William Le Queux (continued 3)

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, Valérie and Pierre were laughing and sipping kümmel. 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 Liège-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 château.

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 Liège 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 Valérie as the Comte Chaulin-Servinière, 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-Servinière was the same person as one Victor Bérard whose name was inscribed upon a rather bulky file preserved in the archives of the Préfecture 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 Valérie’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.

Valérie 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 Hôtel 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 Valérie 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-Servinière 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 alleged that once on a time a Seigneur of Harzé, who had died leaving behind him an unenviable reputation, was being carried to his last resting-place in the parish churchyard, when one of the bearers slipped, and the body fell over the cliff, and then from rock to rock, till it reached the river. The affrighted mourners saw in this terrible accident an unmistakable judgment of heaven, and did not dare to interfere.

When he had narrated the circumstance they continued their walk, passing through a small fir plantation until they came to a time-worn rustic cross. Near it, and overshadowed by some large bushes, was an old seat, upon which they sat continuing the discussion of Bérard’s merits.

The shade was welcome after toiling up the hill, and Valérie, taking off her hat, allowed the soft breeze to fan her temples, while he lit a cigarette, handing her one also.

“I’m puzzled to know how we are to bring matters to a crisis without more money than we have at present,” she said reflectively, after they had been talking some time.

“That’s really a difficult problem,” her companion replied quickly. “Don’t you know anybody who would advance you a little?”

“No. Besides, it would be unsafe. We must now be exceedingly careful how to act.”

“There is only one thing that I can suggest,” said Pierre thoughtfully watching the smoke curling upward.

“How?” she inquired expectantly.

“Rook him at cards.”

“Ma foi! An excellent suggestion!” she ejaculated enthusiastically.

“You could work it easily enough. Victor and he will be here to-morrow, therefore I should suggest that I start to-night for Spa. You three can follow after a day or two. There you can meet me, introduce me as a friend, and then I can proceed to pluck him of a few hundreds. I’m quicker with the paste-boards than Victor.”

“He’s a good player, I believe.”

“That doesn’t matter. If you can persuade him to play, I’ll soon have some money.”

“My dear Pierre,” Valérie said, laughing, “he will do anything for me. I’m sure he would lose ten thousand francs without a murmur, if he thought he was pleasing me by tempting fortune. He does think such a lot of me that—that I sometimes feel inclined to love him genuinely. I’m almost sick of the base part I am playing.”

Her face assumed a serious look, and she sighed. Pierre regarded her in astonishment.

“What? Giving way to sentiment, now we have gone so far!” he exclaimed. “It’s all nonsense. To think of throwing up the game now would be sheer folly. Such a chance as the present does not always fall to our lot; therefore, it is only right, in our own interests, that we should take advantage of it. If you really love him—well, it will, perhaps, add to the realism of the incident, and won’t do much harm to either of you. But then, you’ve loved others before—in fact, you loved me once—yet now I’m nothing in your eyes beyond a willing assistant in your various little affairs. No,” he continued bitterly, “you have no real affection for any one. I am able to speak from personal experience. Yet you would bar our way and wreck our chance of making our fortunes, because you fancy you’ve fallen in love with this ass of an Englishman? You must be mad to think of such a thing.”

“You misunderstand me,” she said, her beauty heightened by the flush of anger that suffused her face. “Although I have neither intention nor desire to depart from the plan already laid down, I regret that it will be necessary to resort to the extreme measure in order to accomplish our purpose. That is all. As for your suggestion, it shall be carried out. You will go to Spa to-night, if you think there is no danger in the visit.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I shall run no risk. You get him to play, then leave the rest to me. Within a week the money shall be yours. What do you think of the suggestion of making him defray the cost of his own misfortune, eh?” he asked, laughing.

“Decidedly ingenious, but it won’t work!” shouted a voice in English, causing them to start.

There was a rustling among the thick bushes behind them, and next second Jack Egerton emerged into the path.

“Why are you here, spying upon us?” demanded Pierre, springing to his feet, and assuming a threatening attitude.

“Merely for my own information,” replied the artist, with perfect sang-froid.

“Then, I hope you have obtained the knowledge you desire,” Valérie said, her eyes flashing angrily.

“I have ascertained the depth of your vile scheme, if that is what you mean,” he cried. “You little thought I should keep observation upon your movements. For a fortnight I’ve been watching you in Brussels as closely as a cat watches a mouse. The ingenious tricks I learned under your tuition stood me in good stead, and I have now seen your duplicity, and discovered the extent of your infamy. You are playing the old game, the—”

“My affairs do not concern you!” she cried, stamping her foot angrily.

“My friend’s interests are my own.”

“Your friend—bah!”

“Yes; I repeat it. I have overheard more than one of your interesting conversations, and am quite aware of your nefarious intention. You are using your beauty to lure him to his ruin.”

“Quite heroic!” sneered Pierre. “This is indeed interesting.”

“Before I have finished you’ll probably find it more interesting, and to your cost,” he replied fiercely. Then, turning to mademoiselle, he said: “You think I fear you, but you make a huge mistake. When we last met you threatened me with exposure if I dare tell him what I knew of your past.”

“I did, and I mean it!” she screamed, with an imprecation in French. “Thwart me, and I’ll show you no mercy.”

“Then you will have an opportunity of exhibiting your vindictiveness,” he observed calmly.

“What do you mean? If self-conceit did not furnish its own buoyancy, some men would never be able to carry their load.”

“I mean that before to-morrow Hugh Trethowen will be upon his guard; he will understand the deep and complicated game you and your jail-birds of Montmartre are playing.”

“You—you dare not breathe a word to him.”

She spoke defiantly, her lips compressed, and her hands tightly clenched.

“Spare yourself,” he replied, waving his hand deprecatingly. “Threats are utterly useless. I am determined to acquaint him with your cunning plot.”

“The consequences will be upon your own head,” said she, with affected indifference.

“I’m perfectly willing that they should,” he answered, with a coolness that astounded her.

“When you stand in a criminal court you’ll alter your tone,” she declared, although unnerved at his willingness to face her vengeance.

“Possibly, when you accompany me there, you will do the same.”

“Oh! How’s that, pray?”

“Death is the penalty for murder,” the artist exclaimed meaningly.

“Murder?” gasped Valérie wildly. “What—what do you mean? What do you infer?”

