Chapter Twenty Three.Without the Queen’s Proctor.The last act of a matrimonial drama was being watched attentively by six rows of eager spectators.Already the gas had been lit, for the dull yellow light of the wintry London moon was insufficient to illuminate the sombre Court. Upon the bench, at the rear of which hung a large square board covered with dark-blue cloth and bearing a golden anchor, the judge sat—grave, silent, almost statuesque. The public who filled the tiers of seats before him listened intently to every word of the story of a woman’s faithlessness, which counsel was relating. It was an undefended, and therefore not an unusually interesting case. Nevertheless, the Divorce Court has an attraction for the curious, and is nearly always crowded, even when there are scarcely a dozen people in any of the Queen’s Bench or Chancery Divisions. The very word divorce is sufficient to interest some, and for the novelty of the thing they desire to witness the procedure by which husband and wife are disunited.Perhaps such curiosity is pardonable. It certainly is more excusable than the ignominious conduct of somesoi-disantladies, who consider it good form to attend a Criminal Court where a woman is indicted for murder, and there watch and comment audibly, and with heartless inhumanity, upon the agonies of their wretched sister who is being tried for her life. Such scenes at recent trials of unfortunate women have been a scandal to our civilisation.In the Divorce Court, however, it is different. The surroundings are more refined. Thedénouementof the marriage drama there enacted frequently develops into broad comedy before the curtain is rung down by the judicial decision. Even there, however, women gloat over the stories of the domestic woe of another woman, and ridicule the deceived husband with a cool indifference that is astounding; they are apparently quite unimpressed by the gravity of the question at issue.The President had already disposed of half a dozen undefended suits, when the case of WilloughbyversusWilloughby and Lapasque had been called on.“Pardon me, Mr Grover. My attention was diverted for the moment, and I did not catch your opening sentences,” the judge was saying to counsel for the petitioner.“The facts of the case before you, m’lord, are briefly these,” exclaimed the barrister, recommencing. “The petitioner, Captain Willoughby, late of the 10th Hussars, married the respondent, a French subject, at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington, in June, 1884. The parties lived happily at Brighton, Leeds, Toulon, and other places until about a year had elapsed, when frequent quarrels arose. The petitioner discovered that his wife was carrying on an intrigue with a wealthy young man named Arthur Kingscote, with whom she had been acquainted before marriage. This led to an encounter between the two men at a Manchester hotel, with the result that my client was severely injured in the head, in consequence of which petitioner took proceedings against Kingscote, who was fined at the Manchester Police Court for the assault. This apparently incensed the respondent, and quarrels became of more frequent occurrence, until one day, while living at San Remo, Mrs Willoughby left her home unexpectedly, and never returned. Eventually, after a long series of inquiries, the petitioner found that his wife was living at Nice, and that she had formed aliaisonwith the co-respondent, Gustava Lapasque, who is one of the officials connected with the Casino at Monte Carlo. The evidence I shall call before you, m’lord, will prove the latter part of my statement; and as I understand there is no one present representing either respondent or co-respondent, I shall ask your lordship to pronounce the decree usual in such a case.”The captain having briefly borne out the statement of his counsel, the latter turned to the usher, saying—“Call Giovanni Moretti, please.”In a few minutes a dapper and rather well-dressed Italian stepped into the witness-box.“What are you, Signore Moretti?” asked Mr Grover, when the witness had been sworn and his name taken.“Head waiter at the Hôtel Victoria, Nice,” he replied in broken English.“Do you recognise this lady?” counsel asked, handing up a cabinet photograph of Valérie.“Yes,” he said, taking a long glance at it. “The lady is Madame Lapasque.”“And this photograph?” continued Mr Grover, handing him another.“Monsieur Lapasque. They both stayed at our hotel for nearly three months the summer before last. They came in July and left in October.”“During those months would you have many visitors at your hotel?”“No; very few. It is not our season.”“In that case you would have plenty of facilities for observing them?”“I saw them perhaps a dozen times each day. I superintended the waiting atà déjeûnerandtable d’hôte.”“You have no doubt that the lady was the original of that portrait?”“Not the slightest,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.“Have you seen the respondent, Mrs Willoughby, since?” the judge asked, in slow deliberate tones.“Yes, I saw her here in London a few weeks ago. I was brought to England by Monsieur Willoughby to identify madame and give evidence.”“When you saw her, did you tell her that you recognised her as Madame Lapasque?”“Of course I told her. She then grew angry, and ordered me from the room.”“Is that all the evidence you have, Mr Grover?” asked the judge, when he had concluded taking notes of the witness’s cross-examination.“No, my lord. I have further corroborative evidence,” counsel replied.The Italian walked from the box, and his place was taken by Nanette Rambert.“What are you, Miss Rambert?” asked Mr Grover, glancing at his brief.“Lady’s maid.”“You identify these photographs, I believe?”“Yes; the lady is Madame Lapasque, my late mistress, and the gentleman her husband.”“How long were you in the respondent’s service?”“About two years. At the time she engaged me at Cannes, monsieur was not with her, but about three months later he joined her, and we travelled first to San Remo, then to Rome, Homburg, and London.”“And you always believed Lapasque to be her husband?” asked Mr Grover.“Of course, m’sieur. Madame always told me he was.”“How long ago did you leave her service?”“About six months.”“Have you seen either since?”“I have only seen madame. I was with M’sieur Willoughby, and we saw her come from a house in Victoria Street, Westminster.”“Did you identify her?”“Yes, without the slightest difficulty. I did not, however, speak to her.”No other questions were asked the witness, and she left the box.His lordship then recalled the petitioner, and questioned him at some length upon his wife’s general conduct, to which the gallant captain replied with the sorrowful yet indignant air of the injured husband.After counsel had delivered a brief and pointed address there was a pause. The judge was weighing the evidence. He read and re-read his notes, underlining words here and there with a pencil, while the Court silently awaited his decision.Suddenly he looked up, coughed slightly, and, addressing Mr Grover, who at once rose, said—“In this case I find that the wife has been guilty of misconduct, and I shall therefore grant a decreenisiwith costs against the co-respondent.”Counsel, bowing, thanked his lordship, and, tying up his brief, left the Court, accompanied by the captain, while the onlookers stirred uneasily in their seats, whispered among each other, and then sat eager to be regaled with another story of domestic woe.As the barrister and his client gained the large hall of the Courts, Nanette joined them. Mr Grover excused himself on the ground that he had an appointment at his chambers in the Temple, and, bidding them adieu, departed. The captain and the maid followed him down the steps, and, turning in the opposite direction, strolled leisurely past St. Clement’s church and along the Strand.Willoughby was elated. Not only had he freed himself from a tie that might some day prove detrimental, but—what was much more to the point—he was also entitled to claim twenty-five thousand francs, the price his wife had offered for her liberty. The matter had been rendered quite easy, the details, together with Lapasque’s address, having been furnished by Valérie herself.“You’re a smart girl, Nanette,” he exclaimed flatteringly, after expressing approbation at the manner in which she had given her evidence. “Your story had a ring of truth about it that was delightful, and in answering the questions you drew a long, serious face, and never once faltered.”Nodding her head knowingly and laughing, she replied—“That’s true, m’sieur. But, you see, I know the way to tell fibs as well as most people. I haven’t been maid to mademoiselle without contriving to learn a few tricks. I was taught them when I first entered her service; now they come quite naturally.”“So it seems,” he said, with an amused smile. “But, tell me, how do matters stand down at the country mansion? Is all serene?”“Quite. Mademoiselle’s new husband is such a mild-mannered young man, and has suspected absolutely nothing from the first. He’s madly infatuated with her, and she can twist him round her little finger.”