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The Temptress

by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #40833 · 535,465 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Temptress

Author: William Le Queux


        
Release date: September 22, 2012 [eBook #40833]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40833

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TEMPTRESS ***

The Temptress, by William Le Queux.

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THE TEMPTRESS, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

HANDFAST.

"May she ever imitate the holy women of former times, and may the Evil
One have no share in her actions."

The nuptial blessing was droned monotonously in French by a stout
rubicund priest, who wore soiled and crumpled vestments.

The scene was strange and impressive.

Upon a tawdry altar, in a small bare chapel, two candles flickered
unsteadily.  The gloomy place was utterly devoid of embellishment, with
damp-stained, white-washed walls, a stone floor, dirty and uneven, and
broken windows patched with paper.

Over the man and woman kneeling at the steps the priest outstretched his
hands, and pronounced the benediction.

When he had concluded a gabbled exhortation and premonishment, they
rose.  The weary-eyed man regained his feet quickly, gazing a trifle
sadly at his companion, while the latter, with a scarcely perceptible
sigh, got up slowly, and affectionately embraced her newly-wedded
husband.

As the bride placed her arms about her husband's neck, he bent, and,
lifting her black veil slightly, gave her a fond, passionate caress.

Turning from the altar, the priest grasped their hands, wishing them
health and happiness.  What bitter irony! what a canting pretence of
humanity!  As if either could be obtained in New Caledonia, the malarial
island to which the French transport their criminals.  The ill-timed
sarcasm caused the statuesque warders to grin, but a tear stood in the
eye of more than one of the bridegroom's comrades in adversity, even
though they were desperate characters, hardened by crime.

"We thank you heartily for your kind wishes," he replied, "and trust
that your blessing will render our lot less wearisome."

The convict's bride remained silent, gazing about her unconcernedly.

"Come," exclaimed the officer, rising abruptly, "we must not linger;
already we have lost too much time."

After the register had been signed, the husband again kissed his wife.
As she raised her lips to his, he whispered a few words, as if to
reassure her, then said aloud--

"Farewell, dearest.  In seven years I shall be free.  Till then, _au
revoir, sans adieu_!"

"_Sans adieu_!" she echoed in a low voice, apparently unmoved.

He shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards his stern guards.

"I must apologise for detaining you, gentlemen," he said.  "Let us go; I
am ready."

The bride, who was young, was dressed very plainly in black, yet with
Parisian taste.  Perhaps she was handsome, but the thick veil concealed
her features.  The husband's appearance, however, was decidedly
unprepossessing.  He was undergoing a term of ten years' hard labour and
lifelong banishment.

Tall, bronzed, and bearded, with a thin face wrinkled by toil, although
still retaining traces of good looks, he remained for a moment
motionless, contemplating with loving eyes the woman who was now his
wife.  His attire was scarcely befitting a bridegroom, for he had no
coat, and wore the soiled and ragged grey shirt and trousers of a miner,
while the chains that bound his wrists seemed strangely out of place.

Yet the spectators of this odd ceremony were as strikingly incongruous
as the principals themselves.

There were but eight persons.  Five were fellow-prisoners of the
husband, comprising the labour gang in which he worked, while close
behind them sat an officer and two sinister-looking warders in faded
military uniforms, the butts of their loaded rifles resting on the
floor.  The convicts were watching the ceremony interestedly, frequently
whispering among themselves, and ever and anon, as either stirred, the
clanking of their chains formed an ominous accompaniment to the
hastily-gabbled formula, as if reminding them of the dismal hopelessness
of their situation.

Neither replied.  The warder who held the chain to which the five
prisoners were manacled stepped forward, and locked it to the
bridegroom's fetters.

For a few minutes, while before the altar, the latter had been allowed
comparative freedom, but now, the ceremony over, he was compelled to
return with his gang to the atrocious tortures and dispiriting gloom of
the copper mines--that monotonous, toilsome existence of French
convicts; a life without rest, without hope, with naught else beyond
hard labour, brutal taskmasters, and the whining homilies of drunken
priests.

At a word from the officer the men filed slowly out, a dismal, dejected
procession.  Notwithstanding the uniform grey dress and closely-cropped
heads, the difference in their physiognomy came prominently out.  It was
easily distinguishable that the husband belonged to a higher social
circle than the others, who, from their ferocious, forbidding aspect,
had evidently given the rein to their evil passions, and were undergoing
their just punishment.  Through the narrow door they passed in single
file, the warders following immediately behind with their rifles upon
their shoulders.

The officer paused at the door, and turning, lifted his cap politely to
the bride, saying--

"Forgive me, madame, for thus taking your husband from you, but, alas!
I have orders which must be obeyed."

"No apology is needed, m'sieur," she replied, with a slight sigh.  "My
husband's honeymoon has been brief indeed, but, as one convicted of a
serious crime, what can he expect?  We must both wait.  Nothing further
need be said."

"And you have followed him here--from Paris?"

"Yes."

"Ah, what devotion!  Madame, truly yours is a cruel separation, and you
have my heartfelt sympathy.  Adieu."

"Thanks, m'sieur; adieu," she said brokenly; but the officer had already
passed out, and was beyond hearing.

Drawing herself up suddenly, and bowing stiffly to the priest, she left
the chapel without deigning to thank him.

Outside the furnace heat of sunshine was intense.

The fierce, glaring sun reflected upon the unruffled surface of the
Pacific Ocean, and beat down mercilessly on the white road that
stretched away for a mile or so to Noumea, the chief town of the penal
settlement, which is altogether a curious place, where society is
composed chiefly of _recidivistes_ and warders, and where in the Rue
Magenta, one rubs shoulders with murderers, thieves, and notorious
conspirators, the scum of French prisons, who, having completed their
term of hard labour, have developed into colonists, respectable and
otherwise.

Hesitating on the threshold, undecided whether to return to the town or
take the road which led up the steep hill to where the black shaft and
windlass marked the mouth of the convict's mine, she quickly resolved
upon the former course, and, strolling leisurely down to where the
waveless sea lazily lapped the shingly beach, continued her way under
the welcome shadow of some great rocks overgrown by tropical vegetation,
and rendered picturesque by palms, acacias, and giant azaleas in full
bloom.

The landscape, though arid, was beautiful.

Away across the bay, the cluster of white houses, embowered in branches,
stood out in bold relief against the more sombre background of forest,
and behind rose mountains denuded of their foliage, but clothed by the
sun and air with a living garment of constantly changing colours, which
sometimes hid their loss, sometimes more than atoned for it.  Into the
far distance the long ranges stretched away in undulating lines of
ultra-marine and rose, while in the centre the snow-capped summit of
Mount Humboldt glistened like frosted silver.  Not a breath of wind
stirred the sultry atmosphere.  The very birds were silent, having
sought shelter from the terrible heat; and the calm waters, shut in by
coral reefs, seemed to reflect and even increase the intensity of the
sun's rays.

Suddenly she halted, and looked back contemplatively along the road the
convicts had taken.

Words escaped her.  They were scarcely vapid sentimentalities.

"Bah! even the warder pities me, the imbecile!" she exclaimed in French,
breaking into a nervous, discordant laugh.  "I have obeyed you, my
elegant husband, merely because I am helpless; but my fervent wishes for
your welfare are that you will descend yonder mine and never return to
the light of day--that your taskmasters will crush the life out of you
long before the expiration of your term.  You think you have ingeniously
strengthened the tie by making me your wife, but you have yet to
discover your mistake.  You have yet to discover that you are dealing
with one who can hold her own against the world!"  Motionless and
silent, she stood for a few moments with fixed eyes and hands tightly
clutched.  Then she continued--

"Seven years must elapse before you return to civilisation.  Meanwhile
much can be accomplished.  _Sacre_!  I hope you'll die the death you
deserve, and rot in a criminal's grave before that, curse you!  Your
wife--_ma foi_!--your victim!"

Hissing the last sentence with bitter contempt, and stamping her shapely
foot vehemently, she added--

"Why should I barter myself?  By going through the ceremony I have
effectually closed his mouth for at least seven years, yet I still have
freedom and the means whereby to enjoy life.  Shall I calmly submit,
then, and pose before the world as a social outcast--the wife of a
notorious convict?"

The words were uttered in a tone that clearly demonstrated her intense
hatred of the man to whom she had bound herself.

After pausing, deeply engrossed in thought, she exclaimed resolutely--

"No, I will not."

In a frenzy of passion she tore the ring from her finger, and with a
fierce imprecation flung it into the water as far as her strength
allowed.

"And so I cast aside my vows," she muttered between her teeth, as she
watched it disappear.

Then, without a second glance, she turned upon her heel, and, with a
harsh, discordant laugh, resumed her walk towards Noumea.

CHAPTER TWO.

THE CHARING CROSS MYSTERY.

Two years later.  A frosty evening, clear and starlit--one of those dry
nights in early spring so delightful to the dweller in London, too
familiar with choking fog, drizzling rain, and sloppy mire.

In the vicinity of Charing Cross the busy stream of traffic had almost
subsided.  At ten o'clock the Strand is usually half deserted--the shops
are closed, foot passengers are few, and the theatres have not yet
disgorged their crowds of pleasure-seekers anxious to secure conveyances
to take them to the suburbs.  For half an hour previous to eleven
o'clock the thoroughfare, notwithstanding the glare of electricity at
theatre entrances and the blaze of garish restaurants and public-houses,
assumes an appearance of almost dismal solitude.  Boys who have hitherto
indefatigably cried "special editions," congregate at corners to chat
among themselves, the few loungers stroll along dejectedly, and cadgers
slink into doorways to await the time when they can resume their
importunities among returning playgoers.

A similar aspect was presented this calm, bright night, as one of the
omnibuses plying between the Strand and Kilburn slowly crossed Trafalgar
Square, mounted the short incline to Charing Cross at walking pace, and,
turning into Duncannon Street, pulled up before the public-house which
at that time was the starting-point for that route.

The driver, facetiously adjuring his colleague on the 'bus, which was
just moving off, to get "higher up," unfastened his waist-strap, and,
casting aside his multifarious wraps, descended.  Stamping his feet to
promote circulation, he was about to enter the bar.  Suddenly he
remembered that the conductor, after collecting the fares, had left the
vehicle at the corner of the Haymarket for the purpose of walking the
remainder of the journey--a proceeding not unusual in cold weather, when
one's hands become numbed, and a walk proves a welcome exercise.

It occurred to him that some one might still be inside.  His surmise
proved correct for, ensconced in a corner in the front of the
conveyance, sat a well-dressed, middle-aged man.  His fur-trimmed
overcoat was unbuttoned, his head had fallen forward upon his chest, and
he was apparently slumbering soundly.

"Charin' Cross, sir," shouted the plethoric old driver, peering in at
the door.

The man showed no sign of awakening.

Sleeping passengers, who at their journey's end awake irate and in great
consternation at finding themselves a mile or two past their
destination, are the daily experience of every omnibus conductor; and it
is a remarkable fact that the rattle, combined with the rocking of the
vehicle, is conducive to slumber.

Chuckling at the unconscious man's probable chagrin, the driver entered
the conveyance, and, grasping his shoulder, shook him violently,
exclaiming in a loud voice--

"'Ere y'are!  Charin' Cross, sir.  Wake up, guv'nor, please."

The passenger did not stir.  His arm dropped inertly by his side, and as
the driver relaxed his hold, he swayed forward, and, before the mishap
could be prevented, fell heavily upon the cushions opposite, and rolled
upon the floor.

"He must be ill," the driver exclaimed to himself in alarm.

Then stooping, he seized the prostrate man round the waist, and with
some difficulty succeeded in dragging him to his feet and replacing him
upon the seat.

As he did so he felt his fingers come into contact with some wet, sticky
substance.  Holding his hand against the dim oil lamp, he examined it
closely.

"Blood, by God!" he gasped.

Glancing quickly down at the feet of the inanimate man, he noticed for
the first time a small, dark pool, beside which lay a white
handkerchief.

In a moment the terrible truth dawned upon him.

Vaguely apprehensive of foul play, he pulled aside the overcoat, and
placed his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man.

There was no movement.

"Hullo, Teddy, what's up?  Any one would think you were robbing the
chap," shouted a voice jocosely at the door.

The driver started, and, looking up, saw his conductor who, having taken
a shorter route than the omnibus by walking along Pall Mall, across the
north side of Trafalgar Square, and entering Duncannon Street from the
opposite end, had just arrived.

"Bill," replied the driver in an awe-stricken tone, his face wearing a
scared look, "there's something wrong here.  I believe the gent's dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes.  Come here."

The conductor grew pale, and got into the conveyance beside his
companion.

"Look! that's blood," the latter said, pointing to the floor.

"You're joking," the other replied incredulously, bending down to
examine it.

"'Pon my honour I'm not.  There's some on my hand here.  Besides, his
heart doesn't beat."

Leaning hastily forward, the conductor pressed his hand to the
passenger's breast.  He quickly withdrew it, admitting that such indeed
was the case.

"But what can be wrong with him, Ted?  He looks like a gentleman," he
added in amazement.

"I can't tell.  In this 'ere light it's impossible to see."

Striking a vesta, the conductor held it close to the man's coat.  As it
shed its light in fitful gleams, their eager eyes at once discerned a
small hole in the breast, from which blood was slowly oozing.

Both drew back in dismay.

"He's been stabbed?" the man who held the match exclaimed in a low,
terrified voice.  "See, the overcoat must have been opened first, as it
isn't pierced."

The victim had been wounded in the heart, struck by a steady hand, and
evidently with great violence.

They stood aghast at the horrifying discovery.

"What do you think of it, Bill?" asked the old driver timorously.

"Murder, without a doubt."

"I wonder whether this will give any clue to the murderer?" the elder
man said, picking up the handkerchief.

It was a lady's--a small square of fine cambric with a delicate border
of lace.

"Let's look," exclaimed his companion, taking it in his hands, and
holding it to the lamp.

"Any mark on it?"

"No, nothing," he replied.  "There's some funny scent on it, though," he
added, placing it nearer his nose.

"Good heavens, Bill, what shall we do?" ejaculated the driver,
thoroughly alarmed at the startling discovery.

"Call the police at once.  Wait here a minute, and I'll fetch a
constable," the other replied, getting out of the omnibus, and running
to the corner of the Strand, where an officer is constantly stationed on
point duty.

Already a small crowd had collected, for the cabmen from the shelter
opposite had quickly discerned that something unusual had occurred, and,
on learning of the crime, grouped themselves around the vehicle in a
state of great excitement, and eager to obtain a glimpse of the corpse.

