usurps her place, and she, though tender and fair—she may go anywhere to hide her emotion from an unsympathetic world, and heal her broken heart.If the truth were told, as she fixed her sweet, affectionate eyes upon him, he was reflecting whether he really loved her in preference to Valérie.“Why do you desire so particularly to see me?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, and regarding her with a happy and somewhat amused expression.Blushing, and dropping her eyes to the floor, she began to pick at her skirt.“I hope you’ll not be angry with me, and also that you’ll keep my visit a secret,” she said at last, with a little demure droop in the corners of her mouth, and just a suspicion ofdiableriein her eye. “I want to tell you of some one with whom you are acquainted.”“Who?”“Mademoiselle Dedieu.”He smiled, contemplating the end of his cigar.“Ah, I have heard all about your infatuation,” she continued seriously; “but, I suppose I must not reproach you, inasmuch as I have no right to do so,” and she sighed.“You have always been one of my dearest friends, Dolly,” he remarked warmly; “and I hope you will continue so, even though I have promised to marry Valérie Dedieu.”“You—you have promised to be her husband?” she gasped in dismay.“Yes. Why, surely you, too, are not going to defame her?” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Come, tell me what you know concerning her.”“Personally, I know nothing,” she answered in an earnest tone, “but as your friend—as one who has your interests at heart, I would urge you to heed the warning you have already received. Has not Mr Egerton told you that she is not a fit woman to be your wife?”“He certainly did say something once, in a vague sort of way.”“Why then do you not take his advice?”“You do not know us, Dolly,” he replied, looking straight into her eyes. “In matters of love we men usually follow our own course, whether it leads us to happiness or to woe.”“That is exactly why I came here to-day,” she said anxiously. “I wanted to tell you what Mr Egerton says of her.”“What does he say?”“Promise not to repeat anything I tell you.”“Upon my honour, I will not,” he declared.“A few days ago we were speaking of her, and he told me of your admiration and love. He said that if you knew the truth you would hate her like poison—that she had brought a curse upon others, and she would bring unhappiness and ruin upon you.”Hugh gazed thoughtfully into the fire.“And you have come to tell me that, little one?” he remarked reflectively.“Yes, I want to save you,” was the earnest, naïve reply.“To save me,” he echoed, with a smile. “Why, any one would think I was in danger of going by the express route across Styx.”“I mean,” she faltered, a trifle embarrassed,—“I mean that Mr Egerton knows more of her past than you. I feel sure he does, for she came to see him the other day, and they talked very excitedly. I was not in the room, of course, but—”“Valérie at the studio! Why did she go?” he inquired, astonished.“I don’t know, but I heard her say she would pay him another visit to-day and hear his answer, so I presume he has to decide upon some matter upon which she is pressing him.”“To-day! She may be there now!” he cried, jumping to his feet with sudden impulse.“Yes, most probably. She came the other day about four o’clock.”“Then I will go and demand an explanation,” said he briefly, and, opening the door, he shouted to Jacob to call a cab.Rather unceremoniously he hurried on his fair companion’s cloak, and, getting into his own overcoat, they both descended to the street.In a few minutes they were driving in the direction of Fitzroy Square, leaving old Jacob standing on the kerb in astonishment at his master’s sudden flight in company with the strange lady.The pretty model’s words had caused Hugh to become thoughtful and morose. His face wore a dark, resolute expression, and he scarcely uttered a word during the journey.Dolly Vivian regarded him as her friend. She had accomplished her object and felt satisfied.In Tottenham Court Road he stopped the cab, and she alighted, so that they should not both arrive at Fitzroy Square together.A few minutes afterwards he got out and rang the bell.Walking unceremoniously past Mrs O’Shea, the aged housekeeper, he entered the studio unannounced.Jack and Valérie were seated upon a low divan before the fire. He was holding her slim hand in his, and was uttering some low, passionate words. As the door opened theirtête-à-têtewas abruptly terminated, for the artist jumped to his feet, while she turned to face the intruder.“I—I really must apologise for coming in without knocking,” Hugh exclaimed roughly. “I didn’t know you were engaged, old fellow,” he added sarcastically.“You! Hugh!” she cried, with a blush suffusing her cheeks.“What, Valérie!” said Trethowen, laughing dryly. “I really didn’t recognise you in the shadow. I’m sorry if I interrupted what must have been a pleasant conversation.”“Not at all, old boy,” Egerton answered airily. “Mademoiselle Valérie merely called to have a chat.”Hugh’s brow darkened.“I think, as my affianced wife, Valérie owes me a full explanation of this mysterious visit,” he said angrily.“There’s little to explain,” she replied. “I merely called to consult Mr Egerton, who is an old friend, with regard to a portrait I desire painted.”He endeavoured to preserve a calm disinterested demeanour, but the attempt was a sorry one. Prompted by feelings of jealousy, he gave vent to his wrath.“Your position when I entered was peculiarly affectionate,” he said hotly.He glanced at her, and caught the agitated expression of her face as she stood erect before him. Her eyes had a perplexed look, with just a suspicion of tears in their brown depths.“No affection exists between us, I assure you,” she declared boldly. “If you doubt me, ask Mr Egerton. He and I are merely friends.”Turning to the artist, Hugh asked—“What have you to say, Jack?”“I decline to be cross-examined,” was the abrupt reply.“Speak, and satisfy him!” urged Valérie imploringly. “Tell him if there is any love between us.” She frowned, and, unseen by Trethowen, darted a sharp, imperative glance at him.He fully comprehended her meaning. Raising his head, he confronted his friend, saying—“You need have no fear. Valérie and I have known one another for years, but only as acquaintances.”He uttered the words mechanically, in strained, harsh tones.“I don’t believe it,” cried the other, his face crimson with anger. “You are both playing me false, and I have detected you.”“You are mistaken,” Valérie said defiantly.“No; I assert it as the truth. The whole affair is so unsatisfactory that I will not believe it. Friends do not meet clandestinely in this manner. You are lovers!”“It’s a lie,” cried Valérie emphatically.“I repeat what I’ve said.”“Then, if you accuse me of duplicity, Mr Trethowen, I will bid you adieu,” she exclaimed severely, at the same time offering her hand.He took it, and was mollified instantly.Bending over it, he murmured—“Farewell, mademoiselle, until—until you can prove that I was mistaken. We shall not meet till then.” For a moment she gazed steadily at the artist, but he did not stir. He stood with his arms folded, his face impassive.Slowly she turned, and with a stiff bow swept haughtily out of the studio.“Now,” commenced Hugh, when the door had closed, “what explanation have you to give of this strange conduct, pray?”“None.”“That does not satisfy me.”“My dear old fellow,” exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, “you—you understand; I cannot—I’m unable to give any.”“Why?”“Because it is impossible.”“Do you love her?” asked Hugh fiercely.“Love her!” the other echoed, with a short laugh. “I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?”“Is that still unchanged?”“Quite—intensified rather than moderated.”“Well, perhaps I have been a trifle too hasty, Jack. It seems that you know much of her past. Tell me, what was the object of your interview?”He was silent. Presently he said—“Hugh, you are an old friend, and I wish I were at liberty to tell you, but I regret I am not. Request no explanation, and rest assured that Valérie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were.”“Are you aware that Valérie and my late brother were acquainted?” Trethowen asked suddenly.“How did you discover that?” exclaimed the artist in astonishment.“Then you appear to know that she was a friend of his,” remarked Hugh dryly.“No; I—it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Who told you?”“I want to know whether it’s a fact or not,” persisted his friend.“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly.“You mean, you positively refuse to tell me?”“No; it is inability.”The two men continued their conversation for a short time longer, then Hugh left and returned to his chambers, not, however, before the warm friendship which had previously existed between them had been resumed.That evening Jacob handed his master a telegram from Valérie. She had evidently made a sudden resolve, and had lost no time in carrying it into effect, for the message read—“As you appear to doubt my explanation I have decided to leave England for the present. If you desire to write, a letter to 46, Avenue de la Toison d’Or, Brussels, will always find me.”With a prolonged whistle he sank into his chair, staring aimlessly at the indistinct words on the pink paper which he held between his fingers.He was half inclined to believe he had misjudged her.

“If you please, sir, a lady wants to see you very particularly.”

“A lady, Jacob,” exclaimed Hugh Trethowen, who was in the lazy enjoyment of a cigar and a novel in his sitting-room, at the close of a dull, wet January day. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know, sir. She wouldn’t give her card.”

“Young?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pretty?”

“Well, I suppose I’m not much of a judge at my time of life, Master Hugh,” protested the old servant.

“Get along with you,” laughed his master. “You can yet distinguish a pretty girl from a fossilised hag, I’ll be bound. Show her in, and let’s have a look at her.” Rising, he glanced at himself in the mirror, settled his tie, and smoothed his hair; for the appearance of a lady was an unusual phenomenon at his rooms.

When the door opened he walked towards it to welcome his visitor, but halted halfway in amazement.

“Why, Dolly, is it you?” he exclaimed, gripping her gloved hand.

“Yes, Mr Trethowen; I—I don’t think I ought to have come here—to your chambers,” she replied, glancing round the room rather timidly; “but I wanted to tell you something.”

“Surely there’s no harm in interviewing the lion in his den, is there?” he asked, laughing. “Come, let me help you off with your cloak.”

At first she hesitated, declaring that she could only remain a few minutes, but eventually he persuaded her to allow him to remove the fur-lined garment—an Operation in which he displayed a rather excessive amount of care.

Then he drew up a cosy armchair to the fire, and as she seated herself in it she commenced a desultory conversation, evidently loth to touch upon the matter of importance that had brought her thither.

Men at Hugh Trethowen’s age are impressionable. They love, hate, and forget all in one day. For a brief period one fair daughter of Eve is thought enchanting and divine, but in the majority of cases another, fairer still, whose charms are increasingly bewitching, steps in and usurps her place, and she, though tender and fair—she may go anywhere to hide her emotion from an unsympathetic world, and heal her broken heart.

If the truth were told, as she fixed her sweet, affectionate eyes upon him, he was reflecting whether he really loved her in preference to Valérie.