“Now, speaking candidly, Nanette,” asked the captain, after a few moments’ silence, “have you any idea what object she had in marrying him?”“None; I’m as ignorant as yourself. It seems unaccountable, yet you may rest assured she had some very good reason for such a step.”“Of course, Trethowen has money, yet somehow I don’t believe that her sole object was to become the wife of a rich man. It is a matter that has puzzled me ever since I heard of the match,” observed the captain thoughtfully.In truth, he was the reverse of sorry that his wife had entered into the alliance. Providing Hugh really loved Valérie, he saw there was a possibility of obtaining hush-money from him, as it was certain he would avoid the scandal which would inevitably result if his wife were prosecuted for bigamy.Nanette, although unacquainted with many of her mistress’s schemes, nevertheless knew so much that it would have been highly undesirable that any disagreement should occur between them. She was saucy and self-confident, yet discreet and—when occasion required—a model maid.“You should be happy, m’sieur, now that you have obtained your divorce, and can liveen garçonagain,” she remarked, her eyes sparkling withdiablerie.“So I am, Nanette,” he replied with a smile. “Everything has come off just as I arranged that it should. In the judgment of a fool there are no wise men. To-night you must return to Coombe, and your mistress will pay you the money that was agreed. You might tell her that, the business being so far concluded, she may expect a visit from me in the course of a day or two, when I hope we shall be able to close the incident.”“Very well. I’ll give her your message,” replied the girl. “But you will not call upon her at Coombe? Surely that would be unwise,” she suggested in concern.“I haven’t yet decided whether I shall go there or not. It all depends upon circumstances,” he answered rather abruptly.Then they turned into a restaurant for luncheon, and the captain celebrated the occasion with a bottle of Pommery, which Nanette assisted him to drink.A week had passed.Before a large fire in the private parlour of the Ship Hotel, at Bude, Percy Willoughby sat with legs stretched out and feet upon the fender. The ancient hostelry, which, although styled a hotel, was merely an inn, stood in a somewhat sheltered position under the rocks, and faced the sea. Fishermen were its chief customers, but on this particular night the smacks were out, and the place was comparatively quiet, with the exception of two loungers, who were holding a noisy argument in the bar. The room was low, with heavy oak beams across a ceiling blackened by the smoke of years, a sanded floor, a wide old-fashioned hearth, and straight-backed wooden chairs that had evidently done duty for a century. A tall, antiquated clock ticked solemnly in a corner, and the efforts at ornamentation were mostly in the form of shell-boxes and faded wool-flowers.The wind moaned dismally in the chimney, and aroused the captain from his reverie.“I suppose she’ll come,” he murmured aloud, as he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtain. The night was dark and cloudy. Nothing could be seen except the distant flashing light at sea, which glimmered for a moment like a star and disappeared. “The weather is certainly not very propitious, and I’m afraid if I went out alone in this confoundedly dark hole I should lose myself. But of course she’ll come,” he added reassuringly. “She dare not disappoint me.” And he dashed the curtains together again and returned to his chair.A few minutes afterwards Valérie entered. She wore a long fur-lined cloak, and a thick dark veil concealed her features.“At last I’m here,” she said glancing round, as if half fearful lest she should be recognised, and walking over to the fire, she warmed her benumbed hands. “It was by the merest chance that I was able to come. We’ve been dining with some people about a mile away, and I at last managed to slip out.”As she loosened her cloak he noticed that underneath she wore a charming toilet of pale blue silk.“Well,” he said, after they had greeted one another and seated themselves before the fire. “The affair we planned at Spa has proved successful, Valérie, and we’re man and wife no longer.”“And an excellent thing, too,” she remarked, ridiculing his sentimental tone.“I entirely agree with you; we are much better apart. Nevertheless, although we are divorced, there surely is no reason why we should not remain friends, is there?” he asked, speaking in French.“Oh, there’s no harm in that, I suppose,” she replied in the same language, laughing lightly. “I saw from the papers that you obtained the decree, and Nanette gave me a most graphic description of the hearing of the case. It must have been highly entertaining. I should so much liked to have been there.”“It certainly was a trifle diverting,” the captain admitted; “but let’s get to business. Have you brought the money?”“No.”“What?—you haven’t?” he cried in dismay. “Then why have you brought me down to this infernal hole?”“For the benefit of your health,” she replied with tantalising coquetry.“I want the money,” he declared angrily.“If you’ll be patient, and allow me to speak, I’ll explain.”“I want none of your excuses; nothing but the money. In dealing with me, Mrs Trethowen, you’ll have to play fair, or, by heaven! it will be the worse for you. Bear that in mind.”“Neither my intention nor desire is to deceive you,” she replied haughtily; “but since you cannot talk without abuse, perhaps a week longer without your money will cause you to be more polite.” And she rose and made a movement towards the door.“Where do you think you’re going?” he exclaimed roughly, rushing to the door and standing with his back against it. “I’ve come down here to be paid for the service I’ve rendered you at the risk of being prosecuted myself, and therefore you don’t leave this room until I have the money.”His face was blanched with anger, and he spoke with determination. She had seen his countenance wear a similar look on more than one occasion, and knew that when in such a mood he was not to be trifled with.“But you won’t let me explain, Percy,” she complained in a softened tone. “Do be reasonable.”“I am. I want the thousand pounds you promised.”“Hush,” she said, holding up a finger. “We might be overheard!”“Never mind. Do you intend to pay me?” he asked in a lower tone.“Yes, but not all now. I’m really hard up, otherwise you should have every penny I promised.”“Oh, that’s nonsense. You can get money from that confiding husband of yours, if you like—”“But I don’t like, so there’s the difference,” she interrupted. “I know my own business best.”“How much can you give me?”“Two hundred pounds.”“Pooh! I’m not going to accept that,” said he decisively. “What next? If you offered me five hundred as the first instalment, I might feel disposed to take it.”“Take it or leave it, you’ll get no more just now.”“Look here,” he cried fiercely, standing before her in a threatening attitude. “Do you think I’m going to be made sport of in this manner? If so, you’ve made a huge mistake. I want the money and I mean to have it. If you won’t give it to me, then I shall be under the necessity of requesting a loan from your husband. That would queer your delightful little game, wouldn’t it—eh?”She drew a long breath, and for an instant the colour left her face. Nevertheless, it took more than a threat of that kind to disconcert her.“You are at liberty to do even that,” she answered, with a sardonic smile. “But you would be the sufferer, I’m thinking.”“I want none of your trickery. Pay me, and you’ll never hear of me again.”“If I could believe that, it would relieve my mind very considerably,” she observed with candour. “The facts are these: the whole of the money I have been able to scrape together only amounts to two hundred pounds. I admit it is but a small proportion of my debt, yet I think it should satisfy your present needs. Just now I cannot ask my husband for a large sum, as I can think of no excuse for wanting it.”“I should think it is the first time you were ever at a loss for a lie,” he remarked sarcastically.“It doesn’t do to carry imposition too far. I flatter myself I know when and where to draw the line.”“I’ve some plans in hand, and must have five hundred pounds to carry them out. Not a penny less will be of any use to me.”“But I tell you I can’t give it to you.”“Then I must get it from another source, that’s all,” he declared, selecting a cigarette from his case, and assuming an air of unconcern.“Come, enough of this,” she exclaimed petulantly; “I cannot stay here half the night arguing with you.” Putting her hand into the breast of her dress she drew forth some bank-notes. There were four, each for fifty pounds. “Will you take these or not?” she asked, offering them to him.“Don’t I tell you they’re no use? I must have twice as much.”“Then, I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, and will wish youbon soir,” she replied, with a mock curtsey.