“Nothing, beyond the fact that if you give me up to the police, you yourself will also be deprived of liberty.”

“Of what do you accuse me, pray?” she demanded haughtily.

“It is the business of the police to investigate crime, not mine.”

In a moment Valérie vaguely conceived that the power she had exercised over him no longer existed. It was possible that he was in possession of some information which removed all fear he had of her. Apprehensive lest he should have learned her secret, she continued to question him, in order, if possible, to ascertain how much he knew.

But he was as wary as herself, replying to her sarcasm with pointed retorts that puzzled her.

Pierre in the meantime stood silent and thoughtful. He, too, saw plainly that their scheme might be checkmated, and that they were on the horns of a serious dilemma. If Egerton imparted the secret to Hugh, the whole of their plans would be frustrated, besides placing them in a very undesirable position. Moreover, the artist had desired to know the reason he had assumed the name of Chavoix instead of his own, and inquiries upon that point, if pressed, might result in extremely awkward revelations. He was therefore trying to devise some feasible means by which to avert a catastrophe that seemed imminent.

“Then, you really mean to carry your threat into execution?” asked mademoiselle, after they had exchanged several sharp passages of words.

Jack Egerton declared that he did.

The colour vanished from her face, and she clenched her fists in anger.

“Dare to do so, and you will rue the consequences till your dying day. You little think how completely you are in my power, or the character of the evidence I hold against you—evidence which is beyond dispute, since you yourself admit your guilt. Remember that at once I could, if I chose, demand your arrest. If you provoke me, I shall adopt that course—”

“And expose your own villainy,” he remarked superciliously.

“I should adopt it as a measure of self-protection,” she replied, with calmness. “I assure you, however, I have no desire to resort to such a measure, and I have, therefore, a proposal to make,” she added.

“I have no desire to hear it.”

“Listen, and I’ll tell you,” she continued determinedly. “You know that I have certain evidence in my possession, which it is most desirable that you should destroy—you know to what I refer. Were it ever placed in the hands of the police, you would spend the remainder of your days in a convict’s cell. Well, my proposal is that it shall be placed in your hands on the day I marry Hugh Trethowen.”

“You—marry him! You intend doing so?” he asked in abject astonishment, for he had not believed her desirous of an honourable union.

“Of course I do. And I repeat that, in consideration of your preserving silence regarding my past I am ready to do what I have told you. If not, there is but one alternative, as I have already explained—imprisonment and ruin. It is for you to decide.”

This suggestion, the desperate device of a crafty woman, presented matters in a different light. It appeared to him that, after all, if she married Hugh she might reform and become an honest woman, while he himself would, by accepting her terms, render his own position secure. The proposal, he reflected, was one that required careful consideration, for he could not dispute the fact that he really feared her. He knew she could wreck his life.

“What is your answer?” she asked, watching his thoughtful face narrowly, and noticing with satisfaction his perplexity.

“I cannot give one now. I must think,” he replied.

“Very well. Think well over the matter and its consequences before acting rashly. I fancy you will come to the same conclusion as myself—that a policy of silence is wisest.” Turning to the young man beside her, she said, “Come, Pierre, we will return and leave him to his solitary reflection.”

Rouillier laughed at the other’s discomfiture, and turned upon his heel.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” she said, addressing the artist, making a stiff curtsey, which he acknowledged with an impatient gesture.

Then she joined her companion, and they retraced their steps through the fir plantation towards the drowsy little town.

“Your nerve and ingenuity are really marvellous, Valérie,” exclaimed Pierre enthusiastically, when they were out of hearing. “I should never have thought of such a scheme. We have got out of an ugly situation very neatly indeed.”

“Yes,” replied she confidently. “Qu’il fasse ce qu’il lui plaira. He’s afraid to utter a word to Hugh.”

And they both laughed gaily.

Chapter Eighteen.

Lips Forsworn.

The great ballroom of the Casino at Spa was filled with a cosmopolitan well-dressed crowd, who glided over its polished floor to the strain of a seductive waltz. The huge salon, with its white and gold decorations, its glittering chandeliers, its carved pilasters, and its enormous mirrors, was brightly lit, and presented a gay, dazzling appearance, the showy dresses of the women lending additional colour and animation to the scene of gay revelry.

Amid the ever-shifting crowd Valérie and Hugh, both excellent dancers, whirled lightly around, the smiling faces of both denoting perfect happiness.

Her evening gown, of pale pink filmy gauze, that bore the unmistakable stamp of the Rue de la Paix, suited her admirably, trimmed as it was in daring contrast, that upon a less handsome woman would have been voted hideous. Her diamond necklet sparkled and flashed under the glare of electricity, and this—although really only paste—was regarded with envious eyes by more than one woman in the room. As she leaned lightly upon the arm of the wealthy young Englishman, he thought he had never seen her beauty shown to greater advantage, and could not refrain from expressing his admiration in terms of flattery.

Although one of the most engaging little corners of Europe is assuredly the well-wooded, umbrageous dell in which nestles pleasantly the antique and old-fashioned watering-place, yet it cannot be denied that Spa itself has lost much of the gaiety and flaring splendour which characterised it in the wild gaming days of the past. In the Salle Levoz, where the gilding is faded and the hangings ragged, lords, dukes, and seigneurs of Louis XIV’s time, junketed, gave their fêtes, and danced minuets; while in the disused Vauxhall the older glories of balls, ridottos, and gambling went on night after night during the last century. But nowadays Monte Carlo attracts the knight of industry and the systematic gambler. Nevertheless, Spa remains pleasant and pastoral, notwithstanding the existence of survivals that speak mutely of its departed grandeur.

It is essentially picturesque, with its miniature Place, its imposing Pouhon, or “pump room,” its gay Casino, its luxurious Etablissement, its glaring Hôtel de Flandre, its “Orange,” and other pleasant houses of entertainment. Close by are the charming promenades under thickly planted rows of trees, quaintly termed the “Seven-o’clock” and “Four-o’clock” walks. Here crowds of visitors languidly wander, sit under the trees, or halt in groups listening to the music from the bands in the kiosks.

Spa is still popular with all classes of visitors, from the English nobility to the shopkeeping element of Louvain, Brussels, and other contiguous towns; and the administration of the Casino appear untiring in their efforts to provide them with amusement in the form of fêtes, dramatic performances, concerts, balls, and other means of enjoyment and dissipation.