A minute later the conductor returned with two constables.  These were
immediately followed by a detective-sergeant, who chanced to be passing,
and another constable.  The detective himself was astounded, although he
had been present on more than one occasion when bodies had been found.

The circumstances having been briefly explained, he despatched one of
the men to Agar Street for the hospital ambulance, and gave other
orders, which were executed with obedience and promptitude.

"Do you know the gentleman by sight?" asked the detective of the
conductor, as they both stood gazing upon the body, awaiting the arrival
of the ambulance.

"No, I've never seen him before," the man replied; "and the strangest
part of the affair is, that when I got off at the Haymarket corner he
wasn't inside.  There were two gentlemen in the 'bus."

"They got out at Spring Gardens," interrupted the driver.  "I stopped
for them."

"Then he must have entered immediately afterwards," remarked the
detective thoughtfully.

"Yes, that's the only way I can account for it."

"It is certainly an extraordinary case," the officer said, bending down
and re-examining the dead man's wound.  "From the time he got into the
'bus until you discovered him dead could not have been more than six or
seven minutes?"

"Not so much," replied the driver.  "I generally reckon it takes four
minutes from Dent's to the corner here, including the stoppage in front
of the lions."

"But you didn't pull up there to-night?"

"No, because I was not aware I had any fare inside."

"Ah?" exclaimed the detective confidently.  "The murder was evidently
cleverly planned, and the assassin has got away very neatly indeed."

"It couldn't be suicide, could it?" suggested one of the constables.

"Impossible, for the knife has disappeared.  But here's the ambulance;
we must remove the body and disperse the crowd."

At that moment a hansom, which had turned from the Strand towards Pall
Mall, was compelled to pull up owing to the throng of eager onlookers
which had now become so augmented as to reach across the road.

Pushing up the flap in the roof with his walking-stick, the fare, a
well-dressed and rather handsome young man, whose face bore that frank,
good-humoured expression which always impresses favourably,
asked--"What's the fuss, cabby?"

"Can't exactly make out, sir," replied the man.  "They say a murder's
been committed."

"Somebody murdered!" he exclaimed in surprise.  "By Jove, a crime in a
'bus isn't a sight to be witnessed every day.  Wait over there, cabby,
opposite the church.  I'll go and have a look."

Alighting, he quickly made his way through the excited crowd.  As he
edged in towards the omnibus, two constables, who had just lifted the
body out, were placing it carefully upon the stretcher, for a doctor had
already made an examination and pronounced that death had been almost
instantaneous.

In the brief moment while the constables arranged his head the light of
the gas lamps outside the public-house shone full upon the pale,
bloodless features, revealing a man of about thirty-five, whose face was
well moulded and refined, with closed eyes, very wavy hair, and short,
pointed beard.  That he was a gentleman was evident.  His hands looked
soft and white, his finger-nails showed that attention had been bestowed
upon them; a large diamond glittered on his finger, and in his scarf was
another valuable stone.  His attire, too, was the reverse of common, for
his overcoat was lined with sable in a style which only a West-End
tailor could produce, and his other garments were of the best quality
and latest fashion.

"Poor fellow--he looks as if he's asleep," exclaimed a woman
sympathetically, at the young man's elbow.

"Ah," remarked another, "he'll never wake again.  Whoever killed him
accomplished the deed very effectually."

"He's a thorough gentleman, too," commented a cabman, who was eagerly
watching with several of his companions.  "I wonder what the motive
could have been?"

"They'll call Teddy Mills's 'bus the hearse, now," said another cabman;
but his companion replied--

"G'arn, 'Arry, it ain't no laughing matter."

"Well, it's a bold stroke, at any rate," rejoined the man addressed.
"Why, he couldn't have been seated in the 'bus a minute before he was
killed."

"Is it such a mysterious affair, then?" asked the young man who had
alighted from the cab, turning to them.

"Mysterious?  I should rather think it was.  It all happened between the
corner of Pall Mall and here.  The victim must have entered the 'bus as
it was going along, but whether the murderer was inside or whether he
followed, nobody knows."

"Pass along, please; pass along!" two constables commanded.

The body, which had by this time been placed on the ambulance and
lightly covered, was being wheeled away, and the police were busy
dispersing the ever-increasing crowd.

"By Jove, it's terrible!  Such sights are enough to give one the blues,"
the young man exclaimed aloud, as he made his way towards his cab.  "I
wonder who the Johnnie is?  The face seems familiar, yet for the life of
me I can't recollect where I've seen it before.  But, there, it isn't
any use making oneself glum over the troubles of others, and, goodness
knows, my own cursed luck is hard enough."

He sighed, and, springing into the hansom, shouted--"Drive on, cabby, as
fast as you can make that bag of bones travel."

The man laughed at his fare's humorous cynicism, and, whipping his
horse, drove rapidly away.

CHAPTER THREE.

IN BOHEMIA.

"Look here, Hugh, what is the cause of this confounded gloominess?"

"Nothing that concerns anybody, except myself," was the morose reply.

"Well, you needn't snarl like that at an old friend.  Come, out with it,
and let's have no secrets."

"There's not much to tell, old fellow, beyond the fact that I'm ruined."

"What!" exclaimed John Egerton, open-mouthed in amazement.  "Ruined?"

"Yes."

"Are you really serious; or is this another of your confoundedly grim
jokes?"

"It's too true, alas!" the other replied, with a sigh.  The artist,
laying his palette and mahlstick aside, turned and faced his visitor,
exclaiming--

"Sit down and relate the circumstances; we must see what can be done."

"Nothing can prevent the catastrophe.  I've considered the problem long
enough, and can find no solution."

"Well, don't knock under without a struggle, my dear old chap.  Men work
for fame and fortune, but expect happiness as a gift.  Confide in me,
and perhaps we may arrange things."

The other smiled sadly, but shook his head.

It was the afternoon following the events related in the previous
chapter.  The two speakers who were in such serious conversation stood
in a shabby studio in Fitzroy Square gravely contemplating one another.

John Egerton, the owner of the place was a successful artist, whose
works sold well, whose black and white illustrations were much sought
after by magazine proprietors, and whose Academy pictures had brought
him some amount of notoriety.  His success was well deserved, for, after
a rather wild student life on the Continent, he was now exceedingly
industrious.  Art was his hobby, and he had but little pleasure outside
the walls of his studio.  Though discarding a collar, and attired
negligently in a paint-besmirched coat very much the worse for wear, a
pair of trousers much bespattered, and feet thrust into slippers, yet
his face spoke of genius and indomitable perseverance, with its deep
grey eyes, firm, yet tender mouth, and general expression of power and
independence.

His visitor, Hugh Trethowen, was of a different type--handsome, and
perhaps a trifle more refined.  A splendid specimen of manhood, with his
fine height and strongly-built frame, well-cut Saxon features, and
bright colouring, with laughing blue eyes, the earnest depths of which
were rendered all the more apparent by the thoughtful, preoccupied look
which his countenance wore.

A young girl, undeniably beautiful, with a good complexion, stood
watching them.  She was dressed in a bright but becoming costume of the
harem, and had, until the arrival of Trethowen, been posing to the
artist.  Upon the easel was a full length canvas almost complete--a
marvellous likeness, representing her laughing face, with its clear
brown eyes, and her bare white arms swinging the scimitars over her head
in the undulating motion of the Circassian dance.

Besides acting in the capacity of model, Dolly Vivian was the artist's
companion, critic and friend.  Among the brethren of the brush she was
well-known as a quiet, patient, unobtrusive girl, who, with commendable
self-sacrifice, had supported her mother and invalid sister by her
earnings.  Egerton had become acquainted with her years ago, long before
he became known to fame, at a time when his studio was an attic in a
street off the Edgware Road, when he used frequently to eat but one meal
a day, and had often shared that with her.  She was his friend and
benefactor then, as now.  When times were hard and money scarce, she
would give him sittings and accept no payment, or, if she did, she would
spend the greater portion in the necessaries of life, which she would
convey to his sky parlour on the following morning.

This platonic friendship, which sprang up in days of hardship and
disappointment, had been preserved in affluence.  From her model the
rising artist had painted most of the pictures that had brought him
renown, and he acknowledged the debt of gratitude by making her his
confidante.  It was not surprising, therefore, that at his studio she
conducted herself as if thoroughly at home, nor that she should be well
acquainted with such a constant visitor as Hugh Trethowen.

When, however, the two men commenced so momentous a question, she felt
that her presence was not desired, so busied herself, with a good deal
of unnecessary noise, with the teacups which stood on a small table
beside the easel.

Suddenly she raised her handsome head, and, looking at Egerton, said:

"If you are talking of private matters, I will go and rest until you are
ready to recommence."

The artist glanced inquiringly at his friend.

"There is no necessity for leaving us, Dolly," said Trethowen.  "We are
all three old friends, and my purpose in coming here this afternoon is
to spend an hour with you for the last time."

"The last time!" she echoed in dismay.  "Why--are you going away?"

He did not answer for a moment.  His eyes were fixed upon the girl's
face, and his lips trembled a little under the shadow of his fair
moustache.  Could he really muster up courage to tell them of his
intention?  He hesitated, then he replied, firmly enough:

"By an unfortunate combination of circumstances I am compelled to leave
all my friends.  I much regret it, but it cannot be avoided."

The men had seated themselves, and the pretty model was pouring tea into
three dainty little cups.

Egerton frowned impatiently.

"This sort of talk isn't like you, Hugh, and it sounds bad.  Surely you
don't contemplate leaving us altogether?"

"I must--I cannot remain."

"Why?"

"I've already told you.  I'm ruined."

"Ruined--good God--you're joking!  But even if you are--confound it--why
should you go?  Other men have got on their legs again."

"I never shall," Trethowen replied sadly.  "It's impossible."

"If you'll tell us about it," said the artist persuasively, "we can
judge for ourselves."

"Well, briefly told, the facts are these, old fellow.  You are aware I'm
only the younger son, and that on my father's death my elder brother,
Douglas, with whom I've not been on friendly terms for several years,
succeeded to the estate."

The other nodded acquiescence.

"My father undoubtedly meant well," Hugh continued, "for he left me some
property yielding nearly five hundred a year.  Upon this I lived for
five years, but--"

"And what more could you expect?" interrupted his friend.  "Surely
that's enough for a bachelor to live upon?"

"It would have been, I admit," he replied despondently.  "Unfortunately,
I have been compelled to dispose of the property."

"Why?"

"To temporarily satisfy my hungry creditors."

"Are they numerous?"

"Numerous!  Why, they're so plentiful that, by Jove, I've never troubled
to count 'em."

"But how have you become so entangled?"

"The usual method is responsible, old chap--tempting fortune," he
replied bitterly.  "The fact is, things have been going wrong for a long
time past, and I've disposed of all I'm worth in an endeavour to settle
up honourably.  It's no use, however--I've sunk deeper and deeper into
the mire, until the only means by which to extricate myself is to go
right away.  Dunned on every side, with county court summonses
descending in showers, the Hebrew Shylocks who hold me in their accursed
clutches seem to be taking a delight in crushing me out of existence."

The artist was mute with astonishment.  He had always considered his
friend very lucky in having ample means at his command, and had never
imagined he was in such straits.

"Then, as I understand, you've had to go to the Jews, and they've
foreclosed," he said, after silently contemplating the canvas before
him.

"Exactly," Hugh replied.  "Think.  What can a fellow do when he's about
town like I've been?  He must necessarily follow the example of others
on the course and in the clubs, if he doesn't wish to be ranked with
outsiders.  As an instance, I lost over the St. Leger a clear eight
hundred."

"Whew!  If that's the case, I'm at a loss to give advice," exclaimed
Egerton gravely.

"It would be of no assistance," he said.  "Like an ass, I've run through
all I possess, with the exception of a bare couple of pounds a week.  I
must therefore drag out an existence in one of those dismal old
continental towns that seem to be provided as harbours of refuge for
unfortunate fellows like myself.  I'm truly sorry to leave you both, but
needs must when the devil drives."

"Why not remain here?  If you are hard hit, I can see no reason why you
should bury yourself," contended the artist thoughtfully.

"No, Mr. Trethowen," added Dolly, gazing into her teacup in a vain
endeavour to hide the tears that stood in her eyes, "don't leave us.
Why, Mr. Egerton would not have half the spirit for his work if you
didn't run in now and then and make him laugh."

"I--I cannot remain," he replied hesitatingly.  "You see, I'm utterly
incapable of making a fresh start in life, for I've no profession.
Besides, there's a much stronger reason for my departure.  It's
absolutely imperative."

His face was lined with pain and sorrow, as he drew a deep sigh, the
index to a heavy heart.

"What's the reason?" demanded his friend, glancing sharply at him.

"Because, if I don't get away almost immediately I shall find myself
arrested."

"Arrested?"

He nodded, but for a few moments no words escaped his lips.

"Yes, Jack, old fellow, I'm in a terrible fix," he replied in a gloomy
tone unusual to him.  "I'll confide in you because I can trust you.
Three months ago I was hard pressed for money, and seeing a dishonest
way of obtaining it, I yielded to the temptation of the moment.  I
imitated a signature, and drew a thousand pounds."

"Forgery!" the artist exclaimed, dumbfounded.

"Call it what you like.  The bill is due the day after to-morrow, then
the fraud will be detected."

He uttered the words mechanically, his head bowed upon his breast.

Jack Egerton bit his lip.  He could scarcely realise the grave
importance of his companion's words.

"Are there no means by which I can assist you, Hugh?" he asked presently
in a sympathetic tone.

"None.  There is room enough in the world for everybody to stretch
himself.  You understand my departure is inevitable.  It is either
arrest or exile, and I choose the latter."

"I'm afraid it is; but, look here.  Have a trifle on loan from me--say a
hundred."

"Not a penny, Jack.  I couldn't take it from you, indeed," he replied,
his voice trembling with an emotion he was unable to subdue.  "With
finances at the present low ebb I could never repay you.  Perhaps,
however, there may be a day when I shall require a good turn, and I feel
confident of your firm friendship."

"Rely on it," the artist said, warmly grasping his hand.  "You have my
most sincere sympathy, Hugh; for bad luck like yours might fall upon any
of us.  In times gone by you've often assisted me and cheered me when
I've been downcast and dispirited.  It is, therefore, my duty to render
you in return any service in my power."

Hugh Trethowen rose, listless and sad.  The lightheartedness and
careless gaiety which were his chief characteristics had given place to
settled gloom and despair.  "Thanks for your kind words, old fellow," he
exclaimed gravely.  "I really ought not to trouble you with my miseries,
so I'll wish you farewell."