“Why do you play with me like this?” he cried in anger, gripping her roughly by the arm. “I want five hundred pounds, and I’ll have it before you leave this place.”“How is that possible when I do not possess it? Do talk sense.”“I’m talking sense. You have it; you can give it me if you choose.”“What do you mean?”“The diamonds you are wearing. They’re worth that, I suppose.”She hesitated, and holding her wrist to the dull lamplight revealed the diamond bangles which sparkled and flashed as she moved. His proposal was somewhat disconcerting, for the bracelets, as well as the necklet she was wearing, were a portion of Hugh’s wedding gifts. She was puzzled to know how she should account for them if she yielded to the man’s inexorable demands.“I cannot. My husband would inquire what had become of them. What could I say? If I told him they were lost he would give information to the police, and you could not get rid of them without some ugly revelations resulting.”“It’s no use arguing. I mean to have them.”He had taken the notes and thrust them carelessly into his vest pocket.“No, my dear Percy, the thing’s impossible.”“Nonsense,” he cried fiercely, at the same time making a sudden snatch at the row of gleaming stones which encircled her white neck. When she saw his intention she put both hands up in an endeavour to prevent him, and gave vent to a slight scream.But she was powerless. The clasp snapped, and the necklet was a moment later in his pocket.“Return that at once,” she cried, stamping her foot with rage. “If you don’t I’ll tell the police you’ve robbed me.”The captain stuck his hands into his pockets and laughed.“Go and tell them, my dear,” he said. “We should make an interesting pair before the magistrate.”“I never thought you were such a coward as to rob a woman,” observed she, with indignant disgust, after demanding the return of her necklet several times, and being met with blank refusal.“My dear Valérie,” he replied coolly, “you needn’t be surprised. When I want money, I’m ready to do anything in order to get it. But it’s getting late,” he continued, glancing at the clock. “Isn’t it almost time you were at home?”His bitter sarcasm maddened her. She did not speak for a few moments.“I’ve had an illustration to-night of your fair dealing, Captain Willoughby,” she said in a low, harsh voice, her face flushed with passion. “When I met you I meant to pay the amount I arranged, but now you’ve taken my jewellery from me by force, and acted as the scoundrel you are, not another farthing shall you have—”“Oh, won’t I? You’ll pay up when I come to you next time.”“We shall see,” she said meaningly; and, drawing her cloak around her, she pulled down her veil and left the room, banging the door after her.She knew her way out, for it was evident that it was not the first time she had been there.When alone, the captain reseated himself, and, taking the necklet from his pocket, examined it carefully with the eye of a connoisseur.“Humph,” he murmured to himself, “they seem well-matched stones. I shall ask old Vlieger two hundred and fifty for it, and he’ll send it over to Amsterdam and get it out of the way in case any inquiries are made. You’ve had a very profitable evening, Percy, my boy—very profitable.”
The last act of a matrimonial drama was being watched attentively by six rows of eager spectators.
Already the gas had been lit, for the dull yellow light of the wintry London moon was insufficient to illuminate the sombre Court. Upon the bench, at the rear of which hung a large square board covered with dark-blue cloth and bearing a golden anchor, the judge sat—grave, silent, almost statuesque. The public who filled the tiers of seats before him listened intently to every word of the story of a woman’s faithlessness, which counsel was relating. It was an undefended, and therefore not an unusually interesting case. Nevertheless, the Divorce Court has an attraction for the curious, and is nearly always crowded, even when there are scarcely a dozen people in any of the Queen’s Bench or Chancery Divisions. The very word divorce is sufficient to interest some, and for the novelty of the thing they desire to witness the procedure by which husband and wife are disunited.
Perhaps such curiosity is pardonable. It certainly is more excusable than the ignominious conduct of somesoi-disantladies, who consider it good form to attend a Criminal Court where a woman is indicted for murder, and there watch and comment audibly, and with heartless inhumanity, upon the agonies of their wretched sister who is being tried for her life. Such scenes at recent trials of unfortunate women have been a scandal to our civilisation.
In the Divorce Court, however, it is different. The surroundings are more refined. Thedénouementof the marriage drama there enacted frequently develops into broad comedy before the curtain is rung down by the judicial decision. Even there, however, women gloat over the stories of the domestic woe of another woman, and ridicule the deceived husband with a cool indifference that is astounding; they are apparently quite unimpressed by the gravity of the question at issue.
The President had already disposed of half a dozen undefended suits, when the case of WilloughbyversusWilloughby and Lapasque had been called on.
“Pardon me, Mr Grover. My attention was diverted for the moment, and I did not catch your opening sentences,” the judge was saying to counsel for the petitioner.
“The facts of the case before you, m’lord, are briefly these,” exclaimed the barrister, recommencing. “The petitioner, Captain Willoughby, late of the 10th Hussars, married the respondent, a French subject, at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington, in June, 1884. The parties lived happily at Brighton, Leeds, Toulon, and other places until about a year had elapsed, when frequent quarrels arose. The petitioner discovered that his wife was carrying on an intrigue with a wealthy young man named Arthur Kingscote, with whom she had been acquainted before marriage. This led to an encounter between the two men at a Manchester hotel, with the result that my client was severely injured in the head, in consequence of which petitioner took proceedings against Kingscote, who was fined at the Manchester Police Court for the assault. This apparently incensed the respondent, and quarrels became of more frequent occurrence, until one day, while living at San Remo, Mrs Willoughby left her home unexpectedly, and never returned. Eventually, after a long series of inquiries, the petitioner found that his wife was living at Nice, and that she had formed aliaisonwith the co-respondent, Gustava Lapasque, who is one of the officials connected with the Casino at Monte Carlo. The evidence I shall call before you, m’lord, will prove the latter part of my statement; and as I understand there is no one present representing either respondent or co-respondent, I shall ask your lordship to pronounce the decree usual in such a case.”
The captain having briefly borne out the statement of his counsel, the latter turned to the usher, saying—
“Call Giovanni Moretti, please.”
In a few minutes a dapper and rather well-dressed Italian stepped into the witness-box.
“What are you, Signore Moretti?” asked Mr Grover, when the witness had been sworn and his name taken.
“Head waiter at the Hôtel Victoria, Nice,” he replied in broken English.
“Do you recognise this lady?” counsel asked, handing up a cabinet photograph of Valérie.
“Yes,” he said, taking a long glance at it. “The lady is Madame Lapasque.”
“And this photograph?” continued Mr Grover, handing him another.
“Monsieur Lapasque. They both stayed at our hotel for nearly three months the summer before last. They came in July and left in October.”
“During those months would you have many visitors at your hotel?”
“No; very few. It is not our season.”
“In that case you would have plenty of facilities for observing them?”
“I saw them perhaps a dozen times each day. I superintended the waiting atà déjeûnerandtable d’hôte.”
“You have no doubt that the lady was the original of that portrait?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.
“Have you seen the respondent, Mrs Willoughby, since?” the judge asked, in slow deliberate tones.
“Yes, I saw her here in London a few weeks ago. I was brought to England by Monsieur Willoughby to identify madame and give evidence.”
“When you saw her, did you tell her that you recognised her as Madame Lapasque?”
“Of course I told her. She then grew angry, and ordered me from the room.”
“Is that all the evidence you have, Mr Grover?” asked the judge, when he had concluded taking notes of the witness’s cross-examination.
“No, my lord. I have further corroborative evidence,” counsel replied.
The Italian walked from the box, and his place was taken by Nanette Rambert.
“What are you, Miss Rambert?” asked Mr Grover, glancing at his brief.
“Lady’s maid.”
“You identify these photographs, I believe?”
“Yes; the lady is Madame Lapasque, my late mistress, and the gentleman her husband.”
“How long were you in the respondent’s service?”