It was at one of the latter entertainments that Valérie and Hugh were amusing themselves, she having introduced him to Adolphe Chavoix.

When the dance concluded they strolled together through the wide corridor hung with pictures, crossed the reading-room, and walked out upon the balcony overlooking the Place Pierre-le-Grand, where they found the pseudo-Comte Chaulin-Servinière leaning upon the balustrade, smoking.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as they advanced, “you, too, are tired of that close atmosphere. Faugh! I found it stifling.”

“You don’t dance, M’sieur le Comte, and therefore can’t enjoy it,” replied Valérie mischievously.

“Well, well, perhaps that’s so,” he replied. “But, by the way,” he continued, turning to Hugh, “why don’t you try your luck at the tables?”

“Oh yes, Hugh,” said Valérie, as if suddenly struck by the excellence of the suggestion; “let’s have a few games. It would be a pleasant change. Shall we?”

“I’ve no objection,” Trethowen answered.

“I should scarcely think you had, considering how lucky you were when you played with me at the Cercle du Hainaut,” remarked Victor, laughing.

“Fortune always favours the novice,” Hugh declared.

“Then let’s hope it will favour you again to-night. Come along,” urged Valérie.

When the trio entered the salle de jeu a few minutes later, they found the tables crowded with players indulging in some innocent games of chance. Play is never high at Spa nowadays.

The room was neither large nor luxurious. A few busts stood upon pedestals around the mirrored walls, the card-tables were ranged down the side, and at the further end was a chemin de fer, which proved the chief source of attraction to the less venturesome. The incessant tick-tack of the tiny train and the jingling of money, mingled with the hum of voices, peals of exultant laughter, and staccato curses, produced an almost deafening din.

After wandering about the room for a few minutes, and watching the chemin de fer, they found a baccarat table in the opposite corner. Hugh seated himself upon the right hand of the banker, while Victor sat upon the left. Valérie “punting” right and left indifferently.

For about half an hour they played, staking small sums, which the bank almost invariably annexed, tirage à cinq cropped up, and discussions ensued upon it. This question always divides baccarat players into two camps. There are some who, when holding five as the total of pips on the cards in their hands, will ask for a third card, while others will not. This dispute, which is of constant occurrence, has exercised the mind of almost every one who has tempted fortune on the tapis vert. Yet, after all, it is a curious one, for if one considers the matter it will be seen that the chances of improving or reducing one’s total by taking a third card are extremely doubtful. Gamblers, however, who believe in their good fortune, usually draw at five because they believe that one of the good chances will come in their way.

This was the course adopted by Hugh in one of the rounds. Up to that time he had been unlucky, and lost about two hundred francs; but, seeing that the count, who was an inveterate gambler, called for a third card, he did the same, with the result that he won back the sum he had lost, together with an additional hundred francs.

In several succeeding hands he adopted the same course, and although he was not successful every time, nevertheless he found he was not losing. As for his fair companion, she was apparently very unfortunate. Once or twice she won, but in the majority of cases she was compelled to pay. Victor played mechanically. He also lost, and the bank frequently raked in increasing piles of gold and limp, crumpled notes.

After they had played for an hour Valérie declared her inability to continue, owing to want of funds. Hugh offered to lend her a few louis, which she firmly declined to accept, and rose. He also got up, and, leaving Victor at the table, they descended to the large hall, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables, and ordered some wine. To Hugh the result of the play had not been unsatisfactory, inasmuch as he found on counting his winnings that they amounted to nearly two hundred francs.

“I’m passionately fond of baccarat,” Valérie remarked, as they sat opposite one another, chatting and laughing. “It’s so long since I played that I had almost forgotten the game. Had I had any more money in my purse to-night, I should most probably have staked it. Gambling, unfortunately, is one of my weaknesses.”

“Why not accept some from me, and return? You might perhaps break the bank,” he suggested, smiling.

“Ah no,” she replied; “I don’t care to play publicly. It is the same here as at Monte Carlo—the tables are patronised by déclassé women and half-tipsy men. Women who play in a place like this earn a bad name. I would rather play at the hotel. Adolphe will return presently,—he’s an awfully nice fellow, the son of a silk manufacturer in Lyons,—and we could form a nice little quartette among ourselves. What do you say?”

“I’m quite agreeable,” he replied. “You know, I alway obey your wishes.”

She looked into his eyes affectionately, and uttered a few endearing words in a low tone that could not be overheard.

Presently they got up, went arm-in-arm up the grand staircase, and re-entered the salle de jeu. The count was no longer there, but they soon discovered him standing in his former position on the balcony, indulging in a smoke under the stars. He had lost, he said; his luck had forsaken him after Valérie had left the table.

Then they told him of the suggestion to play at the hotel—a proposition to which he immediately acquiesced.

Hugh Trethowen, truth to tell, cared very little about games of chance, but for the amusement of his idol he was prepared to make any sacrifice.

An hour before midnight the four assembled in a private sitting-room at the Hôtel de l’Europe. Pierre Rouillier—or Adolphe Chavoix, as he was now called by his fellow-adventurers—had procured a piece of billiard chalk, and marked the table at which they were to play. The heavy curtains of the windows overlooking the street were drawn, and over the gas lamp was a lace shade which caused a soft, subdued light to fall upon the table, while opposite the windows was a large mirror reaching from the wainscot to the ceiling.

“Who’ll be banker?” asked Adolphe, as they seated themselves.

“Why, Hugh, of course,” replied the count. “He’s had all the luck to-night. Come, m’sieur, sit over there, and start the bank with your winnings,” he added, addressing Hugh.

“Ah, my dear Count, I expect my luck will change,” laughed Trethowen good-humouredly.

And, placing a chair for Valérie by his side, he took the seat indicated. He was not a practised card-player, neither did any apprehension of dishonest dealing cross his mind.

The game, he thought, was one of mere chance, and his opponents were just as liable to lose as himself. So he commenced by making a bank, and shuffling and dealing the cards.

The first few hands were uninteresting. Adolphe had arrived presumably from Paris only a few days previously, and had been introduced by Valérie as a friend of the family. As he entered heartily into every proposal for enjoyment, Hugh considered him a genial and pleasant companion. Overflowing with mirth and good spirits, he proved a much appreciated addition to the party.