“Why do you desire so particularly to see me?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, and regarding her with a happy and somewhat amused expression.

Blushing, and dropping her eyes to the floor, she began to pick at her skirt.

“I hope you’ll not be angry with me, and also that you’ll keep my visit a secret,” she said at last, with a little demure droop in the corners of her mouth, and just a suspicion ofdiableriein her eye. “I want to tell you of some one with whom you are acquainted.”

“Who?”

“Mademoiselle Dedieu.”

He smiled, contemplating the end of his cigar.

“Ah, I have heard all about your infatuation,” she continued seriously; “but, I suppose I must not reproach you, inasmuch as I have no right to do so,” and she sighed.

“You have always been one of my dearest friends, Dolly,” he remarked warmly; “and I hope you will continue so, even though I have promised to marry Valérie Dedieu.”

“You—you have promised to be her husband?” she gasped in dismay.

“Yes. Why, surely you, too, are not going to defame her?” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Come, tell me what you know concerning her.”

“Personally, I know nothing,” she answered in an earnest tone, “but as your friend—as one who has your interests at heart, I would urge you to heed the warning you have already received. Has not Mr Egerton told you that she is not a fit woman to be your wife?”

“He certainly did say something once, in a vague sort of way.”

“Why then do you not take his advice?”

“You do not know us, Dolly,” he replied, looking straight into her eyes. “In matters of love we men usually follow our own course, whether it leads us to happiness or to woe.”

“That is exactly why I came here to-day,” she said anxiously. “I wanted to tell you what Mr Egerton says of her.”

“What does he say?”

“Promise not to repeat anything I tell you.”

“Upon my honour, I will not,” he declared.

“A few days ago we were speaking of her, and he told me of your admiration and love. He said that if you knew the truth you would hate her like poison—that she had brought a curse upon others, and she would bring unhappiness and ruin upon you.”

Hugh gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

“And you have come to tell me that, little one?” he remarked reflectively.

“Yes, I want to save you,” was the earnest, naïve reply.

“To save me,” he echoed, with a smile. “Why, any one would think I was in danger of going by the express route across Styx.”

“I mean,” she faltered, a trifle embarrassed,—“I mean that Mr Egerton knows more of her past than you. I feel sure he does, for she came to see him the other day, and they talked very excitedly. I was not in the room, of course, but—”

“Valérie at the studio! Why did she go?” he inquired, astonished.

“I don’t know, but I heard her say she would pay him another visit to-day and hear his answer, so I presume he has to decide upon some matter upon which she is pressing him.”

“To-day! She may be there now!” he cried, jumping to his feet with sudden impulse.

“Yes, most probably. She came the other day about four o’clock.”

“Then I will go and demand an explanation,” said he briefly, and, opening the door, he shouted to Jacob to call a cab.

Rather unceremoniously he hurried on his fair companion’s cloak, and, getting into his own overcoat, they both descended to the street.

In a few minutes they were driving in the direction of Fitzroy Square, leaving old Jacob standing on the kerb in astonishment at his master’s sudden flight in company with the strange lady.

The pretty model’s words had caused Hugh to become thoughtful and morose. His face wore a dark, resolute expression, and he scarcely uttered a word during the journey.

Dolly Vivian regarded him as her friend. She had accomplished her object and felt satisfied.

In Tottenham Court Road he stopped the cab, and she alighted, so that they should not both arrive at Fitzroy Square together.

A few minutes afterwards he got out and rang the bell.

Walking unceremoniously past Mrs O’Shea, the aged housekeeper, he entered the studio unannounced.

Jack and Valérie were seated upon a low divan before the fire. He was holding her slim hand in his, and was uttering some low, passionate words. As the door opened theirtête-à-têtewas abruptly terminated, for the artist jumped to his feet, while she turned to face the intruder.

“I—I really must apologise for coming in without knocking,” Hugh exclaimed roughly. “I didn’t know you were engaged, old fellow,” he added sarcastically.

“You! Hugh!” she cried, with a blush suffusing her cheeks.

“What, Valérie!” said Trethowen, laughing dryly. “I really didn’t recognise you in the shadow. I’m sorry if I interrupted what must have been a pleasant conversation.”

“Not at all, old boy,” Egerton answered airily. “Mademoiselle Valérie merely called to have a chat.”

Hugh’s brow darkened.

“I think, as my affianced wife, Valérie owes me a full explanation of this mysterious visit,” he said angrily.

“There’s little to explain,” she replied. “I merely called to consult Mr Egerton, who is an old friend, with regard to a portrait I desire painted.”

He endeavoured to preserve a calm disinterested demeanour, but the attempt was a sorry one. Prompted by feelings of jealousy, he gave vent to his wrath.

“Your position when I entered was peculiarly affectionate,” he said hotly.

He glanced at her, and caught the agitated expression of her face as she stood erect before him. Her eyes had a perplexed look, with just a suspicion of tears in their brown depths.

“No affection exists between us, I assure you,” she declared boldly. “If you doubt me, ask Mr Egerton. He and I are merely friends.”

Turning to the artist, Hugh asked—

“What have you to say, Jack?”

“I decline to be cross-examined,” was the abrupt reply.

“Speak, and satisfy him!” urged Valérie imploringly. “Tell him if there is any love between us.” She frowned, and, unseen by Trethowen, darted a sharp, imperative glance at him.

He fully comprehended her meaning. Raising his head, he confronted his friend, saying—

“You need have no fear. Valérie and I have known one another for years, but only as acquaintances.”

He uttered the words mechanically, in strained, harsh tones.

“I don’t believe it,” cried the other, his face crimson with anger. “You are both playing me false, and I have detected you.”

“You are mistaken,” Valérie said defiantly.

“No; I assert it as the truth. The whole affair is so unsatisfactory that I will not believe it. Friends do not meet clandestinely in this manner. You are lovers!”

“It’s a lie,” cried Valérie emphatically.

“I repeat what I’ve said.”

“Then, if you accuse me of duplicity, Mr Trethowen, I will bid you adieu,” she exclaimed severely, at the same time offering her hand.

He took it, and was mollified instantly.

Bending over it, he murmured—

“Farewell, mademoiselle, until—until you can prove that I was mistaken. We shall not meet till then.” For a moment she gazed steadily at the artist, but he did not stir. He stood with his arms folded, his face impassive.

Slowly she turned, and with a stiff bow swept haughtily out of the studio.

“Now,” commenced Hugh, when the door had closed, “what explanation have you to give of this strange conduct, pray?”

“None.”

“That does not satisfy me.”

“My dear old fellow,” exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, “you—you understand; I cannot—I’m unable to give any.”

“Why?”

“Because it is impossible.”

“Do you love her?” asked Hugh fiercely.

“Love her!” the other echoed, with a short laugh. “I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?”

“Is that still unchanged?”

“Quite—intensified rather than moderated.”

“Well, perhaps I have been a trifle too hasty, Jack. It seems that you know much of her past. Tell me, what was the object of your interview?”

He was silent. Presently he said—

“Hugh, you are an old friend, and I wish I were at liberty to tell you, but I regret I am not. Request no explanation, and rest assured that Valérie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were.”

“Are you aware that Valérie and my late brother were acquainted?” Trethowen asked suddenly.

“How did you discover that?” exclaimed the artist in astonishment.

“Then you appear to know that she was a friend of his,” remarked Hugh dryly.

“No; I—it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Who told you?”

“I want to know whether it’s a fact or not,” persisted his friend.

“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly.

“You mean, you positively refuse to tell me?”

“No; it is inability.”

The two men continued their conversation for a short time longer, then Hugh left and returned to his chambers, not, however, before the warm friendship which had previously existed between them had been resumed.

That evening Jacob handed his master a telegram from Valérie. She had evidently made a sudden resolve, and had lost no time in carrying it into effect, for the message read—

“As you appear to doubt my explanation I have decided to leave England for the present. If you desire to write, a letter to 46, Avenue de la Toison d’Or, Brussels, will always find me.”

With a prolonged whistle he sank into his chair, staring aimlessly at the indistinct words on the pink paper which he held between his fingers.

He was half inclined to believe he had misjudged her.