“About two years. At the time she engaged me at Cannes, monsieur was not with her, but about three months later he joined her, and we travelled first to San Remo, then to Rome, Homburg, and London.”
“And you always believed Lapasque to be her husband?” asked Mr Grover.
“Of course, m’sieur. Madame always told me he was.”
“How long ago did you leave her service?”
“About six months.”
“Have you seen either since?”
“I have only seen madame. I was with M’sieur Willoughby, and we saw her come from a house in Victoria Street, Westminster.”
“Did you identify her?”
“Yes, without the slightest difficulty. I did not, however, speak to her.”
No other questions were asked the witness, and she left the box.
His lordship then recalled the petitioner, and questioned him at some length upon his wife’s general conduct, to which the gallant captain replied with the sorrowful yet indignant air of the injured husband.
After counsel had delivered a brief and pointed address there was a pause. The judge was weighing the evidence. He read and re-read his notes, underlining words here and there with a pencil, while the Court silently awaited his decision.
Suddenly he looked up, coughed slightly, and, addressing Mr Grover, who at once rose, said—
“In this case I find that the wife has been guilty of misconduct, and I shall therefore grant a decreenisiwith costs against the co-respondent.”
Counsel, bowing, thanked his lordship, and, tying up his brief, left the Court, accompanied by the captain, while the onlookers stirred uneasily in their seats, whispered among each other, and then sat eager to be regaled with another story of domestic woe.
As the barrister and his client gained the large hall of the Courts, Nanette joined them. Mr Grover excused himself on the ground that he had an appointment at his chambers in the Temple, and, bidding them adieu, departed. The captain and the maid followed him down the steps, and, turning in the opposite direction, strolled leisurely past St. Clement’s church and along the Strand.
Willoughby was elated. Not only had he freed himself from a tie that might some day prove detrimental, but—what was much more to the point—he was also entitled to claim twenty-five thousand francs, the price his wife had offered for her liberty. The matter had been rendered quite easy, the details, together with Lapasque’s address, having been furnished by Valérie herself.
“You’re a smart girl, Nanette,” he exclaimed flatteringly, after expressing approbation at the manner in which she had given her evidence. “Your story had a ring of truth about it that was delightful, and in answering the questions you drew a long, serious face, and never once faltered.”
Nodding her head knowingly and laughing, she replied—
“That’s true, m’sieur. But, you see, I know the way to tell fibs as well as most people. I haven’t been maid to mademoiselle without contriving to learn a few tricks. I was taught them when I first entered her service; now they come quite naturally.”
“So it seems,” he said, with an amused smile. “But, tell me, how do matters stand down at the country mansion? Is all serene?”
“Quite. Mademoiselle’s new husband is such a mild-mannered young man, and has suspected absolutely nothing from the first. He’s madly infatuated with her, and she can twist him round her little finger.”
“Now, speaking candidly, Nanette,” asked the captain, after a few moments’ silence, “have you any idea what object she had in marrying him?”
“None; I’m as ignorant as yourself. It seems unaccountable, yet you may rest assured she had some very good reason for such a step.”
“Of course, Trethowen has money, yet somehow I don’t believe that her sole object was to become the wife of a rich man. It is a matter that has puzzled me ever since I heard of the match,” observed the captain thoughtfully.
In truth, he was the reverse of sorry that his wife had entered into the alliance. Providing Hugh really loved Valérie, he saw there was a possibility of obtaining hush-money from him, as it was certain he would avoid the scandal which would inevitably result if his wife were prosecuted for bigamy.
Nanette, although unacquainted with many of her mistress’s schemes, nevertheless knew so much that it would have been highly undesirable that any disagreement should occur between them. She was saucy and self-confident, yet discreet and—when occasion required—a model maid.
“You should be happy, m’sieur, now that you have obtained your divorce, and can liveen garçonagain,” she remarked, her eyes sparkling withdiablerie.
“So I am, Nanette,” he replied with a smile. “Everything has come off just as I arranged that it should. In the judgment of a fool there are no wise men. To-night you must return to Coombe, and your mistress will pay you the money that was agreed. You might tell her that, the business being so far concluded, she may expect a visit from me in the course of a day or two, when I hope we shall be able to close the incident.”
“Very well. I’ll give her your message,” replied the girl. “But you will not call upon her at Coombe? Surely that would be unwise,” she suggested in concern.
“I haven’t yet decided whether I shall go there or not. It all depends upon circumstances,” he answered rather abruptly.
Then they turned into a restaurant for luncheon, and the captain celebrated the occasion with a bottle of Pommery, which Nanette assisted him to drink.
A week had passed.
Before a large fire in the private parlour of the Ship Hotel, at Bude, Percy Willoughby sat with legs stretched out and feet upon the fender. The ancient hostelry, which, although styled a hotel, was merely an inn, stood in a somewhat sheltered position under the rocks, and faced the sea. Fishermen were its chief customers, but on this particular night the smacks were out, and the place was comparatively quiet, with the exception of two loungers, who were holding a noisy argument in the bar. The room was low, with heavy oak beams across a ceiling blackened by the smoke of years, a sanded floor, a wide old-fashioned hearth, and straight-backed wooden chairs that had evidently done duty for a century. A tall, antiquated clock ticked solemnly in a corner, and the efforts at ornamentation were mostly in the form of shell-boxes and faded wool-flowers.
The wind moaned dismally in the chimney, and aroused the captain from his reverie.
“I suppose she’ll come,” he murmured aloud, as he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtain. The night was dark and cloudy. Nothing could be seen except the distant flashing light at sea, which glimmered for a moment like a star and disappeared. “The weather is certainly not very propitious, and I’m afraid if I went out alone in this confoundedly dark hole I should lose myself. But of course she’ll come,” he added reassuringly. “She dare not disappoint me.” And he dashed the curtains together again and returned to his chair.
A few minutes afterwards Valérie entered. She wore a long fur-lined cloak, and a thick dark veil concealed her features.
“At last I’m here,” she said glancing round, as if half fearful lest she should be recognised, and walking over to the fire, she warmed her benumbed hands. “It was by the merest chance that I was able to come. We’ve been dining with some people about a mile away, and I at last managed to slip out.”
As she loosened her cloak he noticed that underneath she wore a charming toilet of pale blue silk.
“Well,” he said, after they had greeted one another and seated themselves before the fire. “The affair we planned at Spa has proved successful, Valérie, and we’re man and wife no longer.”
“And an excellent thing, too,” she remarked, ridiculing his sentimental tone.
“I entirely agree with you; we are much better apart. Nevertheless, although we are divorced, there surely is no reason why we should not remain friends, is there?” he asked, speaking in French.
“Oh, there’s no harm in that, I suppose,” she replied in the same language, laughing lightly. “I saw from the papers that you obtained the decree, and Nanette gave me a most graphic description of the hearing of the case. It must have been highly entertaining. I should so much liked to have been there.”
“It certainly was a trifle diverting,” the captain admitted; “but let’s get to business. Have you brought the money?”
“No.”
“What?—you haven’t?” he cried in dismay. “Then why have you brought me down to this infernal hole?”
“For the benefit of your health,” she replied with tantalising coquetry.
“I want the money,” he declared angrily.
“If you’ll be patient, and allow me to speak, I’ll explain.”
“I want none of your excuses; nothing but the money. In dealing with me, Mrs Trethowen, you’ll have to play fair, or, by heaven! it will be the worse for you. Bear that in mind.”
“Neither my intention nor desire is to deceive you,” she replied haughtily; “but since you cannot talk without abuse, perhaps a week longer without your money will cause you to be more polite.” And she rose and made a movement towards the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he exclaimed roughly, rushing to the door and standing with his back against it. “I’ve come down here to be paid for the service I’ve rendered you at the risk of being prosecuted myself, and therefore you don’t leave this room until I have the money.”