At first the stakes were not high, and the fortune of the players were about equally divided. Hugh’s pile of coin increased now and then, only to diminish again, but never falling short of its original size.

After a time the count increased his stake, twenty louis being put upon the game. Neither player, however, could make the fatal abbattage, and Hugh continued to hold winning hands, and rake the coins into the bank.

The game was growing interesting, and so intensely were the thoughts of the players riveted upon it that time passed unheeded. Two o’clock had struck, still the dealing and hazarding went on, while Nanette stood by quietly watching, and now and then replenishing the glasses of the men.

At length Hugh’s good fortune forsook him, and a long run on the bank was made. For five hands his cards were useless, and each time he was compelled to pay, the result being that not a louis remained out of the pile of half an hour before.

Valérie expressed her regret at her lover’s misfortune, and after some discussion it was decided to make a fresh bank, Hugh, as before, to be banker.

In order to obtain the necessary money he left the room, Valérie uttering some words of encouragement as he did so.

A few minutes later he returned with several crisp English notes in his hand. Having converted two of them into louis, play was resumed. Again the fates were against him. He was flushed with excitement, and played carelessly. A number of successive rounds he lost to Adolphe, whose pile of coin as rapidly increased as his diminished, while much good-humoured chaff was levelled at him by his companions.

Then, for the first time, he recognised the amount of his loss, and determined, if possible, to recoup himself.

Flinging his two remaining notes—each of the value of one hundred pounds—upon the table, he remarked rather bitterly—

“It seems I’ve been overtaken by a run of infernal bad luck. Will any one ‘play’ me for the bank?”

“As you please,” assented the count.

“Ma foi! you’ve played pluckily, although it’s been a losing game.”

“It’s really too bad,” declared Valérie pouting. “But I expect when Hugh has his revenge he will ruin us all.”

“Scarcely,” replied Trethowen, raising his glass to his lips.

“How much is in the bank?” asked Adolphe unconcernedly, as the cards were being dealt.

“Five thousand francs,” replied Hugh, after a moment’s calculation.

“Very well, I’ll ‘play’ you,” the young man said calmly.

The announcement caused each of the quartette the most intense excitement, for it meant that Pierre had backed that amount against the banker’s stake upon the result of his tableau.

Every one was silent. Hugh scarcely breathed. He dealt the cards, and each snatched them up.

It was an exciting moment for all concerned, and there was a dead silence.

The adventuress exchanged glances with the count. Adolphe remained perfectly cool as he turned the faces of the cards upwards, a five and a four of diamonds, making a “natural” against which Hugh’s cards were useless.

With a grim smile Hugh pushed the two notes and some gold over to his adversary, and, rising from the table, exclaimed—

“I think, after all, I’d better have remained a punter than aspired to be a banker.”

“Never mind,” said Valérie encouragingly, as she gathered up her winnings, “your good luck will return to-morrow.”

“I shall ruin myself if I go on long at this rate,” he replied. “I shall have to send to London to-morrow for a fresh supply, otherwise I shall be hard up.”

“Not much fear of that,” she said chaffingly. “But it’s four o’clock, so we had better retire.”

He took her hand and wished her bon soir, she afterwards leaving with Nanette, while the men also sought their respective rooms.

It was already daylight, and Hugh did not attempt to sleep, but, flinging himself upon a couch, indulged in calm reflections. His loss did not trouble him, for he could afford it, but the subject of his contemplation was a conversation he intended having on the morrow with the woman who had fascinated him.

Had he witnessed the scene at that moment in Valérie’s sitting-room, the scales would have fallen from his eyes. On n’est jamais si heureux, ni si malheureux qu’on se l’imagine.

When the two men left him, they went straight to her.

“Well, how did I manage it?” asked Pierre, with a crafty twinkle in his eye, when the door had closed.

“Capitally!” she cried, with almost childish glee. “He doesn’t suspect in the least.”

Both men disgorged their winnings, and placed the money upon the table in the centre of the room.

It amounted to nearly eight thousand francs.

Selecting two four-hundred franc notes, she gave one to each of them as their share of the spoil, and, sweeping the remainder into a bag, locked it up.

“Pierre’s idea was excellent,” remarked Victor. “We wanted the money badly, and although the sum isn’t very large, the manoeuvre is one that might be worth repeating, eh?”

“That’s just it. The thing is so simple. I kept the winning hand concealed until the stake was large enough, then I played it.”

“You’re even smarter with the cards than I anticipated. Père Amiot didn’t teach you to manipulate for nothing; you’ve been our salvation,” observed Valérie.

“For your sake, mademoiselle, no task is too difficult,” he said, with mock gallantry, bowing.

“A little of that sort of talk is quite sufficient,” she answered, with a laugh.

The subject dropped, and for a few minutes they held a serious consultation, after which the two men wished her good-night, and departed stealthily along the corridor.

Nanette entered, and her mistress sank into a chair, reflecting silently, while she deftly arranged her hair for the night.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Strange Compact.

The morning was oppressive and sultry. Valérie, coming from her room, thrust open the window of the sitting-room, with an impatient exclamation, and sat with her elbows upon the window ledge inhaling what little air there was to be had. She lolled there, looking down upon the quaint street in an abstracted mood, for the men had gone for their matutinal walk after the glass or two of water at the Pouhon.

She was glad to be alone. To herself sometimes she appeared extraordinary and of an exceptional disposition, of the temperament of animals that are rendered faithful by brutal treatment. There were days on which she no longer knew herself, and on which she asked herself whether she were really the same woman. In reviewing all the baseness to which she had been bent, she could not believe that it was she who had undergone it all. She strove to imagine a degree of degradation to which her nature would refuse to descend.

As she sat, silent and thoughtful, the door opened softly, and a tall, dark, well-dressed man entered noiselessly. He was good-looking, with a carriage that was unmistakably military, and a carefully trained moustache. Glancing quickly round with eyes that had a rather fierce look in them, he walked over to where mademoiselle sat, and halted behind her chair.

“So I’ve found you at last, madame,” he exclaimed harshly in English, placing a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

The unexpected voice startled her.