Chapter Fourteen.On Cornish Cliffs.“Let us return now, Mr Trethowen. The night is chilly, and, besides, if we are too long, Jack—I mean Mr Egerton—will suspect us of whispering sweet nothings.”“And if he does, surely there’s no harm, Dolly? He’s not jealous of you, he—I mean, it isn’t as if you were engaged to him.”“No, that is so,” she replied; “he is such a prosaic old bachelor. Why, I assure you that ever since I have known him he’s never hinted at love. I am his model, his friend—that is all.”“Do you know,” Trethowen said, after a few moments’ reflection, “I’ve often wondered, Dolly, how it is you have not married him.”“Why should he marry me?” she asked in surprise. “I’m only an artist’s model, a woman who is looked down upon by fastidious prudes as immodest—yet the same women admire the pictures when in the galleries, and—”“But supposing he loved you?”She shook her head.“He does not,” she answered. “We are both Bohemians, and have many tastes in common. We found our ideas were similar years ago, when he was struggling for an existence in an attic and I was almost starving. Since that time to the present we have, in a pecuniary sense, shared one another’s lot. If I became his wife it is possible neither of us would be so happy as we are.”But he only laughed, and said—“He’ll ask you one day, and then perhaps you won’t refuse.”“Don’t be absurd,” she protested, with a smile. “I am quite content as I am.”Nevertheless, she heaved a slight sigh, and it was evident it was scarcely the truth she spoke.Dolly Vivian had walked with him from the Hall to the outskirts of Bude, and they were now resting beside an old railing which protected the footpath along the edge of the high cliff.The night was perfect. The light of the April moon flooded the valleys, illuminated the hilltops, and trailed along the plains of Cornish grass land in uninterrupted streams. The pale grey sea and pale grey sky were tinged with a faint blue; a few stars shone dimly here and there; the whole horizon was wrapped in mist, which took a tint of saffron-pink under the moon’s rim, and was slightly darkened where sea and sky converged. There was utter silence, a stillness that was complete and absolute, as if every one in the world had died, and even the waves lapping the beach below scarcely whispered.They stood together, their faces turned towards the scattered glimmering lights of Bude.A fortnight ago, Hugh, holding out prospects of good sketching, had prevailed upon Jack to visit him, and at the same time had invited Dolly. They had spent a pleasant couple of weeks together, and this was their last evening; for Egerton had an appointment with a lady, who had commissioned him to paint her portrait, and it was imperative that he should leave for London on the morrow. He had pleaded that his correspondence demanded attention, and thus it was that Dolly and Hugh had gone for a short ramble after dinner, leaving the artist writing in the library.The pair had been silent for several minutes, entranced by the charm of the moonlit scene. Hugh had grown grave and thoughtful, for his companion’s emphatic protest puzzled him.“Ah, well,” he exclaimed, at length, “I suppose sooner or later all of us will be married and settled, as the old ladies say.”“You are speaking of yourself,” she remarked mischievously.“No—I spoke collectively. Marriage or burial will be the lot of all of us—some sooner, some later.”“Ah,” she exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting, “you have not spoken of Mademoiselle Valérie. How is she? Do you often hear from her?”“I had a letter a month ago. She was still in Brussels, and apparently in good health.”“She has been absent some time now. When do you intend seeing her?”“Soon—in a few days perhaps.”“A few days,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Is she returning to London?”“No; I have decided to travel back with you to-morrow, and then go on to Belgium.”“You haven’t forgotten her, then?” she said in a strained, reproachful tone.“Forgotten her!” he exclaimed. “Why should I?”“It would be best,” was the brief reply.The thought occurred to him that she loved him, and that jealousy had prompted her to utter that remark.“Why?” he inquired, rather sharply.“Mr Trethowen—Hugh, hear me,” she said imploringly, laying her hand upon his arm. “My friendship is as sincere towards you as towards Mr Egerton, but I cannot help telling you frankly what I think.”“Well, and what are those fearful apprehensions of yours, Dolly?” he asked, regarding her with an amused expression.“Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I somehow feel confident that this foreign woman will bring you only sorrow and misery.”“That’s cheering,” he remarked in his usual light and airy manner.“Think seriously, and you will find I have some cause for apprehension,” she continued in earnest tones. “Remember Jack, your friend, has warned you. He has told you that she is not a fitting wife for you. Besides, are you not convinced that there is some strange secret tie between them?”“You are right, Dolly. It is an enigma I cannot solve. Sometimes I have even thought that he is afraid of her,” Hugh said gravely.“I feel sure he is. When she visited him on the first occasion they had high words, and though I could not understand, because they spoke in French, yet I’m absolutely certain she was threatening him.”“It’s very curious,” he remarked, after a pause.He was a trifle annoyed that she should have approached such a delicate matter so bluntly, although he was convinced more than ever that the woman who was speaking thus loved him.“Why go to her? Why not remain here amid these lovely surroundings and try to forget her?” the girl suggested.“Impossible! I love her, and will not hear her disparaged,” he replied, with more impatience than politeness, as he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “Don’t speak again upon the subject, please; we shall never agree. Come, let’s turn back.”Murmuring an apology, she drew herself up from her leaning position upon the low rail, and together they pursued their way in silence along the lonely path. As they walked, a cheerful freshness was in the air. The wind was hardly perceptible, because it blew off the shore and was lost in passing through the wood whose solemn shadows crowned the cliffside.But while this exchange of confidence was in progress, Jack Egerton’s actions, viewed by even a casual observer, would have appeared strange.As soon as Dolly and his host had departed, he rose from the writing-table, and, flinging himself into a chair before the fire, abandoned himself to reflections that appeared particularly gloomy. He sat almost motionless for fully half an hour, when Jacob entered with a letter.“Whom is it for?” asked the artist.“For the master, sir,” replied the old man, placing it upon the table, and retiring.From where he sat, Egerton noticed a foreign stamp upon the envelope. He rose, and took it in his hand. A glance sufficed to tell it was from Valérie.He turned it over and over, reading and re-reading the superscription.“I wonder,” he said aloud, “whether it contains anything of interest?”Then he turned towards the fire. There was a small copper kettle upon it, which had been ordered by Hugh to be brought up so that they might brew warm whisky. From the spout steam was issuing.“Am I such a low, mean spy that I should contemplate opening my friend’s letters?” he asked himself at last. “Yet—yet it is not for my own benefit. Would Hugh ever forgive me if he knew all? If he knew my secret—ah! by heaven! it’s too horrible, the very thought of the crime, of its punishment, unnerves me. Coward—yes, coward at heart; afraid of justice, and under the thrall of a daring unscrupulous gang. What can I do, how can I act? Surely there can be no great harm in opening this.”He stood several moments in silence.“Yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I’ll do it!”Then he held the envelope in the stream of steam. In a few moments the gum had become loosened, and he was reading the missive.When he had finished it his face grew hard and stern. Slowly he replaced the letter in its envelope and re-gummed the flap in its original position. Standing before the fire, his arms folded, his head bent deep in thought, he muttered to himself:“So that is your plan, Valérie! As a masterpiece of ingenuity and chicanery, it does you great credit, and fully sustains your reputation. But the bird is scarcely in the net yet. You have me under your merciless hand, it is true, and you know well that I dare not expose you, for you could send me to a convict’s cell, or worse. No, I am not such a fool as to run the risk. I know you and your brutal myrmidons too well for that. I cannot show you in your true colours, except vaguely, and therefore ineffectually; still we may be quits yet.”Taking the lamp from the table, he placed it upon the old bureau wherein Hugh had found the strange letters and photograph.“You gave me this to use in your interests,” he continued, taking a small key from his pocket. “I’ve searched for the missing letters. I’ve been a thief, because I’m compelled, like the cringing slave that I am. But how little you dream of what still remains! The most cleverly-arranged schemes are apt to fail sometimes.”Inserting the key, he unhesitatingly opened the bureau. On pressing one of the dark panels of the side it fell forward, revealing a secret cavity, the existence of which Hugh had never discovered. All it contained was a slip of paper, together with an old copy of theGauloisnewspaper.“Yes,” he said, aloud, “these will prove useful, perhaps, some day. They will be safer in my possession than here.”Replacing the panel, he closed and locked the bureau, and, turning to the table, first read the words upon the piece of paper, then spread out the newspaper, and became absorbed in a long report which had been marked round with coloured crayon.“And after all,” he reflected, when he had placed the papers in his pocket, “I may be only forging fetters for my own wear. Who knows?”Then he sank back into his armchair, and, lighting his meerschaum, calmly smoked until the return of the pair who had been gossiping by the sea.

“Let us return now, Mr Trethowen. The night is chilly, and, besides, if we are too long, Jack—I mean Mr Egerton—will suspect us of whispering sweet nothings.”

“And if he does, surely there’s no harm, Dolly? He’s not jealous of you, he—I mean, it isn’t as if you were engaged to him.”

“No, that is so,” she replied; “he is such a prosaic old bachelor. Why, I assure you that ever since I have known him he’s never hinted at love. I am his model, his friend—that is all.”

“Do you know,” Trethowen said, after a few moments’ reflection, “I’ve often wondered, Dolly, how it is you have not married him.”

“Why should he marry me?” she asked in surprise. “I’m only an artist’s model, a woman who is looked down upon by fastidious prudes as immodest—yet the same women admire the pictures when in the galleries, and—”

“But supposing he loved you?”

She shook her head.

“He does not,” she answered. “We are both Bohemians, and have many tastes in common. We found our ideas were similar years ago, when he was struggling for an existence in an attic and I was almost starving. Since that time to the present we have, in a pecuniary sense, shared one another’s lot. If I became his wife it is possible neither of us would be so happy as we are.”

But he only laughed, and said—

“He’ll ask you one day, and then perhaps you won’t refuse.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she protested, with a smile. “I am quite content as I am.”

Nevertheless, she heaved a slight sigh, and it was evident it was scarcely the truth she spoke.

Dolly Vivian had walked with him from the Hall to the outskirts of Bude, and they were now resting beside an old railing which protected the footpath along the edge of the high cliff.

The night was perfect. The light of the April moon flooded the valleys, illuminated the hilltops, and trailed along the plains of Cornish grass land in uninterrupted streams. The pale grey sea and pale grey sky were tinged with a faint blue; a few stars shone dimly here and there; the whole horizon was wrapped in mist, which took a tint of saffron-pink under the moon’s rim, and was slightly darkened where sea and sky converged. There was utter silence, a stillness that was complete and absolute, as if every one in the world had died, and even the waves lapping the beach below scarcely whispered.

They stood together, their faces turned towards the scattered glimmering lights of Bude.

A fortnight ago, Hugh, holding out prospects of good sketching, had prevailed upon Jack to visit him, and at the same time had invited Dolly. They had spent a pleasant couple of weeks together, and this was their last evening; for Egerton had an appointment with a lady, who had commissioned him to paint her portrait, and it was imperative that he should leave for London on the morrow. He had pleaded that his correspondence demanded attention, and thus it was that Dolly and Hugh had gone for a short ramble after dinner, leaving the artist writing in the library.

The pair had been silent for several minutes, entranced by the charm of the moonlit scene. Hugh had grown grave and thoughtful, for his companion’s emphatic protest puzzled him.

“Ah, well,” he exclaimed, at length, “I suppose sooner or later all of us will be married and settled, as the old ladies say.”

“You are speaking of yourself,” she remarked mischievously.

“No—I spoke collectively. Marriage or burial will be the lot of all of us—some sooner, some later.”

“Ah,” she exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting, “you have not spoken of Mademoiselle Valérie. How is she? Do you often hear from her?”

“I had a letter a month ago. She was still in Brussels, and apparently in good health.”

“She has been absent some time now. When do you intend seeing her?”

“Soon—in a few days perhaps.”

“A few days,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Is she returning to London?”

“No; I have decided to travel back with you to-morrow, and then go on to Belgium.”

“You haven’t forgotten her, then?” she said in a strained, reproachful tone.

“Forgotten her!” he exclaimed. “Why should I?”

“It would be best,” was the brief reply.

The thought occurred to him that she loved him, and that jealousy had prompted her to utter that remark.