His face was blanched with anger, and he spoke with determination. She had seen his countenance wear a similar look on more than one occasion, and knew that when in such a mood he was not to be trifled with.
“But you won’t let me explain, Percy,” she complained in a softened tone. “Do be reasonable.”
“I am. I want the thousand pounds you promised.”
“Hush,” she said, holding up a finger. “We might be overheard!”
“Never mind. Do you intend to pay me?” he asked in a lower tone.
“Yes, but not all now. I’m really hard up, otherwise you should have every penny I promised.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense. You can get money from that confiding husband of yours, if you like—”
“But I don’t like, so there’s the difference,” she interrupted. “I know my own business best.”
“How much can you give me?”
“Two hundred pounds.”
“Pooh! I’m not going to accept that,” said he decisively. “What next? If you offered me five hundred as the first instalment, I might feel disposed to take it.”
“Take it or leave it, you’ll get no more just now.”
“Look here,” he cried fiercely, standing before her in a threatening attitude. “Do you think I’m going to be made sport of in this manner? If so, you’ve made a huge mistake. I want the money and I mean to have it. If you won’t give it to me, then I shall be under the necessity of requesting a loan from your husband. That would queer your delightful little game, wouldn’t it—eh?”
She drew a long breath, and for an instant the colour left her face. Nevertheless, it took more than a threat of that kind to disconcert her.
“You are at liberty to do even that,” she answered, with a sardonic smile. “But you would be the sufferer, I’m thinking.”
“I want none of your trickery. Pay me, and you’ll never hear of me again.”
“If I could believe that, it would relieve my mind very considerably,” she observed with candour. “The facts are these: the whole of the money I have been able to scrape together only amounts to two hundred pounds. I admit it is but a small proportion of my debt, yet I think it should satisfy your present needs. Just now I cannot ask my husband for a large sum, as I can think of no excuse for wanting it.”
“I should think it is the first time you were ever at a loss for a lie,” he remarked sarcastically.
“It doesn’t do to carry imposition too far. I flatter myself I know when and where to draw the line.”
“I’ve some plans in hand, and must have five hundred pounds to carry them out. Not a penny less will be of any use to me.”
“But I tell you I can’t give it to you.”
“Then I must get it from another source, that’s all,” he declared, selecting a cigarette from his case, and assuming an air of unconcern.
“Come, enough of this,” she exclaimed petulantly; “I cannot stay here half the night arguing with you.” Putting her hand into the breast of her dress she drew forth some bank-notes. There were four, each for fifty pounds. “Will you take these or not?” she asked, offering them to him.
“Don’t I tell you they’re no use? I must have twice as much.”
“Then, I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, and will wish youbon soir,” she replied, with a mock curtsey.
“Why do you play with me like this?” he cried in anger, gripping her roughly by the arm. “I want five hundred pounds, and I’ll have it before you leave this place.”
“How is that possible when I do not possess it? Do talk sense.”
“I’m talking sense. You have it; you can give it me if you choose.”
“What do you mean?”
“The diamonds you are wearing. They’re worth that, I suppose.”
She hesitated, and holding her wrist to the dull lamplight revealed the diamond bangles which sparkled and flashed as she moved. His proposal was somewhat disconcerting, for the bracelets, as well as the necklet she was wearing, were a portion of Hugh’s wedding gifts. She was puzzled to know how she should account for them if she yielded to the man’s inexorable demands.
“I cannot. My husband would inquire what had become of them. What could I say? If I told him they were lost he would give information to the police, and you could not get rid of them without some ugly revelations resulting.”
“It’s no use arguing. I mean to have them.”
He had taken the notes and thrust them carelessly into his vest pocket.
“No, my dear Percy, the thing’s impossible.”
“Nonsense,” he cried fiercely, at the same time making a sudden snatch at the row of gleaming stones which encircled her white neck. When she saw his intention she put both hands up in an endeavour to prevent him, and gave vent to a slight scream.
But she was powerless. The clasp snapped, and the necklet was a moment later in his pocket.
“Return that at once,” she cried, stamping her foot with rage. “If you don’t I’ll tell the police you’ve robbed me.”
The captain stuck his hands into his pockets and laughed.
“Go and tell them, my dear,” he said. “We should make an interesting pair before the magistrate.”
“I never thought you were such a coward as to rob a woman,” observed she, with indignant disgust, after demanding the return of her necklet several times, and being met with blank refusal.
“My dear Valérie,” he replied coolly, “you needn’t be surprised. When I want money, I’m ready to do anything in order to get it. But it’s getting late,” he continued, glancing at the clock. “Isn’t it almost time you were at home?”
His bitter sarcasm maddened her. She did not speak for a few moments.
“I’ve had an illustration to-night of your fair dealing, Captain Willoughby,” she said in a low, harsh voice, her face flushed with passion. “When I met you I meant to pay the amount I arranged, but now you’ve taken my jewellery from me by force, and acted as the scoundrel you are, not another farthing shall you have—”
“Oh, won’t I? You’ll pay up when I come to you next time.”
“We shall see,” she said meaningly; and, drawing her cloak around her, she pulled down her veil and left the room, banging the door after her.
She knew her way out, for it was evident that it was not the first time she had been there.
When alone, the captain reseated himself, and, taking the necklet from his pocket, examined it carefully with the eye of a connoisseur.
“Humph,” he murmured to himself, “they seem well-matched stones. I shall ask old Vlieger two hundred and fifty for it, and he’ll send it over to Amsterdam and get it out of the way in case any inquiries are made. You’ve had a very profitable evening, Percy, my boy—very profitable.”