“You!” she gasped, jumping to her feet and turning pale.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning against the edge of the table and thrusting his hands into his pockets with an easy, nonchalant air. “You scarcely expected this meeting,—did you, eh? Well, although it is a long time ago since you took it into your head to leave me, you see I haven’t quite lost sight of you. And, after all, it is but natural that I should be solicitous of your welfare since you are my wife,” he added grimly.

“Wretch! Why have you come here?” she asked in ill-concealed alarm.

“To see you, pretty one,” he answered. “Three years is rather a long period to be absent from one’s wife, you’ll admit.”

“Wife!” she cried in a tone of disgust. “Why not call me by my proper name? I was your slave, Captain Willoughby. You used me to decoy young men to your house so that you might fleece them at cards, and when I refused any longer to participate in your schemes you used brute force towards me. See!” she continued, unbuttoning the sleeve of her bodice, and exposing her bare arm—“see, I still bear a mark of your ill-treatment.”

He smiled at her indignation.

“It’s very pleasant to talk in this strain, no doubt,” he observed, “but you have apparently overlooked one rather disagreeable fact—that when leaving Cannes, you took twenty thousand francs belonging to me.”

“And what if I did, pray? I left you because of your cruelty, and I’ve not since applied to you for maintenance, nor even sought a divorce.”

“That’s true. But now you’ve had your fling, perhaps you won’t object to return to your lawful husband.”

“You must be an imbecile to think that I would.”

“What! You will not?” he cried angrily.

“No, never. I hate and loathe you.”

“That makes but little difference,” said he coolly. “Nevertheless, as a wife would be of assistance to me just now, I mean that you shall return to me.”

“But I tell you I will never do so,” she declared emphatically.

“Then I shall simply compel you, that’s all.”

“You! Sapristi! Surely I’m my own mistress; therefore, do you think it probable that I should ever return to be the tool of a miserable cardsharper? No; I left you in the hope that I should never look upon your hateful face again, and if you think it possible that we could ever bury the past and become reconciled, I can at once disabuse your mind. If I were a sentimental schoolgirl it might be different, but I think you’ll find me too clever for you this time,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t anticipate that I desire a reconciliation,” he remarked in an indifferent tone. “Valérie Duvauchel—or whatever you now call yourself—is too well-known to be a desirable companion for long—”

“You need say no more,” she cried in anger. “I understand. You want me again to entice men to their ruin. It is true that I am your wife. I curse the day when I took the idiotic step of marrying you, but I tell you once and for all that I’ll never return to you.”

“You shall,” he cried, grasping her roughly by the wrist. “You shall—I’ll compel you By heaven! I will!”

There was a look in his eyes that she did not like. She was cowed for a few moments, but her timidity was not of long duration.

“I defy you!” she screamed. “Do your worst. I’m perfectly able to defend myself.”

“Then perhaps you’ll defend yourself when you are arrested for the little affair at Carqueiranne. There’s a warrant still out, and a reward offered for your apprehension—remember that.”

In a moment she became confused, and her physiognomy, usually so lively, lost all its lightning glances. Her whole person seemed influenced by this unexpected and embarrassing announcement.

“Ah, I see!” she said in a husky voice. “Those are your tactics, are they? You would give me up to the police? Nevertheless, if you have no love for me, as you assert, why should you desire me to return to you?”

“I know my own business best,” was the abrupt reply.

“That I don’t doubt; yet you admit that it is best for us to be apart, although you are inclined to resort to the extremity of which you speak.”

“Who are the men staying here?” he asked sharply. “Friends.”

“Not very desirable ones, eh? I fancy I’ve met Victor Bérard somewhere before. If my memory doesn’t fail me it was in Paris only shortly before the affair of the Boulevard—”

“Enough,” she said hoarsely, for she understood that he knew of her alliance with the pair. “What does it matter to you who my associates are? We both have to seek our fortunes.”

“True, but I like to look after my wife’s welfare,” declared he, with a sarcastic smile.

Captain Percy Willoughby was a jovial ne’er-do-weel who smiled at his lot, and gave himself up to it heedlessly. Weariness, anxiety, neediness took no hold upon him, and when a gloomy thought came to him, he would turn away his head, snap his fingers, and, raising his right arm towards heaven in caricature of a Spanish dancer, send his melancholy over his shoulder.

“I can do without your attentions, although I’m prepared to negotiate with you upon fair terms,” she exclaimed, for she saw that it was only by skilful diplomacy that she could extricate herself from the ugly situation.

“What do you mean?” asked he in surprise.

“Business purely,” she replied calmly. “It was unfortunate that I married you, still there is no reason why the world should know it; and, moreover, as there is no affection between us, I am willing to pay you to release me from my bond.”

Willoughby knit his brows thoughtfully. He was not prepared for such a bold proposal.

“You have some scheme of your own in hand, I suppose?”

“That’s my business.”

“Well, how much are you willing to pay?” he asked, smiling at her suggestion.

“Twenty-five thousand francs—not a centime more. For that sum I require a written undertaking that you’ll commence a suit for divorce against me forthwith. You understand?”

She recognised that if she failed to conciliate her husband’s demands all her schemes would be irretrievably ruined, but her tact at such moments never deserted her, and she was determined that he should not levy blackmail upon her without strengthening her position thereby.

“You hesitate,” she continued. “Why, the whole thing is simple enough. I will supply you with evidence and witnesses, and upon the day the decree is pronounced the money shall be yours.”

“You must have some good fortune. Where will you get the money from?” asked he incredulously.

“What does that matter, as long as you have it? We shall then both be free.”

“What guarantee shall I have that you will pay me after I have obtained the divorce?”

“I will give you a written one if you desire it, so that if I depart from my word you will still possess power over me,” she explained, beating an impatient tattoo upon the carpet with her tiny slipper.

“Twenty-five thousand francs,” he repeated. “You want me to sell you your liberty for that, do you?”

“Yes, if it pleases you to put it in that way.” Then, with an air of unconcern, she added: “I merely suggest a bargain which you can either accept or reject. After all, it is, perhaps, immaterial.”

“Your freedom must be worth a good deal to you if you are prepared to pay that price for it,” her husband observed shrewdly.

“I desire to sever the tie, that’s all.”

“You enjoy perfect liberty,” remarked the captain. “What more can you desire?”

“I cannot marry.”