“Why?” he inquired, rather sharply.

“Mr Trethowen—Hugh, hear me,” she said imploringly, laying her hand upon his arm. “My friendship is as sincere towards you as towards Mr Egerton, but I cannot help telling you frankly what I think.”

“Well, and what are those fearful apprehensions of yours, Dolly?” he asked, regarding her with an amused expression.

“Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I somehow feel confident that this foreign woman will bring you only sorrow and misery.”

“That’s cheering,” he remarked in his usual light and airy manner.

“Think seriously, and you will find I have some cause for apprehension,” she continued in earnest tones. “Remember Jack, your friend, has warned you. He has told you that she is not a fitting wife for you. Besides, are you not convinced that there is some strange secret tie between them?”

“You are right, Dolly. It is an enigma I cannot solve. Sometimes I have even thought that he is afraid of her,” Hugh said gravely.

“I feel sure he is. When she visited him on the first occasion they had high words, and though I could not understand, because they spoke in French, yet I’m absolutely certain she was threatening him.”

“It’s very curious,” he remarked, after a pause.

He was a trifle annoyed that she should have approached such a delicate matter so bluntly, although he was convinced more than ever that the woman who was speaking thus loved him.

“Why go to her? Why not remain here amid these lovely surroundings and try to forget her?” the girl suggested.

“Impossible! I love her, and will not hear her disparaged,” he replied, with more impatience than politeness, as he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “Don’t speak again upon the subject, please; we shall never agree. Come, let’s turn back.”

Murmuring an apology, she drew herself up from her leaning position upon the low rail, and together they pursued their way in silence along the lonely path. As they walked, a cheerful freshness was in the air. The wind was hardly perceptible, because it blew off the shore and was lost in passing through the wood whose solemn shadows crowned the cliffside.

But while this exchange of confidence was in progress, Jack Egerton’s actions, viewed by even a casual observer, would have appeared strange.

As soon as Dolly and his host had departed, he rose from the writing-table, and, flinging himself into a chair before the fire, abandoned himself to reflections that appeared particularly gloomy. He sat almost motionless for fully half an hour, when Jacob entered with a letter.

“Whom is it for?” asked the artist.

“For the master, sir,” replied the old man, placing it upon the table, and retiring.

From where he sat, Egerton noticed a foreign stamp upon the envelope. He rose, and took it in his hand. A glance sufficed to tell it was from Valérie.

He turned it over and over, reading and re-reading the superscription.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “whether it contains anything of interest?”

Then he turned towards the fire. There was a small copper kettle upon it, which had been ordered by Hugh to be brought up so that they might brew warm whisky. From the spout steam was issuing.

“Am I such a low, mean spy that I should contemplate opening my friend’s letters?” he asked himself at last. “Yet—yet it is not for my own benefit. Would Hugh ever forgive me if he knew all? If he knew my secret—ah! by heaven! it’s too horrible, the very thought of the crime, of its punishment, unnerves me. Coward—yes, coward at heart; afraid of justice, and under the thrall of a daring unscrupulous gang. What can I do, how can I act? Surely there can be no great harm in opening this.”

He stood several moments in silence.

“Yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I’ll do it!”

Then he held the envelope in the stream of steam. In a few moments the gum had become loosened, and he was reading the missive.

When he had finished it his face grew hard and stern. Slowly he replaced the letter in its envelope and re-gummed the flap in its original position. Standing before the fire, his arms folded, his head bent deep in thought, he muttered to himself:

“So that is your plan, Valérie! As a masterpiece of ingenuity and chicanery, it does you great credit, and fully sustains your reputation. But the bird is scarcely in the net yet. You have me under your merciless hand, it is true, and you know well that I dare not expose you, for you could send me to a convict’s cell, or worse. No, I am not such a fool as to run the risk. I know you and your brutal myrmidons too well for that. I cannot show you in your true colours, except vaguely, and therefore ineffectually; still we may be quits yet.”

Taking the lamp from the table, he placed it upon the old bureau wherein Hugh had found the strange letters and photograph.

“You gave me this to use in your interests,” he continued, taking a small key from his pocket. “I’ve searched for the missing letters. I’ve been a thief, because I’m compelled, like the cringing slave that I am. But how little you dream of what still remains! The most cleverly-arranged schemes are apt to fail sometimes.”

Inserting the key, he unhesitatingly opened the bureau. On pressing one of the dark panels of the side it fell forward, revealing a secret cavity, the existence of which Hugh had never discovered. All it contained was a slip of paper, together with an old copy of theGauloisnewspaper.

“Yes,” he said, aloud, “these will prove useful, perhaps, some day. They will be safer in my possession than here.”

Replacing the panel, he closed and locked the bureau, and, turning to the table, first read the words upon the piece of paper, then spread out the newspaper, and became absorbed in a long report which had been marked round with coloured crayon.

“And after all,” he reflected, when he had placed the papers in his pocket, “I may be only forging fetters for my own wear. Who knows?”

Then he sank back into his armchair, and, lighting his meerschaum, calmly smoked until the return of the pair who had been gossiping by the sea.