Chapter Twenty Four.Truth in Masquerade.Before Valérie had resided at Coombe six weeks she grew weary of the monotony of country life. In her discontented mood her surroundings were dull and uninteresting, while the local people she met lacked polish andchic, which, to her eyes, were the two necessary qualifications in acquaintances. Nothing was extraordinary in this, however. Women of the world meet in their life so many men and women—young, middle aged, and old—who commit all sorts of absurdities for or around them, that they end by entertaining a sovereign contempt for the whole human race, placing all persons in the same category. In each woman they see only an individual to impose upon and outvie in the matter of dress, and each fresh specimen of the genus man which is brought before them they regard only as a lamb destined for the sacrifice after being sufficiently shorn.It was in consequence of an earnest wish she expressed that they had left Cornwall and travelled to Paris, taking up their abode at the Hôtel Continental.Lounging in a capacious chair in the smoking-room, Hugh was scanning some letters he had just received. A few days had elapsed since their arrival, and this morning Valérie had gone out alone in order to visit her milliner in the Rue de la Paix. Left to his own resources, her husband had taken the letters that Jacob had forwarded to him, and, repairing to the smoking-room, endeavoured to amuse himself with their contents.One which he had read and still held in his hand caused him to twirl his moustache thoughtfully and knit his brows.Upon a half sheet of notepaper one sentence only was written, in a fine angular hand, and read:“If you obtain a copy of the Paris newspaper,Le Gaulois, for 10th May, 1886, you will find in it something that will interest you.”It was dated from Chelsea, and signed by Dolly Vivian.“Now, I wonder what on earth she means?” he exclaimed aloud, her strange request for an interview—to which he had not replied—recurring to him.It was exceedingly curious, he thought, that she should write him these vague, puzzling letters, well knowing that he was married and could now be nothing more to her than a friend. There was a mystery about this last communication that had aroused his curiosity, and for some time he sat trying in vain to find an explanation of her strange conduct.Suddenly he made a resolve. Gathering up his letters he thrust them into his pocket, and went to his room to get his overcoat.“If your mistress returns, Nanette, tell her I’ve gone for a stroll, and shall return in an hour,” he said to his wife’s maid, who handed him his hat.“Very well, m’sieur,” the girl replied. Then, as Trethowen descended the stairs to leave the hotel, she watched him, and added to herself: “You will return in an hour, will you? Perhaps so; we shall see.”She laughed heartily, for something appeared to amuse her, and when he had disappeared she returned to her mistress’s room and commenced packing a trunk.As Trethowen walked along the Rue Castiglione, crossed the Place Vendôme, and went on towards the Boulevard des Capucines, a tall well-dressed man, with dark, pointed beard and curled moustaches, followed leisurely in his footsteps. This individual lounged aimlessly along, halting now and then to gaze into shop windows; nevertheless, from under the rather broad brim of his glossy silk hat a pair of keen grey eyes watched every movement of the man upon whom he was keeping observation. In the boulevard he was careful to cross to the opposite side of the way, in case the other should take a fancy to retrace his steps, for it appeared as if he did not desire an encounter. Sauntering along contemplating the engravings of the illustrated papers displayed in the kiosques, he loitered so naturally that to an ordinary observer he was but an honest citizen of the suburbs.The morning was bright and frosty. Hugh, bent upon investigating the truth of Dolly’s strange assertion, and unaware of the presence of the individual who had suddenly displayed such intense interest in his movements, walked down the Boulevard des Italiens, and, turning into the Rue Drouot, entered the offices ofLe Gaulois.Addressing one of the clerks at the counter, he said—“I desire to search your file for May, 1886. Can I do so?”“If m’sieur will have the kindness to fill up this form which we have for the purpose, I will see that the file is brought,” replied the man politely, handing him a dip of paper and a pen.Trethowen complied with this request, and waited rather impatiently, taking Dolly’s letter from his pocket, and glancing at it to reassure himself that he had made no mistake in the date. There were many persons in the office, some transacting business and others reading that day’s newspapers, which were spread open upon stands. Consequently he did not observe the entrance of three men, who, although coming in separately, met a short distance from where he stood, and held a hurried consultation in an undertone.One of the men, apparently a respectable workman, took out an unmounted photograph from his wallet, glanced at it, and afterwards looked intently at Hugh who stood calmly unconscious of the scrutiny.“It’s our man, without a doubt,” declared the workman emphatically. “I’d know him again amongst ten thousand.”“I wonder what his game is here?” asked the man who had dogged his footsteps from the hotel.“Cannot you see? He’s asked for the file of the month when the affair occurred,” observed the third man. “Well, what of that?”“The thing is quite plain. Out of morbid curiosity he wants to read what the paper said,” replied his companion, who, turning to the workman, asked, “Have you any doubt that he is the same man?”“None whatever.”“In that case we’ll arrest him at once. He won’t elude us this time.”The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire—“M’sieur Trethowen, I believe?”Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. “Yes,” he replied in French, “that’s my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m’sieur.”“It scarcely will be a pleasure,” the man replied, grinning sardonically. “I’m Paul Chémerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest,” he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.“My arrest!” cried Trethowen incredulously. “What for, pray?”He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.“If m’sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?”“I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?” Hugh asked indignantly.“That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence—”The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.“Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I’ve only been in Paris a few days.”“We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hôtel Continental.”“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile—“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows—when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chémerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner’s features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l’Horloge, and turning off to the right, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.“Here we are, m’sieur,” said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.“You said that you would take me to the Commissary,” exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.“It is all the same,” replied the detective; “we are here, at the Préfecture of Police.”Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth. Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes. Chémerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.“Which way shall I go?” asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of the narrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant tread of detectives and criminals.“Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor.”Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted on walking behind—that their politeness was merely prudence.They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, and meagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs. Chémerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down without uttering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, and thought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference. They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similar predicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued their writing.The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answering affirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one from the private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping at the door, entered.Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after giving some instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany him into the presence of the chief.During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective’s exit and the prisoner’s entry, the director of criminal investigations prepared himself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantage always lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode of attack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points his replies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, the other confused, embarrassed, and dreading lest he should make any reply that may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph which Chémerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from a pigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spread them out before him.Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced, conducted by the detectives.“You may be seated, m’sieur,” said the director of criminal investigations politely.Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waited to be questioned.The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions for a few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had to deal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he had entertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. With that special memory for faces which an expert engaged in the investigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised the features of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examine him and the principal points for confirmation.Late that afternoon Monsieur Chémerault called at the bureau of the Hôtel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.“Trethowen,” repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him. “Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid.”“Gone!”“Yes. Madame’s husband went out about eleven, she being already out. Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back.”“Perhaps it contains her address,” remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. “I’ll see.” Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.“Oh,” observed the detective to himself, “it seems she’s playing a deeper game than I thought.”“Do you know whether she has left Paris?” he asked of the clerk, to whom he was known as a police agent.“I really don’t. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the number.”“You didn’t hear the cabman receive any orders?” The clerk shook his head.“Ah, that is unfortunate,” observed the detective, perplexed. “Would not any one be likely to know where they went?”“No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out.”The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paper in the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a small café in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he had displayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greater promptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fix upon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husband so mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise, he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen as soon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Préfecture. Now, however, he was baffled.Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise she would not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for her husband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficient evidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover, that she was desirous of hiding herself.He remained at the café only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe, then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Préfecture and consulted his chief.From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within an hour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from the hotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, which started at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St. Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.Monsieur Chémerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object of stopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathless he alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search. Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive at Quévy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.“Diable! She’s beaten us!” he cried with chagrin. “She’s crossed the frontier and escaped!” At that moment one of his colleagues joined him. “We’re too late,” said Chémerault disappointedly. “She’s got clear away. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case than we imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and she turns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made a very important capture.”“Who is she?” asked his companion.“Well, her name is Valérie—not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I was certain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would apply for her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition.”“Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St. Lazare, wasn’t it—that celebrated case of yours?”“Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now, after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quite unexpectedly,” replied the detective. “To-morrow I shall recommence my inquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me, and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it up satisfactorily.”His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left the station, and directed their steps towards the Quai de l’Horloge.
Before Valérie had resided at Coombe six weeks she grew weary of the monotony of country life. In her discontented mood her surroundings were dull and uninteresting, while the local people she met lacked polish andchic, which, to her eyes, were the two necessary qualifications in acquaintances. Nothing was extraordinary in this, however. Women of the world meet in their life so many men and women—young, middle aged, and old—who commit all sorts of absurdities for or around them, that they end by entertaining a sovereign contempt for the whole human race, placing all persons in the same category. In each woman they see only an individual to impose upon and outvie in the matter of dress, and each fresh specimen of the genus man which is brought before them they regard only as a lamb destined for the sacrifice after being sufficiently shorn.
It was in consequence of an earnest wish she expressed that they had left Cornwall and travelled to Paris, taking up their abode at the Hôtel Continental.
Lounging in a capacious chair in the smoking-room, Hugh was scanning some letters he had just received. A few days had elapsed since their arrival, and this morning Valérie had gone out alone in order to visit her milliner in the Rue de la Paix. Left to his own resources, her husband had taken the letters that Jacob had forwarded to him, and, repairing to the smoking-room, endeavoured to amuse himself with their contents.
One which he had read and still held in his hand caused him to twirl his moustache thoughtfully and knit his brows.
Upon a half sheet of notepaper one sentence only was written, in a fine angular hand, and read:
“If you obtain a copy of the Paris newspaper,Le Gaulois, for 10th May, 1886, you will find in it something that will interest you.”
It was dated from Chelsea, and signed by Dolly Vivian.