“Is that your intention?” he inquired, half convinced that this was the real cause of her conciliatory attitude.

“I really don’t know,” she answered unconcernedly. “Yet, even if I did, what would it matter if we were legally separated? You could marry also.”

The captain was a polished rogue, and fully alive to the fertility of his wife’s skilful devices. He knew she possessed an inexhaustible, imperturbable confidence, and was wondering what could be the character of the plan she was evidently bent upon carrying into effect. Twisting his moustache thoughtfully, he kept his keen eyes fixed upon her.

“I don’t feel inclined to accept your remarkable suggestion,” he observed at length. “You’re a clever woman, Valérie, and you never forget to act in your own interests.”

“Who but a fool does?” she laughed. His refusal was disappointing, nevertheless she preserved her calm demeanour, and, shrugging her shoulders indifferently, exclaimed: “Very well, I don’t wish to press the matter. I shall merely refuse to return to you, whether you obtain the divorce or not. Surely twenty-five thousand francs and your law expenses would serve as a panacea to heal your broken heart. However, if you won’t accept it, you’ll be that much the poorer.”

“Well, even supposing I desired to do it, I should be unable.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve no money with which to commence the suit.”

“Oh, that obstacle is easily removed,” she declared, diving into her pocket, and producing a well-filled purse, which bulged out with paper money she had won on the previous night.

Selecting three notes of 200 francs each she offered them to him, saying—

“These will be sufficient to start operations with. When that is exhausted telegraph for more, and you shall have it.”

The gamester’s impecuniosity caused him to regard the proffered notes with covetous eye. After all, he reflected, it would be an easy and profitable way of earning a good round sum. The prospect of being divorced from this beautiful yet heartless woman was not at all disagreeable. He might even make a rich marriage himself.

This latter reflection impressed itself upon his mind.

“Our marriage was a dismal failure—a miserable mistake. We hate one another heartily; therefore I’m willing to pay handsomely for the service you can render me. As we were married in London, you will have to return there and commence the suit,” she said.

Willoughby was still undecided, but at length the temptation proved too great.

“Well, I suppose I must,” he said, as he thrust the notes into his pocket after some further argument. “But won’t you give me more? To you a divorce is worth double.”

“No, not another sou. You can take it or leave it.”

He saw that to endeavour to obtain more would be futile.

“It’s agreed,” he said, at last. “I’ll sell you your liberty for twenty-five thousand francs.”

“Ah! I thought you wouldn’t refuse my munificent offer,” she observed, with a light laugh.

Rising and walking to a side-table whereon were writing materials, she penned the following lines in French, in a fine angular hand:—

“I, Valérie Willoughby, agree to pay Percy Willoughby the sum of 25,000 francs upon the day a decree of divorce is pronounced absolute against me.”

Blotting it hastily, she returned and handed it to him.

“That’ll do,” he said, folding it, and transferring it to his breast-pocket.

“But you will also give me an undertaking,” she suggested, for she was astute, and determined that he should not have absolute power over her in the event of the collusion being discovered.

“As you please,” replied her husband, after a moment’s hesitation, and seating himself, he wrote an agreement promising to obtain the decree in consideration of the sum stated.

Once more Valérie had triumphed.

She had thought, on her husband’s sudden appearance, that she had encountered that grain of sand which had before brought her to the ground, yet her audacity had conquered.

“Fool!” thought she, as his pen travelled over the paper. “He will be glad afterwards to buy back each drop of ink with his own blood. How dear a pen-stroke may cost one!”

Captain Willoughby, late of Her Majesty’s 10th Hussars, had given way before a flood of adverse circumstances. Voluntarily, insolently, he flung away his pride and his past. He abandoned himself to that infernal thing, temptation; yet, after all, he had long ago sacrificed all that was sincere and grand in his nature. He cared nothing to what depth of dishonour he descended, as long as he obtained money.

“You will depart at once,” she said imperatively, “and leave me to my own devices. You can write to me at Brussels, and I will see that witnesses are in attendance when the case is heard. Don’t remain here any longer, for my friends may return at any moment, and must not discover you. Listen! There’s some one coming along the corridor now. Quick!—go!” Snatching a card from a dainty mother-of-pearl case, she gave it to him, adding: “You’ll find my address on this. Write to me. Next time we meet we shall not be man and wife.”

“Good-bye, Valérie. May the future be more lucky than the past. Depend upon it, I shall call upon you for payment at a date not far distant,” said the captain; and, taking up his hat and stick, hurriedly left the room, closing the door behind him.

His rapid exit was needless, as Hugh Trethowen and his companions had not yet returned.

When he had gone, Valérie’s beautiful but pale face was illuminated by a smile of joy. She had proved the victor; she had, by sheer force of will, decreed and, as it were, realised the impossible. Was she not right to believe in audacity, in the absolute disdain of all law, since success was hers in this conflict in which the odds had been so terribly against her? She felt absolutely gay.

Leaning out of the window watching the passers-by, and gazing away over the superb valley—a peaceful sunlit, rejuvenescent prospect—she said aloud to herself—

“Who, I wonder, invented remorse? What is folly, remorse—the bugbear of man? It scares, but it doesn’t bite. What foolery—conscience! I’ve my conscience and my heart like everybody else, but why should I reflect over what I’ve just done? After all, it is nothing—a mere commonplace transaction which will add considerably to my safety and well-being. Percy renders me a service, and I pay him dearly for it. Hurrah for life! What a magnificent morning!”

Chapter Twenty.

Winged Hours.

Sheltered from the blazing afternoon sun, Trethowen and Valérie were seated together under one of the ancient elms in the picturesque Promenade de Sept Heures. It was the hour when visitors lounge in the glade listening to the band and sip absinthe, while their children amuse themselves on the asphalte of the great covered promenade. The end of the long, shady avenue is quiet and secluded at this time of the day, as the exit is only a footpath ascending the steep hillside, and few persons come that way, the majority being attracted towards the music pavilion.

Valérie, always daintily attired, looked charming in a cool light dress of some soft material, which clung in graceful folds about her, and a large drooping hat composed entirely of flowers. She was serious, hesitating, and scraped the gravel aimlessly with the ferrule of her sunshade.

“Ah, you don’t know, Hugh,” she exclaimed, with a sigh, in reply to a question. “I—I’ve been horribly unhappy.”