Chapter Fifteen.Queen of the Silent Kingdom.One of the most pleasant thoroughfares in Brussels is perhaps that broad boulevard, lying on the La Cambre side, between the Fontaine Debroeckère and the Porte de Hal. The Boulevard de Waterloo is scarcely as fashionable as the Bontanique or the Regent, but it certainly possesses another and greater charm, inasmuch as the trees are more abundant, and, being older than those in the other boulevards, their branches meet overhead, forming long avenues of dark foliage which in summer constitute a cool and pleasant promenade.Hugh Trethowen, dressed with evident care, had strolled from his hotel in the Place Royale one afternoon, three days later, and, walking up the Rue de Namur, had turned into this leafy resort of idlers.Under a clear blue sky the sun shone upon the fresh green of the spring foliage, lighting up the usually sombre pathways with a shimmering golden light, and presenting the boulevard at its best, with its crowds offlaneursstrolling under the old elms, or seated enjoying the exhilarating air.But by Hugh the picturesqueness of the scene was unappreciated. He was too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the beauty or charms of his surroundings; he was only bent on finding the house Valérie had given as her address. Crossing the boulevard without scarcely giving it a glance, he found himself before a long row of tall houses which line the left side, and constitute the Avenue de la Toison d’Or. Their dead white fronts were the reverse of artistic, although their general character spoke of stability and wealth, for the majority were of almost stereotyped exactness, each with its wideporte cochère, its enormous door, its three tall drawing-room windows with white jalousies thrown back, and its four storeys above.With little difficulty Hugh discovered that the house he was in search of was situated at the corner of the Place Louise, and that its façade was more imposing than that of its neighbours.Meanwhile, seated on a low gypsy chair, in a small but elegant room, Valérie was deciphering a long letter which had been just handed to her by the man who sat near, Victor Bérard.“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the latter, twirling the needle-like points of his moustache, as she folded the paper slowly and replaced it in the envelope.“It only shows how very near he was to bungling—the idiot! If he had, well—the results would have been too dreadful to think of.”“Matters are progressing as well as can be wished, and the disappearance has been accomplished excellently, with the exception of that one hitch—”“Which might have sent us both to a very unfashionable lodging,” she interrupted.Nodding acquiescence, he replied—“Sapristi! that’s all very well. But you have the money; you can’t grumble. Again, why need we fear the failure? You have beauty—indeed, you’re the best-looking woman in Brussels. As long as you retain that charm, we need not be apprehensive.”“You pay me a pretty compliment, Victor,” she laughed. “Nevertheless, I must admit my face has always been my fortune.”“And other people’s misfortune, eh?” observed her companion, smiling grimly.“Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it, but you—”“M’sieur Trethowen desires to see mademoiselle,” Nanette said, for she had opened the door unobserved.“Trethowen!” gasped Victor, twisting his moustache nervously. “He must not find us together.”“No,” exclaimed Valérie. “Go quickly through the garden, and out by the side door.”He had already put on his hat, and without further hesitation he waved his hand, and vanished through a door communicating with the conservatory.“Au revoir,” he said. “You will know how to manage him, and I will return at six to take you to the Molière.”She went to a long mirror and hurriedly arranged her hair; then, turning to the maid, ordered her visitor to be shown in.“I wonder what his object is in coming here,” she muttered to herself, as she sank into her wicker chair, and commenced twisting her rings round her shapely fingers perplexedly. “Surely he cannot suspect! Yet the threats of that fool Egerton still ring in my ears,” and she frowned thoughtfully.When her visitor entered she rose, calm and pale, to meet him.“So you have returned to me at last, Hugh,” she said in a faltering voice, almost overcome with emotion.“Yes, dearest,” he replied, placing his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to him. “I have come to beg forgiveness for being so rash.”“My forgiveness!” she exclaimed in a tone of surprise, looking up into his face. “Why, I have nothing really to forgive.”“I judged you too hastily, Valérie, and, now I have learned the error of my ways, I have come over here to receive your pardon.”“And I grant that freely,” she said, with a happy smile, for she was unfeignedly delighted that he had returned.“Do you know,” he said, as he slowly released her, and sank into a chair beside her, “I’ve been unspeakably dull and miserable. By Jove! life hasn’t been worth living lately.”“Why?” asked she naïvely.“Because you have been absent.”“I should scarcely have thought it,” observed mademoiselle mischievously. “You had Jack Egerton’s model. Surely she did not object to a mild flirtation?”“Dolly Vivian! I flirt with her!” he echoed in surprise. “No, indeed, I’ve never done so. She is my friend, it is true; but nothing more.”“Ah, don’t tell me that, Hugh. You men are all alike. A pretty woman’s face, a smile, a pair of merry eyes, and you are captivated.”“But I have not been, except by yourself,” he declared, grasping her hand, and raising it reverently to his lips. “You do not know how blank and colourless my life has been without you—what an utterly miserable existence mine is when we are apart.”He spoke low and earnestly, for all the fervour of the old love had returned, and, heedless of the warnings of his friends, he was repeating assurances of affection to the woman who held him in her toils for life or death. She did not reply, but, gazing trustingly into his eyes, her breast heaved convulsively.“Tell me, shall we be the same to one another as before? Forgive me, and we shall live as if nothing had happened to mar our happiness,” he urged.“Then, you really love me still, Hugh?” she asked, in a low, tremulous voice.“Still love you? Yes; my heart and soul are yours. I care for no other woman save yourself.”“Was it to be near me that you came here? Are you certain it was for no other reason?”“No,” he replied, puzzled at her question. “Why do you ask?”“Out of curiosity,” she stammered evasively. “I—I thought other business might, perhaps, have brought you here.”Glancing round the apartment, and recognising the elegance with which it was furnished, he complimented her upon her taste.“Yes,” she answered languidly. “This place suits me admirably. It is my home, and although I’m of a wandering disposition, and travel a good deal, I return here now and then to enjoy rest and obtain those comforts that are appreciable after hotel life. I am, perhaps, too cosmopolitan. Well, it is my failing. Since I was a girl, I have been accustomed to travel for pleasure, and I do so now in order to get life and variety, without which I don’t really believe I could exist.”“Not if you were married?”“Ah! possibly that would be different,” she said, with a rippling laugh. “I could then take some pleasure in my home, and my husband would be my companion, whereas at present I have only Nanette, my maid. You have little idea, Hugh, of the wearying monotony of the life of women who are alone in the world. We are utterly defenceless, and must either be prudes, and lead the existence of nuns, of, if we dare go about and enjoy ourselves, we are stigmatised as fast, and looked upon as undesirable and contaminating companions. I am unconventional; I care not a jot for the opinion of the world, good or bad; and, as a natural sequence, women—many of them notorious, though married—revile me unjustly.”She uttered the words in all seriousness, and he felt compassion for her, as he knew well what she said was the truth.“I can quite understand that your position is somewhat unenviable, Valérie; nevertheless, I have come here to-day to repeat the promise I made some time ago.”“Your promise! Why—”“I love you dearly and will marry you, providing you will consent,” he added, interrupting her.Her head sank upon his shoulder, and she burst into tears of joy, while he kissed her fair face, and smoothed her hair tenderly.“I promise you,” he murmured, “if you become my wife you shall never regret. It is true, some say harsh things of you. I have heard gossip, but I’ve shut my ears to the lies of those who envy your good looks. In future, however, those who defame you shall answer to me.”She lifted her face, wet with tears, to his, and their lips met in an ardent caress.“Yes, I love you dearly, Hugh,” she declared, trying to subdue her emotion. “This day is one of the happiest of my life. If we are married, I swear I will be a true wife to you, notwithstanding the calumnies you have heard.”Thus, after months of estrangement, Hugh Trethowen again fell an easy prey to her fatal power of fascination; and he, blind and headstrong, saw her only as a beautiful woman, who was unhappy, and who loved him. Yet it has been the same through ages. Men, under the spell of a daughter of Eve, a temptress who is more than passing fair, become weak and impressionable as children, and are ruled absolutely by the woman they worship, be she good or evil.Until the sunset streamed into the pretty room, and the silver bells of the dainty ormolu clock chimed six, they sat together undisturbed. Many were the pledges of undying affection they exchanged; then he left, promising to call next day.When he had gone, Valérie reseated herself, and gave herself up to one of those debauches of melancholy in which she sometimes indulged; for, after all, she was not entirely devoid of sentiment.Could Hugh have overheard the conversation between Victor and the woman who was his affianced wife an hour later, he would, however, scarcely have congratulated himself upon the result of the interview.Victor Bérard and Valérie were together in a hired brougham on their way to the Theatre Molière, where they had previously secured a box.“So you are friends again, eh?” Victor was saying, laughing. “Well, I must congratulate you upon your wonderful tact and diplomacy. The manner in which you have acted in leaving him to follow you here has allayed suspicion, and as long as you can exercise your power over him, we have nothing to fear as to the ultimate success of our plan.”“It was as good as a comedy,” declared she, laughing heartily. “I told him how lonely I was, and did the emotional dodge—squeezed a tear or two, just to add to the realism—and it brought him to the point at once. You should have been there; you would have been highly amused, for he’s such a believing idiot, that I can do just as I like with him.”“You’re a clever girl, Valérie. With all your airs and graces, I believe you’d deceive the Evil One himself, if it was to your own interest to do so.”“I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment or not,” she remarked merrily, as she drew her opera cloak more closely around her shoulders, and leaned back in the carriage listlessly. “I suppose, however, from our point of view, the amount of deceit and craftiness I display in dealing with him will secure the more or less successful issue of our scheme.”“If he knew everything, our position would not be a very enviable one, would it?”“Scarcely. But, you see, my dear Victor, he doesn’t know all, and will not, unless Egerton peaches, which he dare not do on account of his own neck. Therefore, we are quite safe, and can negotiate the little affair without interruption.”“I believe that you really care for the fellow a little—just a little,” her companion said, with a sarcastic laugh.“And supposing that I did? I am my own mistress and can act as I please,” returned she, a trifle annoyed.“Bien! you know best how to manage him, for you’ve had experience. I only urge you to be careful, and avoid any sentimental humbug.”“Bah! I want none of your advice,” was all she replied, and a long silence ensued, which was not broken until the carriage drew up at the door of the theatre.

One of the most pleasant thoroughfares in Brussels is perhaps that broad boulevard, lying on the La Cambre side, between the Fontaine Debroeckère and the Porte de Hal. The Boulevard de Waterloo is scarcely as fashionable as the Bontanique or the Regent, but it certainly possesses another and greater charm, inasmuch as the trees are more abundant, and, being older than those in the other boulevards, their branches meet overhead, forming long avenues of dark foliage which in summer constitute a cool and pleasant promenade.

Hugh Trethowen, dressed with evident care, had strolled from his hotel in the Place Royale one afternoon, three days later, and, walking up the Rue de Namur, had turned into this leafy resort of idlers.

Under a clear blue sky the sun shone upon the fresh green of the spring foliage, lighting up the usually sombre pathways with a shimmering golden light, and presenting the boulevard at its best, with its crowds offlaneursstrolling under the old elms, or seated enjoying the exhilarating air.

But by Hugh the picturesqueness of the scene was unappreciated. He was too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the beauty or charms of his surroundings; he was only bent on finding the house Valérie had given as her address. Crossing the boulevard without scarcely giving it a glance, he found himself before a long row of tall houses which line the left side, and constitute the Avenue de la Toison d’Or. Their dead white fronts were the reverse of artistic, although their general character spoke of stability and wealth, for the majority were of almost stereotyped exactness, each with its wideporte cochère, its enormous door, its three tall drawing-room windows with white jalousies thrown back, and its four storeys above.

With little difficulty Hugh discovered that the house he was in search of was situated at the corner of the Place Louise, and that its façade was more imposing than that of its neighbours.

Meanwhile, seated on a low gypsy chair, in a small but elegant room, Valérie was deciphering a long letter which had been just handed to her by the man who sat near, Victor Bérard.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the latter, twirling the needle-like points of his moustache, as she folded the paper slowly and replaced it in the envelope.

“It only shows how very near he was to bungling—the idiot! If he had, well—the results would have been too dreadful to think of.”

“Matters are progressing as well as can be wished, and the disappearance has been accomplished excellently, with the exception of that one hitch—”

“Which might have sent us both to a very unfashionable lodging,” she interrupted.

Nodding acquiescence, he replied—

“Sapristi! that’s all very well. But you have the money; you can’t grumble. Again, why need we fear the failure? You have beauty—indeed, you’re the best-looking woman in Brussels. As long as you retain that charm, we need not be apprehensive.”

“You pay me a pretty compliment, Victor,” she laughed. “Nevertheless, I must admit my face has always been my fortune.”

“And other people’s misfortune, eh?” observed her companion, smiling grimly.

“Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it, but you—”

“M’sieur Trethowen desires to see mademoiselle,” Nanette said, for she had opened the door unobserved.

“Trethowen!” gasped Victor, twisting his moustache nervously. “He must not find us together.”

“No,” exclaimed Valérie. “Go quickly through the garden, and out by the side door.”

He had already put on his hat, and without further hesitation he waved his hand, and vanished through a door communicating with the conservatory.

“Au revoir,” he said. “You will know how to manage him, and I will return at six to take you to the Molière.”

She went to a long mirror and hurriedly arranged her hair; then, turning to the maid, ordered her visitor to be shown in.

“I wonder what his object is in coming here,” she muttered to herself, as she sank into her wicker chair, and commenced twisting her rings round her shapely fingers perplexedly. “Surely he cannot suspect! Yet the threats of that fool Egerton still ring in my ears,” and she frowned thoughtfully.

When her visitor entered she rose, calm and pale, to meet him.

“So you have returned to me at last, Hugh,” she said in a faltering voice, almost overcome with emotion.

“Yes, dearest,” he replied, placing his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to him. “I have come to beg forgiveness for being so rash.”

“My forgiveness!” she exclaimed in a tone of surprise, looking up into his face. “Why, I have nothing really to forgive.”

“I judged you too hastily, Valérie, and, now I have learned the error of my ways, I have come over here to receive your pardon.”

“And I grant that freely,” she said, with a happy smile, for she was unfeignedly delighted that he had returned.

“Do you know,” he said, as he slowly released her, and sank into a chair beside her, “I’ve been unspeakably dull and miserable. By Jove! life hasn’t been worth living lately.”

“Why?” asked she naïvely.

“Because you have been absent.”

“I should scarcely have thought it,” observed mademoiselle mischievously. “You had Jack Egerton’s model. Surely she did not object to a mild flirtation?”

“Dolly Vivian! I flirt with her!” he echoed in surprise. “No, indeed, I’ve never done so. She is my friend, it is true; but nothing more.”

“Ah, don’t tell me that, Hugh. You men are all alike. A pretty woman’s face, a smile, a pair of merry eyes, and you are captivated.”

“But I have not been, except by yourself,” he declared, grasping her hand, and raising it reverently to his lips. “You do not know how blank and colourless my life has been without you—what an utterly miserable existence mine is when we are apart.”