“Now, I wonder what on earth she means?” he exclaimed aloud, her strange request for an interview—to which he had not replied—recurring to him.
It was exceedingly curious, he thought, that she should write him these vague, puzzling letters, well knowing that he was married and could now be nothing more to her than a friend. There was a mystery about this last communication that had aroused his curiosity, and for some time he sat trying in vain to find an explanation of her strange conduct.
Suddenly he made a resolve. Gathering up his letters he thrust them into his pocket, and went to his room to get his overcoat.
“If your mistress returns, Nanette, tell her I’ve gone for a stroll, and shall return in an hour,” he said to his wife’s maid, who handed him his hat.
“Very well, m’sieur,” the girl replied. Then, as Trethowen descended the stairs to leave the hotel, she watched him, and added to herself: “You will return in an hour, will you? Perhaps so; we shall see.”
She laughed heartily, for something appeared to amuse her, and when he had disappeared she returned to her mistress’s room and commenced packing a trunk.
As Trethowen walked along the Rue Castiglione, crossed the Place Vendôme, and went on towards the Boulevard des Capucines, a tall well-dressed man, with dark, pointed beard and curled moustaches, followed leisurely in his footsteps. This individual lounged aimlessly along, halting now and then to gaze into shop windows; nevertheless, from under the rather broad brim of his glossy silk hat a pair of keen grey eyes watched every movement of the man upon whom he was keeping observation. In the boulevard he was careful to cross to the opposite side of the way, in case the other should take a fancy to retrace his steps, for it appeared as if he did not desire an encounter. Sauntering along contemplating the engravings of the illustrated papers displayed in the kiosques, he loitered so naturally that to an ordinary observer he was but an honest citizen of the suburbs.
The morning was bright and frosty. Hugh, bent upon investigating the truth of Dolly’s strange assertion, and unaware of the presence of the individual who had suddenly displayed such intense interest in his movements, walked down the Boulevard des Italiens, and, turning into the Rue Drouot, entered the offices ofLe Gaulois.
Addressing one of the clerks at the counter, he said—
“I desire to search your file for May, 1886. Can I do so?”
“If m’sieur will have the kindness to fill up this form which we have for the purpose, I will see that the file is brought,” replied the man politely, handing him a dip of paper and a pen.
Trethowen complied with this request, and waited rather impatiently, taking Dolly’s letter from his pocket, and glancing at it to reassure himself that he had made no mistake in the date. There were many persons in the office, some transacting business and others reading that day’s newspapers, which were spread open upon stands. Consequently he did not observe the entrance of three men, who, although coming in separately, met a short distance from where he stood, and held a hurried consultation in an undertone.
One of the men, apparently a respectable workman, took out an unmounted photograph from his wallet, glanced at it, and afterwards looked intently at Hugh who stood calmly unconscious of the scrutiny.
“It’s our man, without a doubt,” declared the workman emphatically. “I’d know him again amongst ten thousand.”
“I wonder what his game is here?” asked the man who had dogged his footsteps from the hotel.
“Cannot you see? He’s asked for the file of the month when the affair occurred,” observed the third man. “Well, what of that?”
“The thing is quite plain. Out of morbid curiosity he wants to read what the paper said,” replied his companion, who, turning to the workman, asked, “Have you any doubt that he is the same man?”
“None whatever.”
“In that case we’ll arrest him at once. He won’t elude us this time.”
The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire—
“M’sieur Trethowen, I believe?”
Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. “Yes,” he replied in French, “that’s my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m’sieur.”
“It scarcely will be a pleasure,” the man replied, grinning sardonically. “I’m Paul Chémerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest,” he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.
“My arrest!” cried Trethowen incredulously. “What for, pray?”
He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.
“If m’sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?”
“I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?” Hugh asked indignantly.
“That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence—”
The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.
“Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I’ve only been in Paris a few days.”
“We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hôtel Continental.”
“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”
Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile—
“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”
“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.
“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”
“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”
Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows—when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.
Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chémerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner’s features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.
They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l’Horloge, and turning off to the right, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.
“Here we are, m’sieur,” said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.
“You said that you would take me to the Commissary,” exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.
“It is all the same,” replied the detective; “we are here, at the Préfecture of Police.”
Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth. Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.
One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes. Chémerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.
“Which way shall I go?” asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of the narrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant tread of detectives and criminals.
“Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor.”
Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted on walking behind—that their politeness was merely prudence.
They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, and meagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs. Chémerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down without uttering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, and thought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.
The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference. They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similar predicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued their writing.
The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answering affirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one from the private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping at the door, entered.
Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after giving some instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany him into the presence of the chief.
During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective’s exit and the prisoner’s entry, the director of criminal investigations prepared himself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantage always lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode of attack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points his replies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, the other confused, embarrassed, and dreading lest he should make any reply that may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.
The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph which Chémerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from a pigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spread them out before him.
Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced, conducted by the detectives.
“You may be seated, m’sieur,” said the director of criminal investigations politely.
Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waited to be questioned.
The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions for a few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had to deal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he had entertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. With that special memory for faces which an expert engaged in the investigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised the features of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examine him and the principal points for confirmation.
Late that afternoon Monsieur Chémerault called at the bureau of the Hôtel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.
“Trethowen,” repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him. “Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid.”
“Gone!”
“Yes. Madame’s husband went out about eleven, she being already out. Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back.”
“Perhaps it contains her address,” remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. “I’ll see.” Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.
“Oh,” observed the detective to himself, “it seems she’s playing a deeper game than I thought.”
“Do you know whether she has left Paris?” he asked of the clerk, to whom he was known as a police agent.
“I really don’t. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the number.”
“You didn’t hear the cabman receive any orders?” The clerk shook his head.
“Ah, that is unfortunate,” observed the detective, perplexed. “Would not any one be likely to know where they went?”
“No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out.”
The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paper in the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a small café in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he had displayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greater promptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fix upon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husband so mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise, he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen as soon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Préfecture. Now, however, he was baffled.
Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise she would not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for her husband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficient evidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover, that she was desirous of hiding herself.
He remained at the café only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe, then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Préfecture and consulted his chief.
From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within an hour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from the hotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, which started at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St. Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.
Monsieur Chémerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object of stopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathless he alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.
In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search. Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive at Quévy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.
He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.
“Diable! She’s beaten us!” he cried with chagrin. “She’s crossed the frontier and escaped!” At that moment one of his colleagues joined him. “We’re too late,” said Chémerault disappointedly. “She’s got clear away. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case than we imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and she turns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made a very important capture.”
“Who is she?” asked his companion.
“Well, her name is Valérie—not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I was certain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would apply for her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition.”
“Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St. Lazare, wasn’t it—that celebrated case of yours?”
“Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now, after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quite unexpectedly,” replied the detective. “To-morrow I shall recommence my inquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me, and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it up satisfactorily.”
His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left the station, and directed their steps towards the Quai de l’Horloge.