“Unhappy,” he repeated in astonishment. “Why, what’s the cause? You have life, gaiety, freedom—everything conducive to contentment.”

“That’s true,” she answered. “But the past—I must strive to forget it. My whole life has been a series of dire misfortunes—an existence wasted because, until the present, I have never found one whom I could love.”

“You really care for me, then?” he asked, looking earnestly into her fine eyes. “You will marry me at once, as you promised a moment ago?”

“Yes, dear,” she said, her face relaxing into a glad smile. “I feel that, however unpropitious the past may have been, this is the turning-point in my life. Men I have hitherto known have all been hard-hearted and ready to hear me maligned, but you have sympathised with me in my unloved and defenceless position, and I cannot doubt that we shall be happy together.”

“Why, of course we shall,” he declared, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her through her flimsy veil. “I’m growing impatient to return to Coombe and settle down comfortably. The hollowness of life in a place like this palls upon one.”

“Yes; I, too, am getting tired of it. I shall be pleased to go with you to your home. From the photographs it must be a lovely old place.”

“Its antiqueness is its greatest charm,” he replied. “But tell me why are you so unhappy?”

“Well, would you like to know the truth?” she asked, with a nervous little laugh.

“Of course I should.”

“Then it was because I half-feared you did not care for me sufficiently to make me your wife,” she said hesitatingly.

“And that caused you all this unhappiness? Well, now you know the truth,” he added gayly, “there need be no more fear on that score. We will return to England and be married as soon as possible. Are you agreeable?”

Replying in the affirmative, she raised her face to his and kissed him affectionately, almost sadly.

As she withdrew her lips her teeth were firmly set, for, after all, she thought, was she not participating in a base plot and acting in a vile, despicable character? Yet, notwithstanding, she had caught herself actually imbued with genuine affection for this man she was pretending to love. She, a butterfly of fashion, who had been the evil genius of more than one man who had fallen victim to her charms, actually struggled with her conscience.

Drawing a deep breath between her teeth, she hesitated. Hugh attributed it to agitation; he little suspected that it was an effort to remain firm and carry out a nefarious scheme.

He was weak and captivated by her pretty face, she knew; still, after all, she could not deny that she, too, loved him, and for the moment she hated herself for practising such vile deception.

Although a cunning, crafty woman, recognising no law, either of God or man, all sense of honour had not yet been quite obliterated by the many clever plots and base schemes in which she had participated. All her youthful enthusiasm came to life again; the heart which she had thought dead, beat as it had never before done at the voice and smile of this strong, gentle, loyal-hearted man. Her love for him was silent but passionate; she adored him without telling herself that her right to love had long ago been forfeited.

Her beautiful oval face was calm and pale, faultless as that of an Italian Madonna, while her brilliant eyes received additional radiance from the lustre of her dark hair. She forgot her past; she felt as if she never had but one name upon her ruddy pouting lips—that of Hugh.

And he sat beside her, saying—

“I love you—I love you!”

On both sides it was a blind infatuation. Agony and torture she underwent as she put to herself the momentous question—Was she justified in accepting, when acceptance meant ruin? Was it just? Was it natural? Were the horrible passages of her life to haunt her, sleeping and waking, to madden her with their hideous vividness? Had her past deprived her of her right to live—of her right to love?

Hugh told himself that he had found his very ideal: his dreams, his faith, and love in all that is noble and upright in Valérie’s mind, heart, eyes, and tone. She seemed to promise him the commencement of a new existence. With her he might again be happy; he would have some one to enter into his feelings, stand by him, and bestow on him that true affection that all men seek, but few, alas! find. He loved her with all the strength of his being.

Suddenly a thought flashed across Valérie’s mind, and her resolution became concentrated on it. These were different manifestations of her dual nature. In a moment her lips were set firmly, and seemed silently to defy the feelings of affection that had just been stirred so strangely within her. She was contracting a debt to be paid for by a terrible penalty.

A glowing sunbeam, penetrating the thick foliage overhead, bathed the handsome Frenchwoman’s light dress and olive cheeks with light, flecking the warm-tinted gravel on the walk. The distant band had paused. The deep silence of the avenue was broken only now and then by the low murmur of the trees. She revelled in the warm atmosphere, and felt lulled by the faint music of the rustling leaves. He, too, was lost in contemplation. In this green nook, with its gnarled trunks and fragments of blue sky revealed through the foliage, he felt far away from the world, as dreamy as if floating on a lake, as he abandoned himself to the enjoyment of the splendid afternoon.

“Then it is settled,” he said, at last. “We will be married in London as soon as you can obtain your trousseau.”

Had they not been so oblivious of their surroundings, it is probable they would have observed a man, half concealed behind a neighbouring tree, who had been keeping a close watch upon them. Creeping cautiously from his hiding-place, he drew himself up, and walked towards them with a pleasant smile on his face. It was Adolphe Chavoix.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, as they looked up and recognised him, “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. The Count wants us to drive to the Cascade. Come along, there’s not a moment to lose, or we shan’t be back in time for table d’hôte. Why, you’ve hidden yourselves all the afternoon.”

“We plead guilty to the indictment, old fellow,” Hugh replied, jumping to his feet enthusiastically. “The fact is, I’ve spent the afternoon very profitably, for I’ve won a wife.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise, raising his eyebrows, and exchanging a quick glance with mademoiselle.

“Yes, Valérie has consented to marry me. We leave this place to-morrow, and shall be married in London within a month.”

“Bravo! I congratulate you both,” he said, grasping Trethowen’s hand, and raising his hat politely to mademoiselle.

“Thanks, Adolphe,” replied Hugh. “All I desire is that our future may be as bright and cloudless as to-day.”

“What can mar it? Why, nothing! You and Valérie love one another—I suspected it from the first,” he remarked, laughing. “You will marry, settle down in comfort and happiness, and grow old and grey, like—like the couple in your English song—Darby and Joan.”

They laughed merrily in chorus.

“I don’t much admire your prophecy. It’s bad form to speak of a woman growing old,” observed Valérie reprovingly. “Nevertheless, I’m confident we shall be as happy as the pair in the song. And when we’re married, I’m sure Hugh will welcome you as one of our dearest friends.”