He spoke low and earnestly, for all the fervour of the old love had returned, and, heedless of the warnings of his friends, he was repeating assurances of affection to the woman who held him in her toils for life or death. She did not reply, but, gazing trustingly into his eyes, her breast heaved convulsively.

“Tell me, shall we be the same to one another as before? Forgive me, and we shall live as if nothing had happened to mar our happiness,” he urged.

“Then, you really love me still, Hugh?” she asked, in a low, tremulous voice.

“Still love you? Yes; my heart and soul are yours. I care for no other woman save yourself.”

“Was it to be near me that you came here? Are you certain it was for no other reason?”

“No,” he replied, puzzled at her question. “Why do you ask?”

“Out of curiosity,” she stammered evasively. “I—I thought other business might, perhaps, have brought you here.”

Glancing round the apartment, and recognising the elegance with which it was furnished, he complimented her upon her taste.

“Yes,” she answered languidly. “This place suits me admirably. It is my home, and although I’m of a wandering disposition, and travel a good deal, I return here now and then to enjoy rest and obtain those comforts that are appreciable after hotel life. I am, perhaps, too cosmopolitan. Well, it is my failing. Since I was a girl, I have been accustomed to travel for pleasure, and I do so now in order to get life and variety, without which I don’t really believe I could exist.”

“Not if you were married?”

“Ah! possibly that would be different,” she said, with a rippling laugh. “I could then take some pleasure in my home, and my husband would be my companion, whereas at present I have only Nanette, my maid. You have little idea, Hugh, of the wearying monotony of the life of women who are alone in the world. We are utterly defenceless, and must either be prudes, and lead the existence of nuns, of, if we dare go about and enjoy ourselves, we are stigmatised as fast, and looked upon as undesirable and contaminating companions. I am unconventional; I care not a jot for the opinion of the world, good or bad; and, as a natural sequence, women—many of them notorious, though married—revile me unjustly.”

She uttered the words in all seriousness, and he felt compassion for her, as he knew well what she said was the truth.

“I can quite understand that your position is somewhat unenviable, Valérie; nevertheless, I have come here to-day to repeat the promise I made some time ago.”

“Your promise! Why—”

“I love you dearly and will marry you, providing you will consent,” he added, interrupting her.

Her head sank upon his shoulder, and she burst into tears of joy, while he kissed her fair face, and smoothed her hair tenderly.

“I promise you,” he murmured, “if you become my wife you shall never regret. It is true, some say harsh things of you. I have heard gossip, but I’ve shut my ears to the lies of those who envy your good looks. In future, however, those who defame you shall answer to me.”

She lifted her face, wet with tears, to his, and their lips met in an ardent caress.

“Yes, I love you dearly, Hugh,” she declared, trying to subdue her emotion. “This day is one of the happiest of my life. If we are married, I swear I will be a true wife to you, notwithstanding the calumnies you have heard.”

Thus, after months of estrangement, Hugh Trethowen again fell an easy prey to her fatal power of fascination; and he, blind and headstrong, saw her only as a beautiful woman, who was unhappy, and who loved him. Yet it has been the same through ages. Men, under the spell of a daughter of Eve, a temptress who is more than passing fair, become weak and impressionable as children, and are ruled absolutely by the woman they worship, be she good or evil.

Until the sunset streamed into the pretty room, and the silver bells of the dainty ormolu clock chimed six, they sat together undisturbed. Many were the pledges of undying affection they exchanged; then he left, promising to call next day.

When he had gone, Valérie reseated herself, and gave herself up to one of those debauches of melancholy in which she sometimes indulged; for, after all, she was not entirely devoid of sentiment.

Could Hugh have overheard the conversation between Victor and the woman who was his affianced wife an hour later, he would, however, scarcely have congratulated himself upon the result of the interview.

Victor Bérard and Valérie were together in a hired brougham on their way to the Theatre Molière, where they had previously secured a box.

“So you are friends again, eh?” Victor was saying, laughing. “Well, I must congratulate you upon your wonderful tact and diplomacy. The manner in which you have acted in leaving him to follow you here has allayed suspicion, and as long as you can exercise your power over him, we have nothing to fear as to the ultimate success of our plan.”

“It was as good as a comedy,” declared she, laughing heartily. “I told him how lonely I was, and did the emotional dodge—squeezed a tear or two, just to add to the realism—and it brought him to the point at once. You should have been there; you would have been highly amused, for he’s such a believing idiot, that I can do just as I like with him.”

“You’re a clever girl, Valérie. With all your airs and graces, I believe you’d deceive the Evil One himself, if it was to your own interest to do so.”

“I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment or not,” she remarked merrily, as she drew her opera cloak more closely around her shoulders, and leaned back in the carriage listlessly. “I suppose, however, from our point of view, the amount of deceit and craftiness I display in dealing with him will secure the more or less successful issue of our scheme.”

“If he knew everything, our position would not be a very enviable one, would it?”

“Scarcely. But, you see, my dear Victor, he doesn’t know all, and will not, unless Egerton peaches, which he dare not do on account of his own neck. Therefore, we are quite safe, and can negotiate the little affair without interruption.”

“I believe that you really care for the fellow a little—just a little,” her companion said, with a sarcastic laugh.

“And supposing that I did? I am my own mistress and can act as I please,” returned she, a trifle annoyed.

“Bien! you know best how to manage him, for you’ve had experience. I only urge you to be careful, and avoid any sentimental humbug.”

“Bah! I want none of your advice,” was all she replied, and a long silence ensued, which was not broken until the carriage drew up at the door of the theatre.