The handsome girl, who had been silent and thoughtful, listening to the
conversation, was unable to control her feelings, and burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Dolly," said he in a sorry attempt to comfort her.  "Jack
and yourself are old friends whom I much regret leaving, but don't take
it to heart in this way."

Raising her hand reverently to his lips he kissed it, with a murmured
adieu.

She did not reply, but, burying her face in the rich silk robe she wore,
wept bitterly.

For a moment he stood contemplating her, then, turning to the artist, he
said:

"Good-bye, Jack."

"Good-bye, Hugh," replied Egerton, wringing his hand earnestly.
"Remember, whatever happens, I am always your friend--always."

A few brief words of thanks, and Hugh Trethowen snatched up his hat and
stick, and, drawing aside the heavy plush _portiere_ before the door,
stumbled blind out.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE NECTAR OF DEATH.

Slowly and solemnly the clock of St. James's, Piccadilly, chimed nine.

In his comfortable chambers in Jermyn Street, Hugh Trethowen sat alone.
The graceful indifference of the Sybarite had vanished, the cloud of
apprehension had deepened, and with eyes fixed abstractedly upon the
flickering fire, he was oblivious of his surroundings, plunged in
painful reverie.

The silk-shaded lamp shed a soft light upon the objects around,
revealing that the owner of the apartment had debarred himself no
luxury, and that, although a typical bachelor's abode, yet the dainty
nick-nacks, the cupboard of old china, the choice paintings, and the
saddle-bag furniture--all exhibited a taste and refinement that would
have done credit to any drawing-room.  Upon a table at his elbow was a
spirit stand, beside which stood a glass of brandy and soda; but it was
flat, having been poured out half an hour before.

Suddenly he tugged vigorously at his moustache, as if in deep
contemplation, and, rising, crossed the room and touched a gong.

His summons was answered by an aged male servant, the venerable
appearance of whose white hair was enhanced by his suit of spotless
black and narrow strip of shirt front.

"Anybody called, Jacob?"

"No, sir; nobody's called, sir," replied the old man in a squeaky voice.

"You may close the door, Jacob, and sit down.  I want to have a word
with you."

The aged retainer shut the door, and stood near the table, opposite his
master, fully prepared to receive a reprimand for having performed his
work unsatisfactorily.  "Sit down, Jacob; we must have a serious talk."
Surprised at these unusual words, the old man seated himself upon the
edge of a chair, waiting for his master to commence.

"Look here, Jacob," said Trethowen; "you and I will have to part."

"Eh? what?  Master Hugh?  Have I done anything wrong, sir?  If I have,
look over it, for I'm an old man, and--"

"Hush, you've done nothing wrong, Jacob; you've been a good servant to
me--very good.  The fact is, I'm ruined."

"Ruined, Master Hugh?  How, sir?"

"Well, do you ever take an interest in racing?"

"No, sir; I never do, sir."

"Ah, I thought not.  Fossils such as you do not know a racehorse from a
park-hack.  The truth is, I've chucked away nearly every farthing I
possess upon the turf and the card-table; therefore I am compelled to go
somewhere out of the reach of those confounded duns.  You understand?
When I'm gone they'll sell up this place."

"Will the furniture be sold, sir?  Oh, don't say so, Master Hugh!"
exclaimed the old servant, casting a long glance around the room.

"Yes; and, by Jove, they'd sell you, too, Jacob, only I suppose such a
bag of bones wouldn't fetch much."

"You--you can't mean you are going to leave me, sir?" he implored.  "For
nigh on sixty years, man and boy, I've been in the service of your
family, and it does seem hard that I should remain here and see the
things sold--the pictures and the china that came from the Hall."

"Yes, I know, Jacob: but it's no use worrying," said Hugh, somewhat
impatiently.  "It cannot be avoided, so the things from the old place
will have to travel and see the world, as I am compelled to."

"And you really mean to go, Master Hugh?"

"Yes; I tell you I must."

"And cannot I--cannot I come with you?" faltered the old man.

"No, Jacob--that's impossible.  I--I shall have no need of a servant.  I
must discharge you, but here's fifty pounds to keep you from the
workhouse for the present.  I'd give you more, Jacob, but, indeed the
fact is, I'm deuced hard up."

And he took some notes from a drawer in his escritoire, and handed them
to his faithful old servant.

"Thank you very kindly, sir--thank you.  But--hadn't you better keep the
money, sir?  You might want it."

"No," replied Hugh, with a sad smile.  "I insist upon you taking it;
and, look here, what's more, the basket of plate is yours.  It is all
good stuff, and belonged to the dear old governor; so sell it to-morrow
when I'm gone, and put the money into your pocket.  Take anything else
you like as well, because if you don't others will.  And, by the way,
should you ever want to write to me, a letter to the `Travellers' will
be forwarded.  I--I'm busy now, so good-night, Jacob."  Grasping the
venerable servant's bony hand, he shook it warmly.

"Good-night, Master Hugh," murmured the latter in a low, broken voice.
"Good-night; may God watch over you, sir."

"Ay, Jacob, and may this smash bring me good luck in the future.
Good-night."

The old man tottered out, closing the door noiselessly after him.

"Poor old Jacob," said Hugh aloud, as he stood before the fireplace with
his hands thrust deep in his pockets in an attitude of despair.  "It
must be truly hard for him to leave me.  He was my father's valet when
he was a young man; he has known me ever since I could toddle, and now
I'm compelled to throw him out of doors, as if he were a common drudge
who didn't please me.  He's been more than a servant--he was the friend
and adviser of my youth.  Yet now we must part, owing to my own mad
folly.  Some people carry wealth in their pockets, others in their
hearts."

With a sigh and a muttered imprecation, he paced the room with
deliberate, thoughtful steps.

Suddenly he noticed the evening newspaper that had been placed upon the
table by his servant.  Anxious to know the result of a race, he took it
up mechanically, when his eyes fell upon the head-line in large
capitals, "Mysterious murder in the Strand."

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed in surprise.  "Why, I had really forgotten
that strange incident last night.  It must be the man I saw taken from
the omnibus.  By Jove, that was a curious affair; I wonder what the
paper says about it?"

Reseating himself, he commenced to read the column of elaborately
worked-up sensation with which the journal regaled its readers.

It certainly was an extraordinary case, inasmuch as the crime must have
been committed with a swiftness and dexterity that was little short of
marvellous.  As far as the representative of the journal had been able
to ascertain, the body was still unidentified, and, after advancing an
extravagant theory of his own, the enterprising scribe terminated with
the stereotyped phrase, invariably used on such occasions, declaring
that the police, "though very reticent upon the matter, were prosecuting
diligent inquiries."

"Remarkable!" ejaculated Trethowen, when he had finished reading this
account.  "I wonder who the victim is, and what object anybody could
have had in murdering him?  So daring, too--in a public conveyance in
the very heart of London.  There was some motive, I suppose; but
evidently the person who committed the crime was no novice, and went to
work with swiftness and caution for the purpose of baffling the police.
I've been thinking so much of my own affairs to-day that the remembrance
of last night's tragedy had entirely gone out of my head.  Yet, after
all, why should I puzzle my brains over a case that will require all the
wit and cunning of skilled detectives before the guilty person is
revealed?"

He cast the paper aside, and passed his hand wearily across his aching
brow.

"No," he continued, after a brief silence.  "I've got too much to think
of with my own affairs.  Here am I, ruined irretrievably, with no hope
beyond that of dragging out a miserable existence in a poverty-stricken
sort of way, while my friends laugh over my misfortunes, and make
themselves fat upon what they've won from me by foul means as well as
fair.  Bah!  I've been a downright consummate fool, and deserve all this
punishment; by Heaven I do!"

And he sprang to his feet, and again paced the room.

"What is my punishment?" he asked of himself, after some soliloquy.
"Social ostracism, perpetual poverty, interminable despair.  Yet, after
all, what have I done to deserve it?  I've not been more wild than other
fellows during the sowing of my wild oats, as old fogies term it.  No;
the simple reason for it all is merely because I'm a younger son.  My
brother has enough to keep him in luxury, whereas I had but a pittance
at most, and upon it was expected to keep up appearances and spend it
like other fellows.  I've done so, and now am doomed to pay the penalty
of poverty.  Even death would be preferable to the life before me."

He halted, suddenly impressed by the idea.  His face was pale and
haggard, and in his eyes was a strangely intense look.

"Death!  Why not?" he repeated in a hoarse whisper.  "I have no longer
any interest in life, therefore death would be the easiest means to end
my difficulties.  It would be all over in a moment."

Shuddering, he sank slowly into the chair, and resting his arms upon the
table, buried his face in his hands.

"Yes," he muttered in bitter despair.  "I've staked everything, and
lost, through my cursed ill-luck.  If I exiled myself it would be
running away from my creditors, as if I feared them.  No, by God!  I--I
won't do that; I'll choose the other alternative."

With a firm, resolute expression upon his grave features he rose, strode
quickly across the room, and, unlocking a Japanese cabinet, took
therefrom a tiny phial of colourless liquid.

Holding it up to the light, he gazed upon it with a curious smile of
gratification at having the poison in his possession.  Strange that a
man should laugh when about to take his own life; yet such is frequently
the case.  What is the motive that prompts him to smile when the grave
is before him?  What, perhaps, but the fascination of suicide.  There
are some men who at first feel like jumping from a high elevation into
the void below.  The feeling grows if at all indulged.  There is a
strange and, indeed, wonderful fascination in high precipices.  The very
fact that life can be taken is fascinating often to fatality.  The
majority of cases of suicide by pistol or by poison would not have
occurred if the weapon or potion had been absent.  Their very presence
keeps the temptation to use them before the would-be suicide with more
or less power.

In this case it was the same as many others.  Hugh Trethowen's lucidity
of mind, granting that there was mental aberration, could not have been
fully absent.  The fascination of rest, of a possible life beyond, of
dramatic sensationalism--all combined--may have been the chief
motive-power.

Nevertheless, he stood looking at it calmly.  He was bent upon his
purpose.

Lifting the glass of brandy and soda, he poured the contents of the
phial into it, afterwards tossing the bottle into the grate.  His hand
trembled a little, but by setting his feet firmly he overcame this
sudden nervousness, and looked around him for the last time calmly and
seriously.

"Well, here's health to my creditors, and long life to the men who,
posing as my friends, have ruined me!" he said bitterly, with a harsh
laugh.

Heaving one long sigh, he raised the glass to his lips.  He was
preparing to drink it at one gulp.

At that moment there came Jacob's well-known tap at the door, and he
entered, bearing a letter upon a salver.

Trethowen started, and quickly replaced the glass upon the table.  He
was confused, and felt ashamed of being caught in the act of
self-destruction, although the old man could not have been aware of what
the glass contained.

Without a word he took the letter, and Jacob retired.

Tearing it open impatiently, he eagerly read its contents.  It was a
purely formal communication from Messrs. Graham and Ratcliff, an
eminently respectable legal firm, who, some years before, had transacted
his late father's business, and who now expressed a desire that he
should call at their offices in Devereux Court, Temple, at noon on the
following day, as they wished to have an interview with him on a most
important and pressing matter.

He re-read the letter several times; then, without a word escaping his
lips, flung the contents of the glass upon the fire.

The letter puzzled him sorely.  He resolved to call at the address given
and ascertain the nature of the mysterious business.

It had saved him.

CHAPTER FIVE.

UNDER ST. CLEMENT DANES.

The office was small, dingy, and undusted, with a threadbare carpet that
had once been green, long rows of pigeon-holes filled with faded legal
papers, and windows so dirt-begrimed that they only admitted a yellow
light, which added to the characteristic gloom.

Before a large writing-table sat Mr. Bernard Graham, solicitor and
commissioner for oaths, interestedly reading some documents which had
apparently been taken from a black tin box that was standing open near
him.  He was a clean-shaven, wizened man of sixty, with scanty white
hair, a forehead denoting considerable self-esteem, a pair of small,
cold grey eyes, and an aquiline nose, surmounted by pince-nez with
tortoiseshell frames.  Attired in broadcloth of an antiquated cut, he
looked exactly what his clients believed him to be--a respectable family
solicitor, the surviving partner of the once popular firm of Graham and
Ratcliff.

"Hum! the dates correspond," he was murmuring aloud, as he jotted down
some memoranda, after glancing through an affidavit yellow with age.
"There can be no doubt that my surmise is correct; yet the whole affair
is the most extraordinary within my experience.  I wonder whether there
are any minor points that will require clearing up?"

Selecting another document, somewhat larger than the former, he opened
it, and readjusting his glasses, read it through slowly and carefully,
breaking off several times to make notes of dates and names therein set
forth.

"No," he exclaimed at last, as he laid the paper aside; "we must first
establish the identity, then everything will be straightforward.  It all
seems remarkably dear."

Leaning back in his writing chair, his features relaxed into a
self-satisfied smile.

"Some one must benefit," he observed aloud, his face again assuming a
thoughtful look.  "There is such a thing as murder through revenge.
Now, I wonder how I should fare if--"

The door suddenly opened, and a clerk appeared bearing a card.

"Show him in," commanded the solicitor, after glancing at it.

A moment later Hugh Trethowen entered.

Dressed fashionably, with a flower in his coat, he looked spruce and
gay.  The settled look of despair had given place to a pleasant smile,
and as he advanced with elastic tread and greeted the old gentleman in
his usual easy, familiar manner, it would have been hard to believe that
twelve hours ago he had been on the point of taking his life.

"Well, Graham," he began, as he put down his hat, and took the chair
opposite the solicitor; "now, what is it you want with me?  I've been
breathing an atmosphere of debts and duns lately, so, if any of my
creditors have been so misguided as to put their claim into your hands,
I may as well give you the tip at once that I'm not worth sixpence."

"Creditors are out of the question, Mr. Hugh," the old solicitor
replied, smiling, and leaning back in his chair.

"I wish they were," said Hugh fervently.  "Give me a recipe to get rid
of them, and I'll try the experiment at all hazards."

"You have no need, my dear sir,--no need whatever."

"No need!" repeated the younger man in astonishment, for the words
seemed like an insinuation that he knew the secret means by which he
intended to evade his difficulties.  "Why, what do you mean?" he asked
seriously.  "I tell you, it is pay or smash with me."

"I regret to hear that, but you will adopt the former course," Graham
replied mysteriously.

Hugh laughed sarcastically.

"That's very likely, when I have no money.  But, look here, what do you
want with me?"

"To impart some news."

"News!" exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested.  "Good or bad?"

"Both."

"What is it?  Tell me quickly," he demanded, with an impatient gesture.

"Simply this.  I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance."

"What inheritance?"

"Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly
cause you mingled pain and satisfaction.  Briefly, your brother, Douglas
Trethowen, is dead, and--"

"What!" cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement.  "You're
humbugging me!"

"I repeat, your brother is dead," resumed the old solicitor calmly,
looking intently into the face of the man before him.  "In consequence
of that event you inherit the whole of the estate."

"Good heavens, is this true, Graham?" he asked breathlessly.

"It is.  Therefore I don't think you need trouble yourself over
creditors any longer.  You can now pay, and wipe them out."

The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh
Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.

"But how do you know Douglas is dead?" he asked.

"There is little doubt of it," answered Mr. Graham coolly.  "Read this,"
and he handed him a newspaper cutting.

Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement.  The
statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man
found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr.
Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall.  Upon the body some cards
and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at
first been kept secret by the police.

"I can scarcely believe it," Hugh ejaculated at length.  "Besides, after
all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he."

"Not at all," admitted Graham, with a puzzled look.  "Of course, you, as
his brother, must identify him."

"Yes," said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred
to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body
taken from the omnibus.

"No time must be lost," observed the solicitor.  "The identity must be
established at once.  The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow."

Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.

"You see, I've not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be
unable to recognise him.  He has been abroad during the greater part of
that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably."

"Nonsense, my dear sir,--nonsense.  You would surely know your own
brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed," he answered decisively.

"And suppose he really is Douglas?"

"The will is explicit enough," the elder man said, pointing to an open
document before him.  "This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been
added.  In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr. Douglas
left the whole of his affairs in my hands.  Fortunately for you, he
never married, and the property is yours."

He felt bewildered.  Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with
immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had
contemplated suicide.

"Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?"

"None."

"Why?"

"Well--for the simple reason that I believe he is dead."

"That's an evasive answer.  Tell me the reason."

"Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr. Hugh.  You
may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of
the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to
commit it.  If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should
communicate with the police without delay," the old gentleman said
calmly.

"Then you refuse to state your reasons?" exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle
annoyed.

"I do, most decidedly.  All I can tell you is that I knew your brother
had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an
appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it."

"From that you conclude he is dead?"

"Combined with various other circumstances."

"Well, Graham, it's hardly satisfactory, you'll admit," observed Hugh.
And then he added: "Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I
can do nothing."

"Excuse me, Mr. Hugh," answered the solicitor blandly.  "You can go to
the mortuary at once and identify the body."

"If I fail, what then?"

"I don't think you will fail," replied Graham, with a meaning smile.

"You'll come and assist me?"

"I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your
indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;" and he
commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the
box.

When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into
his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.

An hour later they returned and reseated themselves.  "The whole affair
is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer
will ever be discovered," Graham remarked, taking up some letters that
had been placed upon his table during his absence.

"I agree with you.  It's a most remarkable crime."

"But, after all, what's the use of puzzling one's brain?" the solicitor
asked.  "You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in
luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?"

"That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive--I only say
supposing--now what would be the result?"  Graham shrugged his
shoulders, and his visage elongated.

"It's no use apprehending such a _denouement_.  You are absolutely
certain that the body is his, are you not?" he asked.

"I'm positive of it.  The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite
distinctly."

"Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your
brother?" he observed, regarding the young man keenly.

"I shall."

"In that case no more need be said.  We shall immediately proceed to
prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe."

"Indeed," exclaimed Hugh, with a light laugh, as he rose to depart.
"I'm in luck's way to-day.  A few hours ago I little thought myself so
near being a wealthy man."

"No; it must be a very pleasant surprise," the old gentleman said,
rising and grasping his new client's hand.  "I heartily congratulate you
on your good fortune, Mr. Hugh.  I shall call upon you at noon
to-morrow, and we will attend the inquest together.  Your interests will
be safe in my hands, so for the present good-bye."

"Good-day, Graham.  I'll expect you to-morrow," Hugh replied, and,
lighting a cigar, he went out.

CHAPTER SIX.

VALERIE DEDIEU.

"Look! there she goes!  Isn't she lovely?  By Jove, she's the most
charming woman I've ever met!"

"The less of her sort there are about, the better for society at large,
old fellow."

"What?  You know her?"

"Yes.  Unfortunately."

"Oh, of course.  Some frivolous tale; but I'll not hear a word of it.
Some people are never satisfied unless they are polluting a fair name,
or washing their neighbour's dirty linen."

"That's meant to be personal, I suppose?"

"As you please."

"And where did you make her acquaintance, pray?"

"Quite casually; a week ago."

"And you've taken her for three drives, and walked on the promenade with
her?"

"If I have, what crime have I committed beyond arousing your jealousy?"

"I'm not jealous in the least, I assure you, old chap," replied Jack
Egerton, smiling.  "But the fact is, Hugh, I've always considered you a
man, and never believed that you could develop into a brainless,
lovesick swain.  Yet it appears you have.  We've known each other long
enough to speak plainly, and if you take my advice you'll steer clear of
her."

"Why do you give me this mysterious warning, old chap?"

"She's bewitching, I admit: but a pretty face is not all that is
desirable in a woman.  If you're on the lookout for a suitable partner--
and it seems you are--I advise you not to make her your wife, or you'll
repent it.  Besides, a rich man like yourself can choose from among the
younger and possibly better-looking bargains offered by anxious but
impecunious mothers."

"Oh yes; I know all about that," replied Hugh impatiently.  "I shall
never take any advice upon matrimony, so you are only wasting breath.
The man who frowns at coquetry is often willing enough to wink at the
coquette.  I'm master of my own actions, and were we not old friends,
Jack, I should consider this abominable impertinence on your part."

"But, my dear fellow, it is in your own interests that--"

"Bother my interests!  Have another cigar and shut up!"

"Very well, as you please."

The two men, who were thus discussing the merits of a female form which
had just passed, were seated at an open window at the Queen's Hotel, at
Eastbourne.  It was an August morning, warm, with scarcely a breath of
wind.  The cerulean sky reflected upon the clear sea, glassy and calm in
the sunlight, while the white sails of the yachts and the distant
outlines of larger vessels relieved the monotonous expanse of blue, and
added effect and harmony to the scene.

A fashionable crowd of loungers were passing and reusing the window,
keeping under the shadow of the uses: for the fair ones who frequent
seaside resorts, presumably for health, never desire their faces tanned.
Now that the legal formalities had been accomplished, and Hugh
Trethowen found himself with a comfortable competence, he, no longer
world-weary, had recommenced a life of enjoyment.  It was a pleasant
reflection to know that his creditors had been paid in full, that he had
repaid the thousand pounds he had obtained dishonourably, that he was no
longer likely to be troubled by duns, and that his trusted servant Jacob
had been reinstalled master of his chambers.  He had spent a few weeks
at Coombe, and formally taken possession of the home of his youth; then
he returned and went to Eastbourne, having induced Egerton to put aside
work and spend a short holiday with him.

After this discussion regarding the lady, he sat back in his chair, with
a cigar in his mouth, looking unutterably bored.  Truth to tell, he was
a little out of temper; the weather was oppressive, and he hated
discussions, as he always argued that life was too short, and breath too
precious, to waste on trying to convince any one against his will.

As he sat there he gazed out upon the expanse of blue, and lapsed into
silent contemplation.

The object of his admiration, who had just passed their window, was
dressed with elegance and taste in a dainty pearl-grey creation of
Worth's, a hat of the latest French mode, the whole being surmounted by
a cool-looking lace sunshade, the tint of which served to enhance her
extraordinary beauty.

She was one of those women frequently met with in Society, whose past is
enveloped in a mist of uncertainty, yet they cannot be termed
adventuresses, for their adventures, as far as known, are nothing
extraordinary, and _les conveyances_ have always been respected and
rigorously preserved.  Men liked her because her foreign accent and
gesture added a vivacious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated
her because she was affable, fashionable, and _chic_.  Scandalous
tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but
had failed.  She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not
even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion.  All
that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set,
and was a conspicuous figure wherever the _haut monde_ poured forth her
children--at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on the _plage_ at Arcachon, or
the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.

"Let's go for a stroll, old fellow," suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing
his cigar out of the window.

"I've some letters to write."

"Oh, let them wait.  Come along."

Egerton's features were clouded by a frown of displeasure.  He yawned
wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.

They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the
pier.  Trethowen's eager eyes soon descried the object of his
admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently
engrossed in a novel.  She looked up in surprise at their approach, and
after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.

Valerie Dedieu, whose features were flushed--for she had been startled
by their sudden appearance--was certainly remarkably pretty.  She was
gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure
that any woman might have envied.  Her large, expressive dark eyes,
protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once
stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the
Frenchwoman.  The expression of her face was ever changing; now her
eyes, cast down demurely, seemed to indicate a coy modesty; now her
pouting lip betrayed a slight annoyance, only to be succeeded by a
charming smile which disclosed an even row of pearly teeth.

As Hugh gazed upon her he remembered his friend's mysterious warning,
and asked himself what evil could lurk under so innocent a countenance.

"I had no idea you were acquainted with M'sieur Egerton," she exclaimed,
suddenly turning to him.

"Oh yes; we are old friends," Hugh replied, smiling.

"Ah! what an age it is since we met," she said, addressing the artist,
her words just tinged with an accent that added charm to her musical
voice.

"It is, mademoiselle," he answered, somewhat sullenly; "I scarcely
expected to come across you here."

She darted a sharp, inquiring glance at him, and frowned, almost
imperceptibly.  Next second she recovered her self-possession, and with
a light laugh said: "Well, there seems some truth in the assertion that
the world is very small after all."

"There does, and encounters are sometimes unpleasant for both parties,"
he remarked abruptly.  "But you'll excuse me, won't you?  I see a man
over there that I know, and want to speak to him."

Valerie gracefully inclined her head, and Egerton, rising, lounged over
to the man he had recognised.

The moment he was out of hearing, she turned to Trethowen, and said:

"Then you and Jack Egerton are friends?"

"Yes; I find him a very agreeable and good hearted fellow."

"That may be."  She hesitated thoughtfully; then she added: "You do not
know him as well as I do."

"And what is your objection to him?" asked he in surprise.

"Hugh, yesterday you told me you loved me," she said, looking seriously
into his face.

"Yes, dearest, I did.  I meant it."

"Then; as I explained to you, I have many enemies as well as friends.
Jack Egerton is one of the former, and will do all in his power to part
us when he finds out our affection is mutual.  Now you understand my
antipathy."

"Clearly," he replied, puzzled.  "But I know Jack too well; he would not
be guilty of an underhand action."

"Do not trust him, but promise me _one thing_."

"Of course, I'll promise you anything to make you happy.  What is it?"

"That you will take no heed of any allegations he may make against me."

She was intensely in earnest, and gazed at him with eyes that were
entirely human in their quick sympathy, their gentleness--in their
appeal to the world for a favouring word.

"Rest assured, nothing he may say will ever turn me from you, Valerie."

She heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his answer.

"Somehow or other I am always being scandalised," she exclaimed
bitterly.  "I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, yet my select
circle of enemies seem to conspire to cause the world to deride me.
Because I am unmarried, and do not believe in burying myself, they
endeavour to besmirch my fair name."

She spoke with a touch of emotion, which she ineffectually tried to
hide.

Then, as Hugh addressed her in a tone in which respect melted into love,
she quivered at the simple words in which he poured forth his whole
soul:

"I love you.  Why need you fear?"

He uttered these words with a slight pressure of the hand, and a look
which sank deep into her heart.

Then they exchanged a few tremulous words--those treasured speeches
which, monotonous as they seem, are as music in the ears of lovers.  The
artist and his friend were by this time out of sight, and they were left
to themselves to enjoy those brief half-hours of happiness which seldom
return, which combine the sadness of parting with the radiant hopes of a
brighter day, and which we all of us grasp with sweet, trembling joy, as
we stand on the threshold of a new life.

And Valerie--forgetting everything, absorbed in a dream which was now a
tangible reality--sat silent, with moist and downcast eyes.  Hugh
continued to smile, and murmured again and again in her ear:

"I love you."

The pier was almost deserted, and, heedless of the rest of the world,
they sat enraptured by love, lulled by the soft splashing of the sea,
and bathed in the glorious golden sunshine.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AUT TACE, AUT PACE.

On the following afternoon there was held in the Floral Hall of the
Devonshire Park one of those brilliant orchestral performances which
always attract the fashionable portion of Eastbourne visitors.  The
concerts, held several times each week, are extensively patronised by
the cultured, and even the crotchety, who hate music, and regard Mozart
and Mendelssohn as inflictions, look upon them as a pleasant means of
idling away an hour.  This afternoon, however, was devoted to operatic
selections, and the hall was filled with a gay throng.

Trethowen had gone over to Hastings to visit some friends, and Egerton,
who found time hanging heavily upon his hands, strolled in to hear the
music.  As he entered, the first object which met his eye was Valerie,
who, dressed with becoming taste and elegance, was sitting alone,
casting furtive glances towards the door, as if expecting someone.

After a moment's hesitation he walked over to where she sat, and
greeting her briefly with a pleasant smile, took a chair beside her.

"Where is your friend?" she asked abruptly.

"He went to Hastings this morning."

"When will he return?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the artist carelessly.

"I suppose the attraction of your fascinating self will not allow him to
remain absent long.  Am I to--er--congratulate you?"

Her dark eyes flashed angrily, as she exclaimed in a low, fierce tone:

"You've tricked me!  You've told him!"

"And if I have, surely it is no reason why you should make an exhibition
of your confounded bad temper in a public place.  If you wish to talk,
come into the grounds," he said in a tone of annoyance.

"Yes; let's go.  I've something to say."

The conductor's baton was tapping the desk as they rose and passed out
upon the pleasant lawn beyond.  Walking a short distance, they seated
themselves under the shadow of a tree, in a nook where there were no
eavesdroppers.

"Well, Valerie, what have you to say to me?  I'm all attention," said
Egerton, assuming an amused air, and calmly lighting a cigarette.

"_Diable_!  You try to hide the truth from me," she said, her accent
being more pronounced with her anger.  "You have warned Hugh; you have
told him to beware of me--that my touch pollutes, and my kisses are
venomous.  Remember what you and I were once to each other--and you, of
all men, try to ruin my reputation!  Fortunately, I am well able to
defend it."

"Your reputation--bah!"

"Yes, m'sieur, you may sneer; but I tell you, we are not so unequally
matched as you imagine.  If you have breathed one word to Hugh of my
past, I can very easily prove to him that you have lied; and, further,
you appear to forget that certain information that I could give would
place you in a very ugly predicament."

"Oh! you threaten, do you?"

"Only in the event of your being such an imbecile as to reveal to Hugh
the secret."