Chapter Twenty Five.Shekels of Judas.Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valérie’s hurried exit from Paris had baffled the most expert member of the Paris detective force.The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the Rue de Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée de Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz, where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.“Ah!” the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, “it’s a good thing you’ve come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in a fine state.”“What! have they had supper, then?”“Yes; and there are several fresh people—swells.”“Who are they?”“You’ll see.”“Who’s there, Nanette?” asked a shrill, musical voice.“M’sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle,” replied the girl.“Ah, Pierre!” said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in another direction: “Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived.”Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced singing the first verse of thechansonette, “Pierre, my long-lost love,” as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valérie was standing at the door, and whispered to him—“There are some rich men here to-night. We can make a bigcoupif we are careful.”Then, turning to her guests, she exclaimed—“Cease your chatter, please, just for one moment. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you—”This was greeted with discordant cries—“Enough! Everybody knows Pierre.”“Ladies, do please listen to me,” implored Valérie. Continuing, Valérie again endeavoured to make herself heard.“Gentlemen, I—”At that moment somebody commenced to strum a waltz upon the piano, and, as if by magic, the twenty persons in the room rose to their feet and commenced to whirl madly round, while Valérie and Pierre stood at the door whispering and regarding the scene of Bacchanalian revelry with perfect satisfaction.She liked to see her guests enjoy themselves.“I want a few moments’ private conversation with you,” Pierre said, after they had been standing silent for a minute or two.She acquiesced at once, and led the way to a small anteroom behind the drawing-room. It was furnished gaudily and cheaply, but quite in keeping with the rest of the house.As he closed, the door, Pierre said—“I’ve some good news.”“What is it?” she asked.“Victor has fallen into the trap.”“Arrested?”“Yes.”“Hurrah!” she cried, almost dancing for joy; “now we are safely rid of him we shall have nothing to fear. But, tell me, how did you manage to carry out the suggestion?”“It was quite simple. We met in London three weeks ago, and I told him that he was running a great risk in remaining there, because the girl Vivian had discovered that it was he who gave her the little gash in the throat, and that she had placed the matter in the hands of the police. He asked my advice as to where he should go, and, of course, I suggested Paris. We arranged to go over separately, and meet at the old place a week later. He went, and as he stepped from the train at the St. Lazare he fell into the inviting arms of that vulture Chémerault.”“You had previously given information, I suppose?”“Exactly.”“What was the charge?” she asked in a low tone.“Complicity in the affair of the Englishman.”“Is he already sentenced?”“Yes; to-day the Assize Court sent him to penal servitude for ten years. I had a telegram an hour ago. It will be in the papers to-morrow.”“Do you think that he’ll peach upon us?” Valérie asked seriously.“No, never fear that. He does not suspect that we put the police upon him; besides, he will live in the hope of escaping, and returning to you and your newly-acquired wealth.”“Yes, I suppose he will,” she said, laughing. “But you’ve managed the affair very cleverly, and although it is hard to send such a boon companion to prison merely because you and I love one another, yet, after all, I suppose it’s the best course.”“Undoubtedly,ma chère,” he said. “Now both are safely in prison, we need fear nothing. Our manoeuvres have been successful in obtaining for us a fortune ample for our needs, and by keeping on this house, as well as yours in the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, we can continue to amuse ourselves profitably by getting our guests to stake their louis on thetapis vert. We have had many obstacles to face, but they are now all removed.”“Where is your wedding-ring—the one he gave you?” he asked.She drew it from her purse, and handed it to him, wondering why he required it.“This reminds you of him, I know,” he said, as he turned and threw up the window. “See, I fling it away, for it’s merely a worthless bond,” and he tossed the ring as far as he could out into the road.Valérie sighed. A tear stood in her eye. Even at that moment she was thinking of Hugh Trethowen. It was unusual for her to be troubled by recurring pangs of conscience, nevertheless his face had haunted her constantly during the past few months, and she could not get rid of the thought that some day a terrible Nemesis might fall and crush her.“Why look so serious?”“I was only thinking. It is one of woman’s privileges,” she said, laughing.“Come, there is no cause for sadness surely. You have a handsome income. What more could you desire?”Soon afterwards the unsuspecting guests departed, with aching heads and empty pockets. And Valérie was left alone.
Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valérie’s hurried exit from Paris had baffled the most expert member of the Paris detective force.
The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the Rue de Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée de Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz, where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.
“Ah!” the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, “it’s a good thing you’ve come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in a fine state.”
“What! have they had supper, then?”
“Yes; and there are several fresh people—swells.”
“Who are they?”
“You’ll see.”
“Who’s there, Nanette?” asked a shrill, musical voice.
“M’sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle,” replied the girl.
“Ah, Pierre!” said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in another direction: “Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived.”
Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced singing the first verse of thechansonette, “Pierre, my long-lost love,” as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valérie was standing at the door, and whispered to him—
“There are some rich men here to-night. We can make a bigcoupif we are careful.”
Then, turning to her guests, she exclaimed—
“Cease your chatter, please, just for one moment. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you—”
This was greeted with discordant cries—
“Enough! Everybody knows Pierre.”
“Ladies, do please listen to me,” implored Valérie. Continuing, Valérie again endeavoured to make herself heard.
“Gentlemen, I—”
At that moment somebody commenced to strum a waltz upon the piano, and, as if by magic, the twenty persons in the room rose to their feet and commenced to whirl madly round, while Valérie and Pierre stood at the door whispering and regarding the scene of Bacchanalian revelry with perfect satisfaction.
She liked to see her guests enjoy themselves.
“I want a few moments’ private conversation with you,” Pierre said, after they had been standing silent for a minute or two.
She acquiesced at once, and led the way to a small anteroom behind the drawing-room. It was furnished gaudily and cheaply, but quite in keeping with the rest of the house.
As he closed, the door, Pierre said—
“I’ve some good news.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Victor has fallen into the trap.”
“Arrested?”
“Yes.”
“Hurrah!” she cried, almost dancing for joy; “now we are safely rid of him we shall have nothing to fear. But, tell me, how did you manage to carry out the suggestion?”
“It was quite simple. We met in London three weeks ago, and I told him that he was running a great risk in remaining there, because the girl Vivian had discovered that it was he who gave her the little gash in the throat, and that she had placed the matter in the hands of the police. He asked my advice as to where he should go, and, of course, I suggested Paris. We arranged to go over separately, and meet at the old place a week later. He went, and as he stepped from the train at the St. Lazare he fell into the inviting arms of that vulture Chémerault.”
“You had previously given information, I suppose?”
“Exactly.”
“What was the charge?” she asked in a low tone.
“Complicity in the affair of the Englishman.”
“Is he already sentenced?”
“Yes; to-day the Assize Court sent him to penal servitude for ten years. I had a telegram an hour ago. It will be in the papers to-morrow.”
“Do you think that he’ll peach upon us?” Valérie asked seriously.
“No, never fear that. He does not suspect that we put the police upon him; besides, he will live in the hope of escaping, and returning to you and your newly-acquired wealth.”
“Yes, I suppose he will,” she said, laughing. “But you’ve managed the affair very cleverly, and although it is hard to send such a boon companion to prison merely because you and I love one another, yet, after all, I suppose it’s the best course.”
“Undoubtedly,ma chère,” he said. “Now both are safely in prison, we need fear nothing. Our manoeuvres have been successful in obtaining for us a fortune ample for our needs, and by keeping on this house, as well as yours in the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, we can continue to amuse ourselves profitably by getting our guests to stake their louis on thetapis vert. We have had many obstacles to face, but they are now all removed.”
“Where is your wedding-ring—the one he gave you?” he asked.
She drew it from her purse, and handed it to him, wondering why he required it.
“This reminds you of him, I know,” he said, as he turned and threw up the window. “See, I fling it away, for it’s merely a worthless bond,” and he tossed the ring as far as he could out into the road.
Valérie sighed. A tear stood in her eye. Even at that moment she was thinking of Hugh Trethowen. It was unusual for her to be troubled by recurring pangs of conscience, nevertheless his face had haunted her constantly during the past few months, and she could not get rid of the thought that some day a terrible Nemesis might fall and crush her.
“Why look so serious?”
“I was only thinking. It is one of woman’s privileges,” she said, laughing.
“Come, there is no cause for sadness surely. You have a handsome income. What more could you desire?”
Soon afterwards the unsuspecting guests departed, with aching heads and empty pockets. And Valérie was left alone.