Chapter Sixteen.Dolly’s Indiscretion.In London, evening was gradually creeping on. The mellow light that had penetrated into the studio in Fitzroy Square was fast fading, still Jack Egerton worked on in silence, glancing constantly across at the woman who sat motionless before him, straining her eyes over a novel she held in her hand.Frequently he paused, and, stepping back a few paces, examined the effect of his work with a critical eye, comparing it with the original. Then he returned and retouched the picture again and again, until at last, after much perseverance, he apparently obtained the exact effect he desired. The picture was certainly attractive, and, although incomplete, yet fully sustained the artist’s reputation for faithful delineation of the female form. It was a representation of Dolly Vivian reclining on a silken divan, attired in the flimsy gauzes, with rows of sequins across her forehead, heavy bangles upon her wrists and ankles, and her light brown hair, unbound, falling negligently about her shoulders. One tiny crimson slipper had fallen off, revealing a well-shaped naked foot, the other being bent under her as she lay with one bare arm flung over her head.Her attitude of languor and repose among her cushions added to the Oriental character of the picture, and the richness of the silk with which the couch was covered, enhanced her beauty.He had christened the picture, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”While he worked she always preserved perfect silence. It was their rule. For hours she would sit scarcely moving a muscle, her attention engaged by a newspaper, a novel, or some fancy needlework, unless, perhaps, he addressed her, asking an opinion or advice. Then she would usually reply briefly and to the point, and resume her reading without disturbing her pose in the smallest degree.Beside her, on a little inlaid pearl table, stood the cup of tea Mrs O’Shea had brought her an hour before, but which had been left almost untasted, so absorbed was she in her book. She did not notice that the artist had laid aside his palette, and was cleaning his brushes, until he exclaimed,—“That will do for to-day, Dolly. You must be awfully tired and cramped, for we’ve had an unusually long spell.”His voice recalled her to consciousness. Stretching both arms above her head, she gave a stifled yawn, and slowly rose from her couch with a languid grace. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she stepped down to where he was standing.“Why, what’s the time?” she asked, noticing it was growing dusk.“Half-past six,” he replied. “I’ve an engagement to dine at the Vagabond Club at the Holborn at seven, therefore I haven’t much time to lose. By Jove!” he added admiringly, “you look absolutely bewitching, my littlehouri. If Hugh could only see you now, ’pon my honour he’d go down on his knees and propose straight away.”“You think so, do you?” she asked artlessly, laughing and glancing down at her gauzy dress, a fair, bright-eyed odalisque. Then she grew serious, and examined the picture. “You’ve certainly made very good progress this afternoon with everything except the hand. The high light is scarcely perfect,” she added, fixing her gaze upon the canvas, and moving across the studio to study the effect from the opposite direction.“I must finish that to-morrow,” the artist said, as he carefully wiped a small brush, and placed it aside. “The light has not been good for the last hour or more.”“The fingers, too, want retouching. They look just a trifle too stiff,” she continued, with the air of a critic.“Yes, I have noticed that. But I must now go and make myself presentable, for I haven’t a moment to lose. Run and dress yourself, there’s a good girl.”Already she was plaiting her hair, and coiling it deftly upon her head.“Very well,” she said, and tripped lightly away; but, losing a slipper in her walk, she was compelled to stop and recover it.Then she disappeared into the small room adjacent, sacred to her use for purposes of dressing, and sometimes of resting after the fatigue of posing for prolonged periods.Egerton, who laughed over the refractory slipper, and chaffed her good-humouredly, declaring that she let it slip off in order to attract his attention to the smallness of her foot, cleaned his palette, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and also left the studio.When alone in her room, Dolly drew from her pocket a letter in a firm, masculine hand, which she had received at her home before leaving that morning.“An evening at the Empire will perhaps brighten me up. At all events, it will be a change,” she thought, after she had glanced over the note. “Besides, what harm is there? I don’t care two pins for the fellow, but—nobody cares for me,” she added, with a little disconsolate sigh.Replacing the note in its envelope, she quickly divested herself of her transparent garments, and assumed a more unromantic and conventional attire. Having finished, she went to Mrs O’Shea’s room to have her usual chat before returning home.To-night, however, she did not remain long, for almost as soon as Jack Egerton had left the house she also followed.The clocks were striking half-past seven as she entered Victoria Station, and was joined by a tall, dark man in evening dress, who raised his hat, smiled, and grasped her hand warmly. She had met him for the first time a fortnight before. While travelling in a train between Clapham and Waterloo he had spoken to her, and she being nothing loth to a mild flirtation, an acquaintance soon sprang up between them. Already they had spent several evenings together, and she had found him a very pleasant companion. Dolly Vivian was essentially afin de sièclegirl. Although admitting in her own mind that to dine and visit music halls with a man about whom she knew almost nothing was scarcely proper, yet the cause of her sudden longing for pleasure was not far to seek.Since Hugh’s departure for Brussels she had been gloomy and despondent, for it had been proved to her beyond doubt that he cared nothing for her, but was madly in love with the voluble foreign woman, who seemed to exercise a power over him that was incomprehensible. She had bidden farewell to the man she loved with every fibre of her being, and was now growing world-weary and careless. Her sister had died a year before, and she now found life in a mean, gloomy lodging, with her aged mother, very lonely and dull. In this spirit she met Henry Mansell, her new acquaintance, and discovered that the pleasures of variety entertainments drove away her sad thoughts. Her Bohemian nature longed to penetrate into phases of society hitherto forbidden to her, and she looked upon this as an opportunity for gratifying it. Egerton, who admired both her beauty and her many sterling qualities, frequently took her to concerts and theatres, but as their friendship was purely platonic, and, as during the years of their acquaintance he had never hinted at affection, his companionship at places of entertainment had become monotonous. Mansell, who flattered her, indulged her whims, and paid her those delicate attentions that women love, was more to her taste in her present state of mind. He spent his money freely upon her, and appeared infatuated with her beauty, while she, neither inexperienced norgauche, was content that he should entertain her. Briefly, she was but a London girl of to-day, a single example of thousands of others who have apenchantfor fast life, and who gratify it without overstepping the bounds—who rub shoulders with thedemi-monde, but who are not of it. True they copy the “creature” in her clothes, her appearance, and even her manners, but the imitation is due to the fact that to be considered a trifle “fast” is alas! nowadays considered good form.Dolly’s movements that evening were scarcely those of the modest retiring girl she really was, and would have caused the artist much surprise had he been watching her.From Victoria they drove to a café in Regent Street, where they dined together, walking thence along Coventry Street to the Empire Theatre. After half an hour in the stalls they went upstairs to the circle promenade, that recognised resort of thejeunesse dorée, and strolled up and down among the gay crowd. The brilliant light, the dreamy music of the ballet, and the ever-shifting figures around, combined, perhaps, with the wine she had taken, exhilarated her.Among the crowd of men who passed up and down, there was one who watched them closely, but unobserved. A dozen times he sauntered past, cigar in mouth and hands in pocket, as if merely killing time like the others. Yet, had Dolly glanced up at the opportune moment, she would have seen meaning glances exchanged between her companion and the man who was keeping observation upon them so mysteriously.But the pretty model was unsuspecting, and the man, after shadowing them for nearly an hour, went to the bar, and stood drinking, but in a position whereby he could observe their movements through the glass partition.Presently Dolly and her companion returned to their seats, and sat for some time watching the performance.“I must really be going now,” Dolly said to her companion, as, an hour afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a private room at a neighbouring restaurant finishing their meal. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much indeed; I’m sure it’s awfully kind of you to be so good to me.”“Not at all. I’m pleased you haven’t been bored,” he replied gallantly. “And I hope you’ll honour me with your company on another occasion. Shall we arrange for one night early next week?”“As you like,” she answered, smiling.“Very well; I’ll write making an appointment, and we’ll spend an hour or two at some other hall—the Alhambra, or the Palace.”“I left my cape outside in the passage. I’ll fetch it, and commence to get ready,” she said, and rising suddenly, left the room in search of her outdoor attire.The moment he was alone her admirer reached over the table quickly, and took up her emptied wineglass. From his vest pocket he produced a tiny phial, the contents of which he poured into the glass, then, taking up the champagne, filled both his own glass and hers, replacing the latter in the position where it had originally been. It was accomplished in a few seconds, for scarcely had he put down the bottle before she reappeared.When she had assumed her cape, and tied her veil by the aid of the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf, she noticed her glass had been refilled.“I really don’t think I ought to drink any more,” she exclaimed. “I’m not used to so much, and it might affect me.”“Oh, I assure you it won’t,” declared Mansell, laughing. “It’s a good brand, and I can recommend it. Besides the night is chilly.”He was watching her face narrowly, but he assumed a well-feigned air of unconcern. His argument, however, convinced her that another glass would do her no harm, thereupon she raised it to her lips and drank it. Being in a hurry to return home, she noticed no peculiar taste about it, and the man smiled faintly with self-satisfaction.“I have to go to King’s Cross, so I’ll drive you home if you’ll allow me,” he suggested, as they descended to the street, and to this proposal she gladly acquiesced.Outside they entered a brougham that was apparently awaiting them—and which Mansell incidentally remarked was his own—and were quickly driven along Shaftesbury Avenue, on their way to King’s Cross.Scarcely had they been in the carriage five minutes when she was seized with a sudden giddiness and faintness. At first she struggled against it, trying to rouse herself, for she attributed it to the wine she had consumed, combined with the heated atmosphere. Recognising the disgrace which would fall upon her should she return to her mother intoxicated, she determined that her companion should notice no difference in her manner. In the shifting lights that flashed into the carriage she felt confident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It was by her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and, therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was the same tone as before.Yet, as they drove along, the strange, sickening sensation increased, her eyes burned, and an acute pain on the top of her head caused a feeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she became aware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that to bear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears, her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a great height. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to dance about her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the corner of the carriage inert and insensible.The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousness with evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and worked them up and down violently to assure himself of her total insensibility, he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address—one which necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the place whence they had started.Two hours afterwards a strange scene was presented in a house that stood by itself in the centre of a market garden, in a lonely position surrounded by fields midway between Twickenham and Isleworth.In a small, bare attic, carpetless and almost devoid of furniture, the inanimate form of Dolly Vivian lay crouched in a rickety armchair. The feeble light of a guttering candle revealed the closed eyes and deathlike pallor of the features, while her breathing was almost imperceptible, so completely had the drug accomplished its work.Near her stood Mansell and the man who had dogged their movements during the evening.The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the night.Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one another.“Listen! What’s that?” asked Mansell in an awed voice.“Nothing; merely the wind,” the other replied sharply.Mansell tried to smile, and said—“I suppose you’re right, but I feel as nervous as a cat.”His companion, who had driven the carriage, and who had taken Dolly’s purse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinising them carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. The house being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased to almost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.“If anyone should find the brougham outside it would strike them as strange, wouldn’t it?” suggested Mansell.“Never fear; we’re perfectly safe. It’s a by-road, and not a soul comes this way. Besides, whom do you expect would walk about this lonely part at such an hour?”Mansell crossed to where the girl lay, and, taking up the candle, gazed into her face.“It’s a pity to sacrifice her life,” he remarked sympathetically. “She has done us no harm.”“Fool!” replied the other, with an impatient gesture, looking at him with threatening eyes. “Can’t you see that if she lives she can frustrate all our plans? Even now I believe she knows our secret.”“She does?” gasped the other breathlessly.“Yes.”“But are there no other means of silencing her?”“No. She must die!”The man, whose sinister face wore a heavy, determined expression, had drawn a long-bladed knife from its sheath, and it flashed in the light as he held it in his hand. Mansell noticed it, and shuddered.“I cannot stay and see her murdered,” he cried in horror.“Very well; if you’re so chicken-hearted, wait outside,” the other replied roughly.He saw it was useless to intercede for the life of the girl whose beauty he had admired, so obeyed the injunction. Pale and agitated, he waited upon the landing in the darkness.The seconds seemed hours, but presently his companion emerged from the room carrying the candle, which, however had been blown out. As he struck a match, Mansell saw blood upon his hand.Neither spoke, but both quietly descended the stairs. Then they again blew out the candle and left the house, locking the door after them.A short distance away the brougham was standing without any one to look after it, the horse grazing quietly at the roadside.Mansell entered, while his companion mounted the box, driving along the private road, and turning into the highway towards Twickenham.

In London, evening was gradually creeping on. The mellow light that had penetrated into the studio in Fitzroy Square was fast fading, still Jack Egerton worked on in silence, glancing constantly across at the woman who sat motionless before him, straining her eyes over a novel she held in her hand.

Frequently he paused, and, stepping back a few paces, examined the effect of his work with a critical eye, comparing it with the original. Then he returned and retouched the picture again and again, until at last, after much perseverance, he apparently obtained the exact effect he desired. The picture was certainly attractive, and, although incomplete, yet fully sustained the artist’s reputation for faithful delineation of the female form. It was a representation of Dolly Vivian reclining on a silken divan, attired in the flimsy gauzes, with rows of sequins across her forehead, heavy bangles upon her wrists and ankles, and her light brown hair, unbound, falling negligently about her shoulders. One tiny crimson slipper had fallen off, revealing a well-shaped naked foot, the other being bent under her as she lay with one bare arm flung over her head.

Her attitude of languor and repose among her cushions added to the Oriental character of the picture, and the richness of the silk with which the couch was covered, enhanced her beauty.

He had christened the picture, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”

While he worked she always preserved perfect silence. It was their rule. For hours she would sit scarcely moving a muscle, her attention engaged by a newspaper, a novel, or some fancy needlework, unless, perhaps, he addressed her, asking an opinion or advice. Then she would usually reply briefly and to the point, and resume her reading without disturbing her pose in the smallest degree.

Beside her, on a little inlaid pearl table, stood the cup of tea Mrs O’Shea had brought her an hour before, but which had been left almost untasted, so absorbed was she in her book. She did not notice that the artist had laid aside his palette, and was cleaning his brushes, until he exclaimed,—

“That will do for to-day, Dolly. You must be awfully tired and cramped, for we’ve had an unusually long spell.”

His voice recalled her to consciousness. Stretching both arms above her head, she gave a stifled yawn, and slowly rose from her couch with a languid grace. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she stepped down to where he was standing.

“Why, what’s the time?” she asked, noticing it was growing dusk.

“Half-past six,” he replied. “I’ve an engagement to dine at the Vagabond Club at the Holborn at seven, therefore I haven’t much time to lose. By Jove!” he added admiringly, “you look absolutely bewitching, my littlehouri. If Hugh could only see you now, ’pon my honour he’d go down on his knees and propose straight away.”