"Then, I may as well tell you that up to the present he knows nothing.
Yet, remember, he and I are old friends, therefore it will be my
endeavour to prevent him falling into your accursed toils, as others
have!" he exclaimed angrily.

"Cursed toils, indeed!" she echoed, with a contemptuous toss of her
pretty head.  "The idea of a man like you setting himself up as Hugh
Trethowen's protector!  It's too absurd.  I wonder whether you would
still be friends were he to know the truth about you, eh?"

"It matters little," he answered sternly.  "You'll keep your mouth
closed for your own sake."

"What have I to fear, pray?" she asked impatiently.  "It seems you think
me a weak, impressionable schoolgirl, who will tremble under your
menaces.  Why, the worst accusation you can make, is that I have been
guilty of that crime so terrible to the eyes of the hypocritical
English--unconventionality.  Don't you think I could easily disprove
your statements, especially to a man who loves me?"

"Loves you!" repeated the artist, with a harsh, derisive laugh.  "He
wouldn't be guilty of such romantic folly."

"You are mistaken."

"Then I can quickly put an end to his fool's paradise."

"How?" she asked breathlessly.

"I will find the means.  If nothing else avails, he shall be made
acquainted with the history of La--"

"Hear me!" she interrupted fiercely.  "We are both past masters in the
art of lying, John Egerton; we have both led double lives, and graduated
as deceivers.  Breathe one word to him, and I swear that at any cost the
world shall know your secret.  You should know by this time how futile
it is to trifle with me, especially when I hold the trump card.  Hugh
has been your friend, but now he is my lover; and, furthermore, I mean
that he shall marry me."

The man was silent.

He admitted to himself that her bold, passionate words were true.  He
was powerless to give his friend an insight into her true character,
fearing the consequences, and knowing too well how relentless she was,
and that she would not spare him.

"If I carry out my intentions and tell him everything--"

"Then you will suffer, and in his eyes I shall remain immaculate," she
exclaimed quickly, watching his face intently.

Calm indifference had been succeeded by a wearied, anxious expression,
and in his eyes there was a look of unutterable hatred.  She waited for
him to answer, but he continued smoking thoughtfully.

"_Ne m'echauffez pas les oreilles_," she urged in a less irritated tone.
"You must admit, Jack, there are certain bonds between us that for our
own sakes must not be broken.  The folly of disclosing my past to Hugh
is palpable, for it would mean speedy ruin to yourself, and be of no
possible benefit.  Therefore but one solution of the difficulty
remains."

"What is it?"

"Well, I have already told you what form my revenge would take were you
to expose me, and I think you acknowledge that to tell all I know would
be most undesirable from your point of view."

He bowed in assent.

"I'm glad you admit the inefficacy of your attempt to bounce me," she
continued.  "I can suggest but one thing, namely, that we resolve to
preserve our compact of secrecy."

"At the cost of my friend's happiness?"

"At any risk.  But let me first assure you that Hugh's happiness will
not be jeopardised by the adoption of this course."

"There will be no--er--danger, I suppose?"

"What do you mean?"

"Men die sometimes."

"I don't understand your insinuation.  I confess I love him, so it is
scarcely probable that any harm will befall him if it is in my power to
prevent it."

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and frowned.  Then he
exclaimed decisively:

"Your words have no effect upon me.  I am determined he shall judge you
in your true light."

She glanced at him in anxious surprise, for, truth to tell, she was
unprepared for this bold reply.  She hesitated whether she should change
her tactics, as she was well acquainted with his obdurate nature, and in
her heart feared to lose the man whose tender passion she half
reciprocated.  But her quick, impetuous character quickly asserted
itself, and attained the mastery.

"You--you blighted my life!" she cried in a towering rage, her face
blanched with passion.  "And even now, when I have an opportunity, you
debar me from atoning for the past, and becoming an honest woman!  I am
not such a blind fool, however, as to bow calmly to your tyranny.  I
have already sacrificed too much, so I give you but one chance to save
yourself."

"To save myself.  Bah! you are talking nonsense."

"No, believe me, I'm not," she declared, her dark eyes flashing with
anger.  "Either you give your promise of secrecy now, at once, or before
the day is out I will give you up to the police."

Jack Egerton drew a long breath, and his countenance grew visibly paler.
He was cornered, and saw no possible means of evading the dire
alternative.  If he divulged the secret, it would mean disgrace, ruin,
even worse.

She smiled triumphantly at his bewilderment.  It was true, as she
assured him, she held the trump card, and was playing the dangerous game
dexterously, as only a clever, scheming woman could.

"Which do you choose?" she asked in a cool, indifferent tone, as if
putting forward some very commonplace plan.

"You're an idiot," he exclaimed in vehement disgust.

"I'm well aware of that fact, _mon ami_," replied she, with a
supercilious curl of the lip.  "Such a compliment is particularly
appropriate.  I was an idiot to allow you to have the freedom you now
enjoy.  Remember, however, I have yet a talisman that will sooner or
later cause you to cringe at my feet."

"Never."

"Then you must put up with the consequences," she answered calmly,
nervously twisting the ribbons of her sunshade.  "But I warn you, that
if we are to be enemies you will find me even more merciless than
yourself.  Your own folly alone will bring upon you the retribution you
so richly deserve."

"Bah! what's the use of being dramatic?  If it's a fight between us,
your record is quite as black as mine."

"Ah! you would have to prove that; but in the meantime I should have the
satisfaction of seeing you sent to penal servitude.  You have been
acquainted with me long enough to know that I do nothing by halves.  I
am determined that now, before we part, you shall swear to keep my
secret, or I will put you in a convict's cell."

"But think of the injury you would--"

"Enough!  Words are useless.  You must choose now."

Her handsome face was perfectly impassive; a cruel, sarcastic smile
played about her lips.

She had been watching his features narrowly, for the pallor and the
nervous twitchings clearly showed the agitation her decisive alternative
had produced.  Passionate love for Hugh Trethowen had alone prompted
her, for she saw that if this man gave him an insight into her past he
would turn his back upon her in ineffable disgust.  Hers was a Bohemian
nature, and she had led a strangely adventurous life, though few were
aware of it.  Her early education in the Montmartre quarter of Paris had
effectually eradicated any principles she might have originally
possessed, and up to this time she had enjoyed the freedom of being
absolute mistress of her actions.  Yet, strangely enough, now she had
met Hugh, her admiration of his character had quickly developed into
that intense affection which is frequently characteristic of women of
her temperament, and she discovered that his love was indispensable to
her existence.  There was but one barrier to her happiness.  Egerton
knew more of the unpleasant incidents of her life than was desirable,
and for the protection of her own interests she was compelled to silence
him.

From the expression on his face she felt she had gained her point, and
rose with a feeling of absolute triumph.

"Now," she demanded impatiently, "what is your decision?"

"Your secret shall be kept on one condition only," he said, rising
slowly, and standing beside her.

"What is that, pray?"

"That no harm shall befall Hugh," he replied earnestly.  "You understand
my meaning, Valerie?"

"It isn't very likely that I should allow anything of that sort to
occur.  You seem to forget I love him."

The artist was convinced that her affection for his friend was
unfeigned.  She was but a woman after all, he argued, and probably her
life had changed since they last met.  Her answer decided him.

"Well, which will you do?" she again asked, with an anxious look.

"I will tell Hugh nothing of the past," he said briefly.

"Ah!  I thought you would come to your senses at last," she exclaimed,
with a short, hysterical laugh.  "Then it is a compact between us.  You
take an oath of silence."

"I swear I will divulge nothing," he stammered.

Then Valerie breathed again, and it was impossible for her to hide the
satisfaction with which she regarded his words.

"Divulge nothing," she repeated, quite cheerfully.  "Undoubtedly it will
be the best course, especially as we both have hideous secrets which, if
exposed, would bring inevitable ruin upon us both.  Was it not Marmontel
who said `La fortune, soit bonne ou mauvaise, soit passagere ou
constante, ne peut rien sur l'ame du sage?'"

They chatted for a few moments, then moved away together in the
direction of the Floral Hall--not, however, before she exclaimed--

"If you break your oath you will bitterly repent."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

UNDER SEAL.

Surrounded by a thickly-wooded park, where the deer abound in ferny
coombes and hollows, stood the home of the Trethowens.

The house, to which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, was
an imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of Queen
Anne.  Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivy
covered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneys
backed by thick masses of foliage.  Striking as was its exterior, within
the arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort had
not been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never been
a distinctive quality of any of its masters.

In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, were
paintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of the
Trethowens, _Sit sine labe fines_, was conspicuous, while the rooms,
furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built,
contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.

Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.

During Douglas Trethowen's absence the place had been left with only a
gardener and his wife as caretakers.  The park had been neglected, grass
had grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens had
been allowed to become choked with weeds.  Though the whole place had a
potency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot was
the flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, its
lichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle,
with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzag
walks.  Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powdered
wigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or,
clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherds
with crooks in their hands.  Here, the scene of many a brilliant _fete
champetre_, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeous _beaux_ uttered pretty
phrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, and
were punished by being lightly tapped by fans.

Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen found
himself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion of
the house was in process of renovation, and the architect required his
instructions.

Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there a
week before his habitual _blase_ restlessness returned.  Only a few days
ago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he was
longing to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on the
morrow.

He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden in
order, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily upon
his hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour or
two that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers left
by his dead brother.

Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth,
lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him.  He
found little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, and
as the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illumined
the room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction in
making himself acquainted with his brother's secrets.

One by one he took the letters and digested their contents.  Many were
Cupid's missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting an
odour of stale perfume.  Some were tied together in bundles from various
fair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among a
heterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other papers
similarly uninteresting.

At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he sat
back, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.

"By Jove," he exclaimed at last, aloud, "Douglas must have had a variety
of lady friends of whose existence nobody knew.  And they all loved him,
poor little dears.  No doubt his money attracted them more than his
precious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to become
enmeshed in the matrimonial net."  And he laughed amusedly.  "Their
pretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, were
all to no purpose," he continued, taking up one of the letters, and
contemplating the address.  "What a disappointment it must have been
when he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine--
or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize.  And their
presents!  Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with the
jewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, and
other such trash mentioned in their dainty notes.  I suppose I shall
find the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for they
must have been forgotten as soon as received.  What strange beings women
are, to be sure!"

Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, and
exclaimed:

"Now I wonder whether there's anything else worth looking at?  Such
letters are quite as amusing as the comic papers."

He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for he
felt half inclined to burn them, as at best they were only rubbish.  It
was a pity, he thought, that such a fine old piece of furniture as the
Chippendale bureau should be used for no better purpose than to store
these forgotten and useless communications.  Again, why should he
harbour the evidences of his dead brother's flirtations.

As these and similar thoughts were passing through his mind, he suddenly
gave vent to an exclamation of intense surprise.  Withdrawing his hand
quickly from the bureau, he rushed across to the window in order to
examine more closely the object which had evoked his astonishment.

It was a coloured cabinet photograph.

He gazed upon it in dumb amazement, for the light revealed the pictured
face of Valerie Dedieu!

Evidently it had been taken several years ago, as the hair was dressed
in a style that was now out of date; still there was no doubt as to the
identity of the original.  With the exact contour of the features he was
too well acquainted to regard it as a striking resemblance heightened by
imagination.  He examined every detail with eager eyes, and was
convinced that the photograph was hers.  The colouring, so far from
altering the expression of the features, added a lifelike look,
enhancing the beauty of the picture.  The lips were parted, disclosing
even rows of small white teeth; the counterfeit presentment seemed to
smile mockingly at him.

"Valerie's photograph!" he ejaculated, running his fingers through his
hair, and gazing around in blank bewilderment.  "How could it have come
into Douglas's possession?  Strange that I should find it here, unless--
unless she, too, loved him."

"No," he added savagely, a moment afterwards.  "Why should I think that?
I'll not believe it until I have proof.  And then, after all, they may
not have been acquainted; the photograph may have come into his
possession in some roundabout way.  By the way," he continued, as a
sudden thought occurred to him, "I might possibly discover something
further."

Again he returned to the bureau, still holding the photograph in his
hand, and after a few moments' eager search drew forth a small packet of
letters tied with pink tape and sealed with red wax.

They had evidently been carefully preserved, for he discovered the
packet concealed at the back of one of the small drawers in the
interior.

With hands trembling with feverish excitement he took them to the
window.  Hastily he broke the seals, drew off the tape, and found there
were three letters.

He felt a sudden throb at his heart, a touch of suspense that was
painful, as he opened the first anxiously.

"Her handwriting!" he ejaculated excitedly, at the same time taking from
his pocket a letter he had received that morning from Valerie, and
placing them side by side.

The peculiarities of the fine angular calligraphy were exactly similar.

He read the letter.  It was disappointing.

Merely a plain, curt note, commencing: "Dear Douglas," making an
appointment to meet at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, from which place
it was dated and signed with the initial "V."

The discovery had wrought a great change in him.  He was not the same
man.  A cloud overspread his countenance, and he remained buried in
thought.

When he roused himself to glance at the second letter, he seemed yet
more melancholy.

It certainly was an interesting and correspondingly mysterious
communication.

Dated from 14 Rue d'Amsterdam, Paris, it commenced without any prefix,
endearing or formal, and bore unmistakable signs of having been hastily
written.  It read as follows:

_If you do not call before midday to-morrow I shall know that you refuse
to entertain any conciliatory measure.  Time does not admit of argument;
I must act.  At least, I must leave Paris to-morrow night, and even then
all may be known.  Fail to come, and I shall know you are my enemy.  If
I am unfortunate, rest assured I shall not suffer alone.  Take my advice
and seek me the moment you receive this, as it is imperative we should
arrange matters before my departure.  This course will be the best for
you_.

_V_.

"There was some secret between them!"  Hugh said to himself in a strange
half-whisper, as he finished the curious epistle.  "I wonder what it
was?  It is clear she had a very strong motive in her desire to see him,
and the letter, from its general tone, appears to relate to some
transaction in which they were both implicated."

Suddenly the words of Jack Egerton, when he had pointed Valerie out at
Eastbourne, recurred to him.

"The less of her sort the better," he mused, gazing out of the window
abstractedly.  "I never asked Jack what he meant by that mysterious
allusion.  Perhaps, however, he didn't mean it seriously, and only said
it in chaff."

He remained silent for some moments.

"Why," he suddenly exclaimed, "why should I believe malignant stories,
when there is nothing to prove them?  These letters are certainly
strange, yet, after all, they may relate to some purely matter-of-fact
affair."