“You think so, do you?” she asked artlessly, laughing and glancing down at her gauzy dress, a fair, bright-eyed odalisque. Then she grew serious, and examined the picture. “You’ve certainly made very good progress this afternoon with everything except the hand. The high light is scarcely perfect,” she added, fixing her gaze upon the canvas, and moving across the studio to study the effect from the opposite direction.

“I must finish that to-morrow,” the artist said, as he carefully wiped a small brush, and placed it aside. “The light has not been good for the last hour or more.”

“The fingers, too, want retouching. They look just a trifle too stiff,” she continued, with the air of a critic.

“Yes, I have noticed that. But I must now go and make myself presentable, for I haven’t a moment to lose. Run and dress yourself, there’s a good girl.”

Already she was plaiting her hair, and coiling it deftly upon her head.

“Very well,” she said, and tripped lightly away; but, losing a slipper in her walk, she was compelled to stop and recover it.

Then she disappeared into the small room adjacent, sacred to her use for purposes of dressing, and sometimes of resting after the fatigue of posing for prolonged periods.

Egerton, who laughed over the refractory slipper, and chaffed her good-humouredly, declaring that she let it slip off in order to attract his attention to the smallness of her foot, cleaned his palette, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and also left the studio.

When alone in her room, Dolly drew from her pocket a letter in a firm, masculine hand, which she had received at her home before leaving that morning.

“An evening at the Empire will perhaps brighten me up. At all events, it will be a change,” she thought, after she had glanced over the note. “Besides, what harm is there? I don’t care two pins for the fellow, but—nobody cares for me,” she added, with a little disconsolate sigh.

Replacing the note in its envelope, she quickly divested herself of her transparent garments, and assumed a more unromantic and conventional attire. Having finished, she went to Mrs O’Shea’s room to have her usual chat before returning home.

To-night, however, she did not remain long, for almost as soon as Jack Egerton had left the house she also followed.

The clocks were striking half-past seven as she entered Victoria Station, and was joined by a tall, dark man in evening dress, who raised his hat, smiled, and grasped her hand warmly. She had met him for the first time a fortnight before. While travelling in a train between Clapham and Waterloo he had spoken to her, and she being nothing loth to a mild flirtation, an acquaintance soon sprang up between them. Already they had spent several evenings together, and she had found him a very pleasant companion. Dolly Vivian was essentially afin de sièclegirl. Although admitting in her own mind that to dine and visit music halls with a man about whom she knew almost nothing was scarcely proper, yet the cause of her sudden longing for pleasure was not far to seek.

Since Hugh’s departure for Brussels she had been gloomy and despondent, for it had been proved to her beyond doubt that he cared nothing for her, but was madly in love with the voluble foreign woman, who seemed to exercise a power over him that was incomprehensible. She had bidden farewell to the man she loved with every fibre of her being, and was now growing world-weary and careless. Her sister had died a year before, and she now found life in a mean, gloomy lodging, with her aged mother, very lonely and dull. In this spirit she met Henry Mansell, her new acquaintance, and discovered that the pleasures of variety entertainments drove away her sad thoughts. Her Bohemian nature longed to penetrate into phases of society hitherto forbidden to her, and she looked upon this as an opportunity for gratifying it. Egerton, who admired both her beauty and her many sterling qualities, frequently took her to concerts and theatres, but as their friendship was purely platonic, and, as during the years of their acquaintance he had never hinted at affection, his companionship at places of entertainment had become monotonous. Mansell, who flattered her, indulged her whims, and paid her those delicate attentions that women love, was more to her taste in her present state of mind. He spent his money freely upon her, and appeared infatuated with her beauty, while she, neither inexperienced norgauche, was content that he should entertain her. Briefly, she was but a London girl of to-day, a single example of thousands of others who have apenchantfor fast life, and who gratify it without overstepping the bounds—who rub shoulders with thedemi-monde, but who are not of it. True they copy the “creature” in her clothes, her appearance, and even her manners, but the imitation is due to the fact that to be considered a trifle “fast” is alas! nowadays considered good form.

Dolly’s movements that evening were scarcely those of the modest retiring girl she really was, and would have caused the artist much surprise had he been watching her.

From Victoria they drove to a café in Regent Street, where they dined together, walking thence along Coventry Street to the Empire Theatre. After half an hour in the stalls they went upstairs to the circle promenade, that recognised resort of thejeunesse dorée, and strolled up and down among the gay crowd. The brilliant light, the dreamy music of the ballet, and the ever-shifting figures around, combined, perhaps, with the wine she had taken, exhilarated her.

Among the crowd of men who passed up and down, there was one who watched them closely, but unobserved. A dozen times he sauntered past, cigar in mouth and hands in pocket, as if merely killing time like the others. Yet, had Dolly glanced up at the opportune moment, she would have seen meaning glances exchanged between her companion and the man who was keeping observation upon them so mysteriously.

But the pretty model was unsuspecting, and the man, after shadowing them for nearly an hour, went to the bar, and stood drinking, but in a position whereby he could observe their movements through the glass partition.

Presently Dolly and her companion returned to their seats, and sat for some time watching the performance.

“I must really be going now,” Dolly said to her companion, as, an hour afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a private room at a neighbouring restaurant finishing their meal. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much indeed; I’m sure it’s awfully kind of you to be so good to me.”

“Not at all. I’m pleased you haven’t been bored,” he replied gallantly. “And I hope you’ll honour me with your company on another occasion. Shall we arrange for one night early next week?”

“As you like,” she answered, smiling.

“Very well; I’ll write making an appointment, and we’ll spend an hour or two at some other hall—the Alhambra, or the Palace.”

“I left my cape outside in the passage. I’ll fetch it, and commence to get ready,” she said, and rising suddenly, left the room in search of her outdoor attire.

The moment he was alone her admirer reached over the table quickly, and took up her emptied wineglass. From his vest pocket he produced a tiny phial, the contents of which he poured into the glass, then, taking up the champagne, filled both his own glass and hers, replacing the latter in the position where it had originally been. It was accomplished in a few seconds, for scarcely had he put down the bottle before she reappeared.

When she had assumed her cape, and tied her veil by the aid of the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf, she noticed her glass had been refilled.

“I really don’t think I ought to drink any more,” she exclaimed. “I’m not used to so much, and it might affect me.”

“Oh, I assure you it won’t,” declared Mansell, laughing. “It’s a good brand, and I can recommend it. Besides the night is chilly.”

He was watching her face narrowly, but he assumed a well-feigned air of unconcern. His argument, however, convinced her that another glass would do her no harm, thereupon she raised it to her lips and drank it. Being in a hurry to return home, she noticed no peculiar taste about it, and the man smiled faintly with self-satisfaction.

“I have to go to King’s Cross, so I’ll drive you home if you’ll allow me,” he suggested, as they descended to the street, and to this proposal she gladly acquiesced.

Outside they entered a brougham that was apparently awaiting them—and which Mansell incidentally remarked was his own—and were quickly driven along Shaftesbury Avenue, on their way to King’s Cross.

Scarcely had they been in the carriage five minutes when she was seized with a sudden giddiness and faintness. At first she struggled against it, trying to rouse herself, for she attributed it to the wine she had consumed, combined with the heated atmosphere. Recognising the disgrace which would fall upon her should she return to her mother intoxicated, she determined that her companion should notice no difference in her manner. In the shifting lights that flashed into the carriage she felt confident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It was by her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and, therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was the same tone as before.

Yet, as they drove along, the strange, sickening sensation increased, her eyes burned, and an acute pain on the top of her head caused a feeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she became aware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that to bear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears, her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a great height. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to dance about her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the corner of the carriage inert and insensible.

The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousness with evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and worked them up and down violently to assure himself of her total insensibility, he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address—one which necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the place whence they had started.

Two hours afterwards a strange scene was presented in a house that stood by itself in the centre of a market garden, in a lonely position surrounded by fields midway between Twickenham and Isleworth.

In a small, bare attic, carpetless and almost devoid of furniture, the inanimate form of Dolly Vivian lay crouched in a rickety armchair. The feeble light of a guttering candle revealed the closed eyes and deathlike pallor of the features, while her breathing was almost imperceptible, so completely had the drug accomplished its work.

Near her stood Mansell and the man who had dogged their movements during the evening.

The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the night.

Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one another.

“Listen! What’s that?” asked Mansell in an awed voice.

“Nothing; merely the wind,” the other replied sharply.

Mansell tried to smile, and said—

“I suppose you’re right, but I feel as nervous as a cat.”

His companion, who had driven the carriage, and who had taken Dolly’s purse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinising them carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. The house being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased to almost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.

“If anyone should find the brougham outside it would strike them as strange, wouldn’t it?” suggested Mansell.

“Never fear; we’re perfectly safe. It’s a by-road, and not a soul comes this way. Besides, whom do you expect would walk about this lonely part at such an hour?”

Mansell crossed to where the girl lay, and, taking up the candle, gazed into her face.

“It’s a pity to sacrifice her life,” he remarked sympathetically. “She has done us no harm.”

“Fool!” replied the other, with an impatient gesture, looking at him with threatening eyes. “Can’t you see that if she lives she can frustrate all our plans? Even now I believe she knows our secret.”

“She does?” gasped the other breathlessly.

“Yes.”

“But are there no other means of silencing her?”

“No. She must die!”

The man, whose sinister face wore a heavy, determined expression, had drawn a long-bladed knife from its sheath, and it flashed in the light as he held it in his hand. Mansell noticed it, and shuddered.

“I cannot stay and see her murdered,” he cried in horror.

“Very well; if you’re so chicken-hearted, wait outside,” the other replied roughly.

He saw it was useless to intercede for the life of the girl whose beauty he had admired, so obeyed the injunction. Pale and agitated, he waited upon the landing in the darkness.

The seconds seemed hours, but presently his companion emerged from the room carrying the candle, which, however had been blown out. As he struck a match, Mansell saw blood upon his hand.

Neither spoke, but both quietly descended the stairs. Then they again blew out the candle and left the house, locking the door after them.

A short distance away the brougham was standing without any one to look after it, the horse grazing quietly at the roadside.

Mansell entered, while his companion mounted the box, driving along the private road, and turning into the highway towards Twickenham.

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