Truth to tell, he felt half inclined to believe there had been a deeper
meaning in the artist's words than he imagined, and was stupefied in the
agony of mental struggle.  He stood rigid and confounded, gazing in turn
at the letters and photograph, utterly unable to account for the curious
and secret correspondence that had evidently taken place between his
late brother and the woman who had promised to become his wife.

At last he opened the remaining letter, and was astonished to find it
merely a blank sheet of notepaper, inside which was carefully preserved
a scrap of half-burned paper about two inches square.  Apparently it was
a portion of a letter which, after being torn across, had been thrown
into the fire.  By some means the edges had been burned, the remainder
being severely scorched.

It was written on one side of the paper, and the words, which were in
French, and in a disguised hand, revealed a fact which added interest to
the discovery.  Necessarily few, they were very pointed, and translated
they read:

_Our agreement... dies I will... meet in London... of that sum on June
13th...  Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard... defy detection
by_...

He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them.  The
small piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, but
it was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant,
for in two instances the orthography was faulty.

Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was a
promise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word "dies" seemed
as if it had connection with some dark deed.  Perhaps it alluded to the
secret referred to by Valerie in the former letter!  With tantalising
contrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, and
nothing but the few words already given remained as indication of what
the communication originally contained.

Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as of
considerable importance by his brother, or it would not have been so
carefully preserved and concealed.  So crisp was it in its half-consumed
condition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise it
would have crumbled.

Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from the
almost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet of
notepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.

In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly,
hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon the
extraordinary missives.  None, however, contained any reference to
Valerie, or to Paris.  When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, and
ordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, which
appeared of a business character.

Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stood
thoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and the
billets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.

The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determined
to find out its meaning.  Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valerie were
intimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appeared
as if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she was
leaving Paris by compulsion.

His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatred
towards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discovery
which might possibly lead to strange disclosures.

Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly.  We cannot tamper
with what is right and for the best in order to secure what is
temporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comes
with a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.

Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowen
little dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by a
strange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.

CHAPTER NINE.

DENIZENS OF SOHO.

A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling
blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.

Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel
attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs of
_caporal_ cigarettes of the most rank description.

Bateman's Buildings, Soho--where, on the second floor of one of the
houses, this apartment was situated--is a thoroughfare but little known,
even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity.  The wandering Londoner,
whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a
dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its
existence.  Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses
halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly
uninviting passage between a marine-store dealer's and the shop of a
small vendor of vegetables and coals.  He will then find himself at
Bateman's Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy,
squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a
hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.

It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode.  The houses, in
comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put
forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some
well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their
present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial
air about them.  Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the
inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.

Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant.  But Time,
combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even
cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have
now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more
conventional, if less interesting.  Notwithstanding this, it is still
the French quarter.  French laundresses abound in great variety, with
cheap French cafes where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or
grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine with _potage_ and three
_plats_ for less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at
every turn.

Within a small radius of Bateman's Buildings several thousand strangers
struggle for the bare necessaries of life--deluded Germans, Belgians,
and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado,
and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger,
and crime.

The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no
exception.  Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they
were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not
resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by
reason of their funds being almost exhausted.

They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling
paraffin lamp between them.

The silence was broken by the elder man.

"You must admit, Pierre," he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark
bushy eyebrows slightly, "it is no use sitting down and giving vent to
empty lamentations.  We must act."

Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet
black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather
melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good
looks which his features possessed.

"Why can't we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?" he suggested.
"If we wait, something good may turn up."

"Remain and do nothing!" echoed Victor Berard.  "Are you an imbecile?
While we rest, the chance may slip from us."

"There's no fear of that," Pierre replied confidently.  "My opinion is
that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to
ourselves."

"Bah!" ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten
years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and
disgust.

"Well, speaking candidly," continued Pierre, "do you really think it
advisable to do anything just now?"

"I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to
carry out our primary intention just at present.  In fact, until the
business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly."

"Exactly.  That's just my reason for remaining idle."

"The fact is, you're afraid," exclaimed Berard, regarding him
contemptuously.

"Afraid of what?"

"Of making a false move," he replied; and then he added: "Look here,
Pierre, leave everything to me.  Hitherto we have transacted our various
affairs satisfactorily, and there's no reason why we should not be
successful in this.  It only requires tact and caution--qualities with
which both of us are fortunately well endowed.  When it is complete we
shall leave this wretched country."

"As for myself, I shouldn't be sorry if we were going to-morrow,"
remarked the younger man morosely.  "I'm sick of the whole business."

"Oh, are you?" exclaimed Berard fiercely.  "What in the name of the
devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward?  We entered upon this
affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are
within an ace of success, you want to back out of it.  You're mad!"

"Perhaps I am," replied Pierre warmly.  "But you are too enthusiastic,
and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster."

"Disaster!  You talk like a woman," Berard exclaimed.  "How is it that
other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in a
_contretemps_, eh?"

"_Nom d'un chien_!  And what have we gained by them?  Why, simply
nothing.  You have been clever, it's true; but in this, if we don't wait
until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle.  And if we
do, you know the consequences."

"But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere."

"We must wait," declared Pierre.  "We ought to out of this wretched
rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably.  Do you think we're
likely to [unreadable].  _Je n'ai pas un rond_," he added in the argot
of the criminal circles of Montmartre.

Berard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.

"We can but try," he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting
it.

At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was
heard upon them.

"Hark!" exclaimed the younger man.  "She has arrived!  She promised she
would come to-night."

The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open
unceremoniously, and Valerie Dedieu entered.

Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they
met her in the street in broad daylight.  A common and shabby tweed
ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed,
dark-blue hat, battered and faded.

Her disguise was complete.

"Well, you see I'm here as requested," she exclaimed, as she burst into
the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged
old leather sofa.

"Ah, _ma petite lapin_, we're glad you've come," Berard replied, with a
smile.  "If Mahomet can't go to the mountain because he has no decent
clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet."

"That's so," she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a
chair at the table.  "I look nice in this get-up, don't I?  Pierre, give
me a cigarette.  You've apparently forgotten your manners towards a
lady," she added reproachfully.

The trio laughed.  The younger man did as he was commanded, and
gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.

"Now, how have you been getting on?" she inquired.

"Deuced badly," Berard replied.  "We're hard up and must have money."

"Money!  _C'est du rechauffe_!  Valerie cried in dismay.  _Mon Dieu_!
I've none.  I'm almost penniless, and must have some from you."

"What?" cried Rouillier.  "You can't give us any?"

"No, not a sou," she replied.  "An appearance such as I'm bound to keep
up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are
something enormous."

"Then how do you expect we can live?" asked Berard, with an injured
expression and violent gesticulation.

"I'm sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor.  You know better how to
obtain funds than I.  Live as you've lived for the past five years.  You
both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will
continue to do so somehow or other."

"This handsome _salon_ looks like luxury, doesn't it?" remarked Pierre,
smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.

"Well, certainly there's nothing gorgeous about it," she admitted,
laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.

Berard shook his head impatiently.  He did not care to be reminded of
days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not
at her visit.

"Look here," he said, gazing up at her suddenly.  "It's no use
chattering like an insane magpie.  What's to be done?"

"I don't know, and I care very little," she replied candidly.  "I want
money, and if I don't get it the whole affair will collapse."

And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent
unconcern.

"But how are we to get it?  No one will lend it to us."

"Don't talk absurdly.  I have no desire to be acquainted with the means
by which you obtain it.  I want a thousand pounds.  And," she added
coolly, "I tell you I _must_ have it."

The two men were silent.  They knew Valerie of old, and were fully
convinced that argument was useless.

Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with
all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled,
thoughtful faces.

"Would that sum suffice until--?"  Berard asked mysteriously, giving her
a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.

Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the
agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than
usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.

"Yes," she answered abruptly.

"Couldn't you make shift with five hundred?" he suggested hesitatingly.

"No," she said decisively; "it would be absolutely useless.  I must have
a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps
twelve months, longer."

"And after that?" inquired Pierre.

She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug,
replied--

"Well--I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or
another."

All three smiled grimly.

"How are matters progressing in that direction?"  Victor asked, with a
curious expression.

"As favourably as can be expected," replied Valerie in an indifferent
tone.  "If a woman is _chic_ and decorous at the same time, and manages
to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors."

"Have you seen the Sky Pilot?" inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.

"Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne.  He asked after
you."

"Shall I find him at the usual place?"

"Yes; but it would not be safe to go there."

"Then I'll write.  I must see him to-morrow."

"Why?"

"You want _le pognon_?" he asked snappishly.

"I do."

"Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid," he said ominously.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning.  "But you are
not very hospitable," she added.  "Have you got anything to drink?"

"Not a drop."

"_Malheureux_! you've fallen on evil times, my dears," she said,
laughing uneasily.

Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents
upon the table.  This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver.  The
former she handed to Victor, saying,--

"That's all I can give you just now."

He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back
in her chair whistling a few bars of a popular _chansonette
eccentrique_.

"Pierre," Berard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously
apostrophising the "_diable_," "we're in a difficulty, and the only way
we can obtain the money is by another--er--disappearance."

"What, again?" cried Valerie.  "Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast
enough already.  He's almost a skeleton now," and she pointed at his
lean figure derisively.

"I don't get enough to eat nowadays," declared he, pulling a wry face.

"Do stop your chatter, Valerie," Victor said angrily, "I'm talking
business."

"Oh, pardon, m'sieur?" and she pouted like a spoiled child.

"It's generally a safe trick.  How much would it bring in?" asked the
younger man of his companion.

"Two thousand sterling."

"Just the sum," interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her
enthusiasm.  "We'll divide it.  When can I have my half?"

"As soon as possible, but don't be impatient, as hurried action means
certain failure."

"All right," she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips,
and contemplating it.  "You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody
else," she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.

Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.

"What, are you going so soon?" asked the younger _homme de faciende_.

"Yes, it's late; and, besides, I can't go straight home in such a get-up
as this."

Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then
struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from
laughing.  When they grew serious again, she said--

"Now, one word; shall I have the money?  I think we understand one
another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don't we?"

Victor Berard nodded an affirmative.  He had decided.  "You will promise
me?"

"Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks," he replied.  "Of
course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans
boldly, it will be all right."

"_Bien_," she said in a satisfied tone.  "And now you can both come out
with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine;
for," she added, with a little mock curtsey, "I feel faint after all
this exertion."

"Very well," said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.

"We'll drink to another successful disappearance," Valerie said, patting
him playfully on the cheek.  "The dear boy will prove our salvation from
misery, provided he doesn't blunder."

"Not much fear of that," answered the young man she caressed.  "It isn't
the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly.  I know my work
too well to take an incautious step," he remarked in a low whisper, as
the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.

"That's all very well," muttered Berard, "but we can't afford to act
rashly, for it'll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at
best."

CHAPTER TEN.

DEADLY PAIR.

A month had elapsed.

In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria
Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden
shadows of silken hangings, sat Valerie.  Her attitude was one of
repose--deep, unruffled.  From the crown of her handsome head to the tip
of her dainty shoe she was perfect.  With her eyes fixed seriously upon
the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a
dozing tigress.  The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with
rich skins, was a fitting jungle.  With all a woman's cunning she had
chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic
folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and
diffused a faint breath of violets about her.

She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when
encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.

"I wonder whether he will come?" she exclaimed, aloud.

As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet
French maid, entered.

"M'sieur Trethowen," she announced.

He followed quickly on the girl's heels, with a fond, glad smile.

"I must really apologise, my dear Valerie.  Have I kept you waiting?" he
cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.

She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with
contemplative eyes as he rushed on.

"I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained
in the City upon business.  However, I've brought the dog-cart round.
The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb."

"Indeed," she said languidly.  Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she
drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright
afternoon.  "Yes, it is lovely," she assented.  "But you must excuse me
to-day, Hugh.  I am not feeling well."

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time
that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.

"Oh, it's nothing," she replied with a smile; "really nothing.  A mere
headache.  I shall be better to-morrow."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thanks," she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.

"No, no, at your feet; Valerie--always at your feet," the young man
replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head
back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above
him.

Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone,
two lines of an old French love song:

  "Non, ma jeunesse n'est pas morte,
  Il n'est pas mort ton souvenir."

But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the
burden of his melody.  With her little pointed chin against the rose of
her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.

"Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?" she asked suddenly.

He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.

"Yes, frequently," he said in turn.  "We have known one another so long,
that I look upon him as my best friend."

"Your best friend!" she echoed.  "Ah! that is to be regretted.  Then you
could not have known him when he was a student in Paris."

"No; tell me about him," Hugh asked anxiously.

"Although I knew him, I shall say nothing beyond the fact that his was
an unenviable reputation."

His lips were parted in surprise as he looked at her.

"My darling," he said, a trifle coldly, "you can't expect me to judge my
friend without being aware of his offence."

"His offence?" she exclaimed, with a start.  "What--what do you mean?
What do you know of his offence?"

He was astonished at her sudden and intense interest.

"Nothing beyond what you have just told me," he replied calmly, although
her strange agitation had not escaped him.

It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wished
to hide.  Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.

"Ah, I understand," she said; "I thought you were referring to--other
things."

The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strange
letters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother's
papers.  A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, in
an endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but each
time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her
annoyance.

Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton,
he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his
lips he regretted.

"Valerie," he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her
eyes, "I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted
with my brother?"

The light died out of her face instantly.  She turned pale as death, her
delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.

"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother
Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow."

"Murdered!" she cried hoarsely.  "Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?"

"Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident."

"_Dieu_!" she ejaculated, with a shudder.  "I knew he was dead, but I
was told he died of fever," she said in a harsh, low voice.

"Then you knew him?"

"No--I--we were not acquainted," she replied, endeavouring to remain
calm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.

Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled.  But it was only
for a moment.

"Strange that you did not know him," Hugh said in a tone of distrust.

"What caused you to think that he and I were friends?" she asked, rather
haughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.

He hesitated.  He was on the point of telling her of his discovery and
demanding an explanation, but he decided that such a course might be
indiscreet.

"Well," he replied, "I had reason for believing so."

"What was your reason?" she inquired, breathless with anxiety, as if
half fearing his reply.

He had determined not to tell her the truth.

"Oh, a very foolish one," replied he, with a laugh.  "It was a mere
fancy."

"Only a fancy," she said dreamily.  "Are you sure it was nothing more?"

"Why are you so anxious to know?" he demanded, raising her hand to his
lips.

"It's feminine curiosity, I suppose," she said, smiling.

"Well, then, I assure you it was only an absurd notion that somehow took
possession of me."

"An absurd notion," she echoed absently.  "Why, of course it is!  How
could I have known your brother when I have been so little in England?"

"You might have met him in society."

"No; believe me, to my knowledge I have never seen him.  If I had, what
difference could it make?"

"If you entertained any affection for him--"

"What nonsense you are talking to-day, Hugh," she interrupted, with a
little derisive laugh.  "I really believe you are jealous."

"Perhaps I am," he admitted; "but, you see, I love so well that any such
shortcoming you really must excuse."

He laughed inwardly at the glibness of his invention.

But her manner had suddenly changed.

"You will love me always, will you not, Hugh?" she whispered earnestly.

"Yes, dearest; of course I shall," he replied tenderly.  "I have spoken
unkindly--forgive me."

Bravely smothering a storm of rising sobs, she held him with both her
small hands until she had sufficiently controlled herself to speak.

"I thought a few moments ago that--that you no longer cared for me," she
said, with an effort, watching the effect of her words with wide-open,
earnest eyes.

"No, Valerie, you were mistaken," he replied in a low, intense tone.  "I
love you, and nothing shall ever part us."

They had risen, and were standing together before the fireplace.

For a moment she stared vacantly before her.  Then she threw herself
into his arms, and, clinging to him convulsively, hid her face upon his
shoulder.

"I love you, Hugh; I love you more than I have loved any man," she
murmured.

He strained her to his heart--a heart remorseful, even miserable and
unhappy.  Not even her declaration of love brought him a ray of
consolation, for the gnawing consciousness of some deep mystery
connected with her past, and the danger of their love for one another,
had crushed all happiness from his soul.

And although he was feigning love and endeavouring to console her, yet
there was no help for it--they were inseparable, their beings were knit
together, their hearts were one.

She possessed the fatal power of fascination.  He was under her spell.

With an effort to shake off the gloom that was possessing him, he spoke
to her words of comfort.

She tried to reply, but a great sob choked her utterance.

Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying--

"You must go, Hugh; you have been here too long, and I am not well
to-day.  I want to be alone."

"Yes, you are right," replied he woefully.  "I ought not to have caused
you this pain.  I am to blame."

Yet something of hope returned to him as he spoke, for she clasped her
arms around his neck, and, clinging to him closely, fixed upon him a
look of moving appeal.

Slowly she drew down his head towards her face, and then gave him a
warm, passionate kiss.

"Good-bye, Hugh," she said in a broken pleading voice.  "Remember you
have one who loves you more dearly than life."

"I've been a fool.  Forgive me for speaking as I did," he entreated.

"Yes," she replied, with a sigh; "if we love one another, why should
there be any mistrust between us?"

Why?  Had he not cause for apprehension? he asked himself.

But her arms were about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder.
The sweet perfume of violets intoxicated him.  In a moment he became
convinced that she was terribly in earnest, and was confident of her
intense affection.

"I have no mistrust whatever, darling," he said reassuringly, stroking
her hair with infinite tenderness.

"I--I am satisfied," she murmured.  "But tell me, Hugh, once more, that
I shall be your wife."

"Yes, indeed you shall, dearest; I care for no one else but you," said
he, with a grave look.

Her labouring heart throbbed against his as their lips met in a long
last caress.  His anguished soul invoked the blessing on her that his
quivering lips refused to utter, and he tore himself away.

He took one look back, and saw her totter a few steps after him with
arms outstretched, then stop.

Gazing upon her with a loving glance, he waved his hand, and passed out.

When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments,
looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts.
Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, and
sank upon it.

The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happiness
found vent in hysterical sobs.

"I hate myself.  It's horrible, and yet I am powerless," she cried
passionately.

Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE FOURTH PASSENGER.

"I think the trick is almost accomplished."

"So do I."

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes; but remember, we must keep very cool.  A false step means ruin."

The man addressed laid his finger significantly upon his lips and
replied--

"Of course.  I quite understand."

This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman's
Buildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valerie, and the
two men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were Victor
Berard and the Rev.  Hubert Holt.  In every particular they were
dissimilar.  The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-looking
rings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most unassuming
and orthodox cut.  Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasily
toward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the table
facing each other.

"Come," exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, "fill your
glass.  Good stuff like this never hurts one."

His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised his
head, and stammered--

"You're--you're right, _mon ami_.  Such cognac warms the blood this
weather.  Let's have another glass before we go."

He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curious
that when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed features
strangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.

Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, with
closely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-looking
face.  The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheeks
were flushed, and as he grasped his glass his lean bony hand had the
appearance of the talons of a bird of prey.

Berard and his clerical companion continued their conversation in an
undertone.

The Rev.  Hubert Holt, upon whom the international gang of adventurers
had long ago bestowed the sobriquet of "The Sky Pilot," certainly did
not, amid such surroundings, present the appearance of a spiritual
guide.  True, he was the shining light of the church of St. Barnabas,
Camberwell, where he held the office of curate, but as a clerical
luminary he was by no means of the chalk-and-water type.  On the
contrary, he could wink wickedly at a pretty girl, drink a glass of
"fizz," or handle a billiard cue in a style only acquired by long
practice.  Nevertheless, he was considered thoroughly devout by his aged
and antiquated vicar, and not having joined the ranks of Benedicts, was
consequently the principal attraction at mothers' meetings and other
similar gatherings of the more enlightened parishioners of the mean and
squalid parish of St. Barnabas.  They, however, were in blissful
ignorance of the character of his associates, otherwise it is more than
probable that the pulpit and altar of the transpontine church would have
been at once occupied by mother fledgling pastor.

"Suppose the whole business came to light?  How should I fare?" asked
the sable-coated ecclesiastic thoughtfully, after they had been in
conversation some minutes.

"Bah!  _Vous-vous moquez des gens_!  Besides, you are always safe,
surrounded as you are by a cloak of honesty.  I tell you, the game can
never be detected."

"Don't be too confident; it's a bad habit.  Hugh Trethowen may suspect.
_Il est degourdi_, and if he should discover anything, depend upon it we
should have the utmost difficulty in clearing ourselves.  Somehow, I
don't like the fellow; he knows too much."

"What nonsense you talk," replied the Frenchman impatiently.  "He can
never know the truth.  He loves Valerie, and you ought to know her well
enough to recognise her consummate tact and ingenuity."

"Exactly.  But why are you so positive that strict secrecy will be
observed?"

"Because--because the only person who knew the secret has been
silenced."

"Who?" demanded Holt in a hoarse whisper.

"Egerton."

The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor a
few moments.

"Well, I tell you candidly I don't half like it," he remarked
apprehensively.

"Content yourself; neither of us are such imbeciles as to run any risks.
Have you not already assisted us and shared our profits?"

Holt bit his lip.  It was an allusion to unpleasant reminiscences.

"That is so," he admitted, twirling the small gold cross suspended from
his watch-chain.  "And what is the extent of my remuneration this time?"

"One hundred pounds."

"The job is worth double."

"You'll not have a sou more, so think yourself lucky to get what I
offer."

"If I refuse?"

"You dare not," interrupted Victor in a changed tone.  "Think of what
your future would be if Valerie uttered one word."

"Yes--yes," Holt replied, with a fierce frown.  "I know I've linked
myself with you.  I'm your cat's-paw, however detestable your shady
transactions are."

"You always receive money for your services."

"Yes," he muttered between his teeth.  "Gold with a curse upon it."

Berard shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly and said--

"I suppose we shall each owe an ornamental wax taper to St. Jean le
Baptiste for to-night's manoeuvre."  Turning away he went to a drawer,
from which he took a card-case and some letters, placing them in his
pocket.

"Now, Sky Pilot," he continued resolutely, as he walked up to where Holt
stood, "are you ready?"  The curate held his breath.

"Very well," he replied, after a brief pause, "I suppose I must do the
bidding of my masters."

"It would be best--that is, if you respect your position as a holy man,"
the Frenchman replied, with a mocking laugh.

"Come, gentlemen," he exclaimed aloud, turning to the pair seated at the
table.  "It's time we started, or we shall not keep our appointment."

"There is no immediate hurry, is there?" asked Chavoix in a husky voice.

"Yes," Berard replied, "we must be at West Brompton at eight."

"In that case I'm ready," said he, rising, at the same time casting a
longing look at the unfinished bottle of cognac before him.  With
unsteady gait he stumbled across the room, and, with the assistance of
Pierre, arrayed himself in his overcoat and hat--not, however, without
some difficulty and much good-humoured banter.

The other men sought their outdoor garments, and descended the stairs
together, Berard remaining behind a moment to blow out the lamp and lock
the door.

A few minutes later they were strolling across Soho Square, which, at
that hour, was dismal and deserted.  A four-wheeled cab stood on the
opposite side of the square, and they hailed it.  When they had entered
the conveyance, Holt gave the coachman orders to drive to the
underground station at Charing Cross with all possible speed.

While passing along the more unfrequented thoroughfares the interior of
the vehicle was dark, and of this Pierre and Victor took advantage.  As
for Chavoix, he had arrived at the drowsy state of intoxication, and
quickly sank into a corner, where the rocking of the rickety old vehicle
soon lulled him into a heavy slumber.

Pierre, who was seated at his side, turned and grasped his hand.  First
satisfying himself of the man's unconsciousness, he slowly, and with
deliberate caution, unbuttoned his overcoat.  As he accomplished this
without rousing him, Berard withdrew from his pocket a card-case, a
folded paper, and several other articles.

Not a word was uttered.  With much dexterity Pierre also unbuttoned the
black frock-coat Chavoix wore, and, diving his hand into the
breast-pocket, abstracted an old morocco letter-case, with some loose
cards and about half a dozen letters.  Hastily glancing at these, he
transferred them to his own pocket, while, at the same time, Berard bent
over and carefully substituted them for those he had just produced.

After feeling in both pockets of the sleeping man's vest, as if to
reassure himself that nothing remained, Pierre commenced to rebutton the
overcoat.  While so engaged Chavoix stirred uneasily and uttered a
grunt, but a moment afterwards he subsided again into the dull, heavy
slumber of intoxication, thus allowing the expert pickpocket to
accomplish his task.

As the cab rumbled down Villiers Street, Berard grasped him roughly by
the shoulder, exclaiming in French--

"Wake up, old fellow.  Come; pull yourself together."

Starting, rubbing his eyes, and with a muttered and husky, "Pardon,
messieurs," he commenced a profuse apology for sleeping in their
company.  This, however, was suddenly interrupted by the vehicle coming
to a standstill before the station.

The four men alighted, and Holt, after a brief consultation with Berard,
took first-class tickets for West Brompton.

Pierre's arm afforded Chavoix a friendly aid as they descended to the
platform; for, although the latter was not sufficiently inebriated to
attract attention, yet his equilibrium was slightly disarranged.

When the train drew up they entered an empty first-class compartment,
and continued their journey westward, a decidedly jovial quartette.

On leaving the next station, Westminster, Pierre remarked that he had
developed a great thirst, and, curiously enough, Holt immediately
produced a nickel travelling flask filled with brandy, which he held up
triumphantly.  Amid the laughter which followed an assertion of
Chavoix's, to the effect that priests always appreciated good liquor,
Pierre took the flask, and, unscrewing the top, placed the mouth to his
lips.

Then he handed it to Adolphe.

"I'm so thirsty that I feel as if I could drink all that's in the
flask," remarked the latter.

"You couldn't do it in your present state," argued Berard incredulously.

"It's very strong," commented Pierre.  "I doubt whether you could drain
it at one draught.  In fact, I'm open to bet you half a sovereign that
you won't."

"Bah! it's just as easy as winking," replied the intoxicated man,
regarding the flask with a complacent smile.  "With m'sieur's permission
I'll drink his health."

"By all means," replied Holt, with a laugh.  "I'm really afraid,
however, that we shall be compelled to see you home afterwards."

"Never fear; I'm safe enough in your hands," he answered, with a grin.
"If there's one thing I'm more fond of than another, it's good cognac.
See!"

He lifted the flask to his lips, and drained it at one pull.

Scarcely had he done so when he uttered a loud cry of pain, clutching
convulsively at his throat.

"_Diable_! it's--it's stronger than I bargained for!" he gasped, with an
effort to laugh.  "I feel as if everything--why, it's all going round.
_Mon dieu_!  You have--"

He struggled to his feet, but reeled back upon the cushions, and in a
few moments was unconscious.

By this time the train had left St. James's Park, and was travelling at
a fair speed midway between that station and Victoria.

When it arrived at the latter place three men only were in the
compartment, and they alighted.  They did not speak, but hurried along
the platform as if unknown to one another.  Victor and the curate of St.
Barnabas gained the street.  The former jumped into a hansom, gave the
driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked
swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and
South Coast Railway.

Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange.
Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway
leading to the Chatham and Dover station.  Gaining the platform, he
glanced up at the great clock.  It was twenty-six minutes past eight.
Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket,
was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed.
Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment,
then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office
and purchased a ticket for Brussels.

"Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?" he asked of the man.

"Yes, sir; she leaves at eight-thirty, sharp.  This way, please."

They hurried together to where the train stood, and the man, after
depositing the valise under the seat of an empty first-class
compartment, received his tip and withdrew.

Pierre then entered, but before he had time to arrange his belongings
and comfortably ensconce himself the guard slammed the door, and the
train glided away on its journey to the sea.

Another had been added to the long list of London mysteries.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"A CROOKED BIT OF BUSINESS."

Mr. Bernard Graham was sitting in his gloomy office in Devereux Court
one afternoon a few days later.

His elbows rested upon his littered writing-table, his pince-nez poised
upon his thin nose, and he was absorbed in the technicalities of a
document when his lad entered with a card.

"I'll see him in one moment," he exclaimed, glancing at the card, and
the youth withdrew.

Leaning back in his chair his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful
expression.

"It's a crooked bit of business at best," he said, aloud to himself,
"but the money is bequeathed in legal form, duly signed and witnessed;
therefore, as far as I can see, nobody can prove to the contrary.  I was
rather apprehensive of the results, but, there--I suppose it was merely
an absurd fancy."

He touched the gong beside him, and almost immediately Victor Berard,
his face wreathed in smiles and wearing a gardenia in his coat, was
ushered in.

"So the preliminaries have been carried out satisfactorily," exclaimed
the solicitor, as he motioned his client to a seat opposite him.

"Yes--so far," he answered in excellent English.

"Ah!  I read the account in the papers, and saw at once you had had a
hand in the matter."

"Your shrewdness scarcely astonishes me, _mon copain_," replied Victor,
with a laugh, "especially when you knew that our exchequer was almost at
vanishing point, and that we had decided on repeating the little ruse
that has proved so remunerative formerly.  We have worked _a coup
perdu_, and, of course, all in the interest of the grand scheme."

"On this occasion there was no hitch, I suppose?"

"None.  There is not even a shadow of suspicion," he replied, dropping
into a whisper.  "The body, when discovered upon the rails half an hour
after we had left the train, was scarcely recognisable.  The post-mortem
revealed that the dead man had been drinking heavily, and the
intelligent jury have this morning returned a verdict of accidental
death.  Here's the _Globe_--just out.  Read for yourself."

He spoke between the whiffs of a cigarette, which he held daintily
between his fingers.

"Most satisfactory.  His death is believed to have been due to a fall
from the carriage.  But the identification?  You have not told me,"
asked Graham anxiously.

"He was identified by the papers upon him; therefore now the verdict has
been given, you will wait, say, a week, so as not to appear in too great
a hurry, then proceed to act as before."

The other nodded, and removed his eyeglasses.  His face preserved its
keen craftiness.

"Nothing will transpire later?  I mean nothing to our detriment."

"Nothing can.  It is absolutely impossible for the truth to be known
unless you or I divulge it ourselves, and I think that is not probable,"
he replied, with a mysterious smile.

"Scarcely.  It would be an ugly matter for both of us."

The Frenchman affected not to hear the reply.  He twirled his
carefully-waxed moustaches, and took a long, steady glance at his
well-dressed figure in the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf.

"Well, Graham," he said, "you know how to carry the business through.
Holt and myself are at your disposal any time you require us, but don't
delay a day longer than necessary, for I tell you candidly we must have
the money."

"I assure you, my dear Berard, I shall get the matter completed as soon
as possible, for despatch will be the best course for all parties
concerned, eh?  Besides, as a matter of fact--"

The sentence was interrupted by the entry of the clerk with a second
card.

Mr. Graham pushed the vestige of grey hair from his forehead.  He looked
puzzled and perplexed when he read the name of the person who desired an
interview; but, quickly regaining his habitual coolness, he intimated to
the lad that the request should be granted in a few minutes.

"Have you--er--anything more to say to me?" he asked, turning to Berard.
"I can do nothing in the matter for at least a week," he continued,
"but if Mr. Holt and yourself will attend here at noon the day after
to-morrow we can transact the necessary formalities, and take the first
step towards realising."

"That will suit admirably," Berard replied, with satisfaction.  "I will
not detain you longer, for I know you are busy;" and, shaking hands with
his legal adviser, he made his exit by the door communicating direct
with the passage.

"My most fervent hope is that our usual good luck will not desert us,"
the old solicitor reflected, when the Frenchman had departed.

Having again touched the gong, the door opening into the clerk's office
admitted another client--Hugh Trethowen.

"Well, Graham, how are you?" he exclaimed, gayly tossing his hat and
stick upon the table, and flinging himself into the chair just vacated
by Victor.

"Thanks, I'm very well, Mr. Hugh.  Full of business, you know--full of
business.  Now, what is it you wish to consult me upon?"

"A rather delicate matter."

The old man's face grew grave, and much of the hectic flush vanished
from his cheek.  Readjusting the inevitable pince-nez, he leaned back
and looked sharply at his visitor.

"A delicate matter," the solicitor repeated slowly.  "Any financial
difficulty--eh?"

"No, not at all," he laughed.  "It's with regard to a lady."

"Ah," ejaculated the solicitor, heaving an unmistakable sigh of relief.

"What I want to know, Graham, is whether you, as my late brother's
adviser, were aware that he was acquainted with a French lady named
Dedieu?"

So suddenly was the question put that it caused him to start slightly.
Although it was a poser, Bernard Graham was not nonplussed.

"Dedieu?--Dedieu?" he repeated thoughtfully, at the same time nervously
twirling a quill between his fingers.  "The name is uncommon, and not at
all familiar to me.  I--I'm sure I don't remember ever hearing it
before."

"You don't believe, then, that my brother ever knew such a person?"
asked Hugh.

"Well, really, how is it possible that I should know?" asked Graham,
with suavity.  "It was scarcely likely he would make me acquainted with
matters of that description."

Hugh plied him with several well-directed questions, but the old man's
memory was peculiarly vacant at that moment.  He shook his head,
reiterating his statement that his mind was perfectly blank upon the
subject, declaring emphatically that he never heard of such a young
person as Mademoiselle Valerie, whoever she was.

Such an element of truth did this statement possess, and so blandly was
it delivered, that Hugh felt perfectly satisfied.  For some time past he
had been very much perturbed by the curious discovery of the photograph
and letters, but his misgivings were now set at rest by this
reassurance.

"Well, if you really don't know her, I need not take up any more of your
time," he remarked, rising.

"I assure you, Mr. Hugh, as the trusted adviser of your family, it would
give me the utmost pleasure to assist you if I could, but her existence
is quite unknown to me," protested the old man.  "Was she a friend of
yours, may I ask?" he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his dim eye.

"Well, yes, Graham.  I have the pleasure of the lady's acquaintance."

"Ah, I thought so.  Young men are not so eager about a woman's
antecedents unless they love her."

"Form your own conclusions, Graham.  I've an appointment, so good-day."

Laughing gayly, he departed, the old man bowing him out obsequiously.

After he had gone, the occupant of the dingy chamber stood for a long
time before the fire cleaning his pince-nez upon his silk handkerchief,
thinking over the errands of his two clients--so strangely dissimilar,
yet so closely allied.

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
Valerie.

"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 of _diablerie_ in 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 Valerie 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, naive 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--"

"Valerie 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 Valerie 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 their _tete-a-tete_ was 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, Valerie!" 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 Valerie
merely called to have a chat."

Hugh's brow darkened.

"I think, as my affianced wife, Valerie 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 Valerie 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.  Valerie 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," Valerie 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 Valerie 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
Valerie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were."

"Are you aware that Valerie 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 Valerie.  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 Valerie.  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
Valerie.

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, Valerie!  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 the
_Gaulois_ newspaper.

"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 Debroeckere
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
of _flaneurs_ strolling 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 Valerie 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 wide _porte cochere_, 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 facade
was more imposing than that of its neighbours.

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

"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 Valerie.  "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 Moliere."

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, Valerie, 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 naively.

"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,
Valerie; 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, Valerie 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 Berard and Valerie were together in a hired brougham on their way
to the Theatre Moliere, 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, Valerie.  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 little _houri_.  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 a _fin de siecle_
girl.  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 nor _gauche_, 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 a _penchant_ for fast life, and who gratify
it without overstepping the bounds--who rub shoulders with the
_demi-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 cafe 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 the _jeunesse doree_, 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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

LAROCHE.

Upon a veranda overlooking the clear, rippling Ourthe, and protected
from the hot sun by a striped awning, Valerie and Pierre were laughing
and sipping kummel.  Lounging lazily in a loose-fitting cotton dress she
looked cool and piquante, while he, attired in a suit of light tweed,
with a soft felt hat set jauntily on his head, sat on the edge of the
table, smoking a cigarette with an air of insouciance.

In the whole of rural Belgium it would probably be difficult to find
scenery more picturesque than that surrounding the small town of
Laroche.  Ten miles distant from the Liege-Marloye Railway, it lies in
the very heart of the Ardennes, nestling beside the gurgling Ourthe at
the junction of five beautiful valleys.  Above, rise bold, bare crags
and high hills covered with sombre pines, while from a dark, rugged
height frown the ivy-clad ruins of an ancient chateau.

The little place is charming, although to the gregarious, who find
pleasure amid the summer turmoil of the Rhine, with its crowd of
cheap-trippers and overflowing hotels, it presents the aspect of a
veritable village of the dead.  Its inhabitants have not yet become
demoralised by the advance of progress; for, although a few rusticating
Belgians from Brussels and Liege and one or two English families visit
it during the summer, still its beauties are comparatively unknown.  The
streets are crooked and narrow, the houses quaint and old-fashioned, and
pervading the whole town is an old-world air that is distinct and
delightful.  Kindly, genial, and honest, the people are an average
specimen of the simple, rustic dwellers in the Walloon country, who look
askance at the increasing number of tourists who intrude upon their
solitude and alight at their unpretentious hotels.  Modern improvement
is almost unknown in this Arcadia.  True, there is a steam tramway to
Malreux, forming the link which connects the Larochois with the outside
world, but the place itself is still, quiet, even lethargic; in fact, it
is very much the same to-day as it was a century ago.  The dusty,
lumbering old diligences, with bells upon the horses, rumble through the
streets at frequent intervals, always stopping at the Bureau de Poste;
and it is so antiquated as to possess a guardian of the town in the
person of a _garde du nuit_, who blows every hour upon his tin
_trompette_ from eleven o'clock at night until five in the morning--
truly a relic of an age bygone.

It was a month since Hugh had left London, and the weeks that passed in
Brussels after the reunion had been pleasant ones.  He saw her daily,
and was only content when in her company, driving in the Bois de la
Cambre, shopping in the Montagne de la Cour, or taking her to the
theatre.  During this time he had been introduced to one of her
relatives--the first he had known.  When he called upon her as usual one
evening, he found a man some ten years her senior seated in the
drawing-room.  His bearing was that of a gentleman.  He was
well-dressed, wearing in his coat the crimson button of the French
Legion of Honour, and was introduced by Valerie as the Comte
Chaulin-Serviniere, her cousin.

The men shook hands, and quickly became friends.  At first Hugh was
inclined to regard him with suspicion and distrust, but on closer
acquaintance found him a genial, reckless man of the world, who was
possessed of plenty of money, and whose tastes were similar to his own.
Being apparently a prominent figure in Brussels society, he introduced
Hugh to various people worth knowing, and soon became his constant
companion.

Had he known that the Comte Lucien Chaulin-Serviniere was the same
person as one Victor Berard whose name was inscribed upon a rather bulky
file preserved in the archives of the Prefecture of Police in Paris, it
is probable that he would have shunned his companionship, and many evil
consequences would thereby have been avoided.

Blissfully ignorant, however, and confident of Valerie's love and
devotion, Hugh was perfectly happy as the weeks glided by, until one day
she announced that she was compelled to depart at once for Namur to
visit an aunt who was ill, and not expected to recover.

It was thereupon arranged that she should travel to Namur by herself,
visit her relative, and that the Comte and Hugh should meet her three
days later at Laroche.  The suggestion was the Comte's, for he declared
she was looking worn, and that a sojourn of a week or two in the
invigorating and health-promoting Ardennes would do her good.

Valerie left on the following morning, but the dying aunt was a pure
invention, and instead of remaining at Namur, she proceeded at once to
Malreux, and thence to Laroche, where she arrived after spending the
greater part of the day in performing the journey.  At the Hotel Royal
she found Pierre Rouillier awaiting her, for the meeting had been
prearranged, and it was for a more important and beneficial purpose than
exploring the beauties of the neighbourhood that Mademoiselle Dedieu had
journeyed so far.

Like everything else in the little town, the arrangements of the hotel
were of Walloon simplicity, and scarcely suited to patrician taste,
although there was a decided touch of novelty in dining at midday with
only the "beer of the country" as beverage, and suppers at seven
consisting of fresh eggs, the fare throughout being of a genuinely
homely character.

They were sitting on the veranda on the second morning after her
arrival.  Having finished their liqueurs, Pierre suggested that, as he
desired to talk confidentially, they should take a stroll in order to
avoid the possibility of eavesdroppers.  To this Valerie readily
acquiesced, and, having obtained her sunshade, the pair started off up a
by-path for a ramble up the steep hillside.

"You know your way about this place very well, I suppose?" she remarked,
as they walked together.

"Yes, considering I have buried myself here for several months, and have
no other occupation beyond strolling about or killing time in deserted
_estaminets_.  The winter here was most abominably dull; in fact, were
it not for your sake--"

"You mean for the sake of your own neck," interrupted mademoiselle,
smiling.

"Well, I admit it is not for your sake alone that I'm in hiding, but
personating a dead man has its drawbacks.  Within twenty-four hours of
leaving London I arrived at this sleepy hole, and my name has since been
Adolphe Chavoix, gentleman, living on his means.  From the time I first
set foot in the place I've never been five miles from it, and I expect I
shall be compelled to remain here for months, perhaps for a year
longer," he said dismally.

"Is it a safe retreat?"

"Safe!  I should think it is!  Why, I'm as well-known as the _doyen_
himself.  The rustics fancy I'm a decent sort of fellow, and I'm on
visiting terms with almost everybody, from the imbecile old Burgomaster
downwards.  Why, the police commissary of the district is one of my
closest friends.  Bless you, I'm as safe here as if I lay in my coffin.
But, tell me, what progress are you making?"

"As much as can be expected," she replied, taking his arm and leaning
upon him in the stiff ascent.  "I explained to you yesterday the plan we
propose; but, of course, it is highly dangerous."

"For boldness and impudence I've never heard its equal," declared Pierre
candidly.

"_Bien_, then you recognise how imperative it is that our arrangements
should be elaborated before the _coup_ is made.  There were many
obstacles in our path, but one by one these are being removed.  When the
course is quite open we shall act."

"He still loves you?"

"Yes," she replied with a grim smile.

"It will prove an expensive pastime for him," exclaimed her companion,
laughing.

"But profitable to us.  Think what it will mean if we succeed."

"We must succeed, sooner or later."

"Never draw hasty conclusions," remarked mademoiselle.  "One awkward
incident and the whole scheme might collapse.  Even now I'm almost at a
standstill for want of funds."

"Have you spent all the last?"

"Yes; and moreover, the man who furnished my place in Brussels two years
ago threatens to take possession because I can't pay him, while I have
heaps of other unpaid bills."

"Can't you sell your jewels?" suggested Pierre.

"They went long ago.  All that I have now are only paste," she replied
disconsolately.

"Wouldn't Trethowen lend you some if you told him some pitiful tale?"

"How could I ask him?  You forget that he believes me to be rich, with
the fabulously wealthy Comte Chaulin-Serviniere as my cousin."

"Rather a new character for Victor," laughed the smart young man at her
side.

"Oh, but he has assumed the part well, I assure you," she declared.  "He
looks after my welfare to just the right extent in the circumstances,
and his bearing and appearance give him the stamp of the aristocrat,
which is, of course, only due in some degree to the new suit he had for
the occasion."

Pierre laughed heartily.  He had never seen Hugh Trethowen, yet with the
instinct of the adventurer who wages war against those possessed of
money, it was a source of satisfaction to him to know that the victim
was falling an easy prey.

By this time they had ascended the Chemin des Morts, and were pausing at
the summit gazing upon the charming landscape outspread like a panorama
at their feet.  The spot itself was interesting, inasmuch as a quaint
legend is connected with it.  As they rested there he related it to her.
It is al

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