“Of course,” answered Trethowen. “Adolphe and the Count will always be welcome at Coombe. By Jove, when I get them down there I’ll have my revenge at baccarat, too.”

“Why, look, here’s the Count coming after us,” exclaimed Valérie, suddenly catching sight of a distant figure in a grey tweed suit and white waistcoat. “Come, let’s go and meet him.”

So the trio started off in that direction.

After meeting him they emerged from the avenue into the Place Royale, and Trethowen left them for a moment to purchase some cigars.

“I’ve had a visitor to-day,” mademoiselle exclaimed, as she strolled on with Victor and Pierre; “some one you both know.”

“Who?” asked the men eagerly.

“Willoughby.”

“Willoughby!” gasped Bérard, halting in amazement. “Then he has tracked us! He must be silenced.”

“Don’t act rashly,” remarked Valérie coolly. “You forget there’s a bond between us that renders it extremely undesirable that he should divulge anything. For the present, at least, we are quite safe. I’ve effected a compromise with him which is just as binding on one side as on the other. After all, when everything is considered, our prospects have never been rosier than they are at this moment.”

“But Willoughby. He can ruin us if he chooses. He knows of the affair at Carqueiranne.”

“And what if he does? How could he prove who did it? If he knew, don’t you think he would have had the reward long ago?” she argued.

“Has he seen Trethowen?”

“No; if he had, the circumstances might be different,” she replied coolly.

“Keep them apart. They must not meet, for reasons you well understand,” he said significantly; for, truth to tell, he feared the captain more than he did his Satanic Majesty himself.

“Of course, a recognition would be decidedly awkward,” she admitted; “but they are not likely to see one another—at least, not yet. Up to the present my diplomacy has proved effectual. With regard to the ugly incidents which you mentioned, have I not coerced Jack Egerton into silence, and my husband, he is—”

“Here, by your side, dearest,” a voice added, finishing the sentence.

Starting, she turned, to find to her dismay and embarrassment that Hugh had returned unnoticed, and was standing at her elbow.

“Why, you really frightened me,” she said nervously, with a forced, harsh laugh. “I was explaining to the Count the reason I prefer living in England after our marriage. He says we ought to live in Paris.”

“Oh,” Hugh said indifferently, but made no further remark.

Mademoiselle and her companion were serious and apprehensive lest he had overheard their conversation.

Crossing the Place, they continued their walk in silence.

As they entered the hotel a letter from Egerton was handed to Hugh. When alone in his room he opened it, and found it was dated from London, and that it had been forwarded from Brussels.

“I suppose you are enjoying yourself thoroughly in the company of la belle Valérie,” he wrote, after the usual greetings, and upbraidings for not answering a former note. “Well, you know my sentiments,” he continued; “I need not repeat them. But, by the way, I have since thought that is perhaps because I once spoke harshly of her that you have been annoyed. I only had your welfare at heart, I assure you, and, as we are old friends, if I have said anything to vex you, pray forgive me.”

“Bosh!” ejaculated Hugh savagely. “He tries to set me against her because he wants her himself. He gives no reason for his absurd warnings, but acts the sentimental fool.”

He was about to toss the letter into the fire impatiently without reading further, when a name caught his eye.

The remainder of the letter was as follows:—

I am in sore trouble, and want your advice. Dolly has mysteriously disappeared. One night, three weeks ago, she left the studio and went home. After dressing she again went out, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of her. I have searched everywhere, and made strenuous efforts through the police and by advertisements to find some trace of her, but all seems futile. She has disappeared completely. Yet somehow I cannot think her silence is intentional, or that she has run away with some male companion, for she was not addicted to flirtation. You are one of her admirers, I know, so I want your advice as to the best course to pursue. I’m at my wits’ ends, old fellow. Write and tell me what to do. I must find her; I shall never rest until I ascertain definitely what has become of her.

“Good heavens! What an extraordinary thing,” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had concluded reading.

“Dolly missing! She might be dead for aught we know; yet such a fate cannot have befallen her. She cared for me a little, I know,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps she had hoped that I should ask her to become my wife. Why,” he gasped, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, “suppose she has committed suicide because I did not reciprocate the love she offered. Good God! if such were the case, I should never forgive myself—never.”

Pausing, he gazed blankly at the paper in his hand.

“Yet—yet, after all,” he continued thoughtfully, “I love Valérie, and shall marry no woman but her. There can be no reason why I should be miserable or bother my head over the mystery.”

Chapter Twenty One.

Purely Fin de Siècle.

“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”

“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”

“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.

“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”

“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”

“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”

“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and—”

“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”

“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”

“Friendly advice—bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”

The man addressed muttered something in an undertone, and, turning, gazed abstractedly out of the window.

They were in Hugh’s sitting-room in St. James’s on the morning fixed for the marriage. It was almost a month since Trethowen had left Spa, and the time had been pleasantly spent with Valérie at Brussels and Ostend. Now that they had returned to London, she had again taken up her abode in her little flat in Victoria Street, while the arrangements for the marriage were completed.

Jack Egerton, dressed more sprucely than usual, and wearing the orthodox lavender gloves and a flower in his coat, had called upon his friend half an hour before, and was waiting to accompany him to the church. His task he regarded with abhorrence. He would rather have done anything than assist at the ceremony, and see his friend bind himself to that dark-eyed Circe. Yet he, helpless and under the merciless thrall of the woman, was there by sheer compulsion. A fortnight ago he had received a letter from her. She did not ask or entreat, but commanded him to be present and act as Hugh’s best man.

“I know,” she wrote in French, “the task will be scarcely congenial, but your presence will inspire him with confidence. He has promised me he will ask you, and if you refuse, he will suspect that it is repugnant to you. Understand, he must know nothing of my affairs. When we last met at Laroche you threatened me, but I need hardly impress the necessity of silence upon you, having regard to the fact that the reward of your zealousness on your friend’s behalf would be a life sentence. Accept his offer and attend the wedding, otherwise I shall know you are playing against me. If you do, beware! for I shall win. I have all the honours in my hand.”

He was reflecting upon this last sentence as he stood staring aimlessly down into the street. She possessed the dark secret of his life, and held him in her power, so that he was compelled to do her bidding, to dance attendance upon her, and to witness her triumph at the expense of his dearest friend.

Grinding his teeth, he uttered an imprecation, as he realised how complete was her mastery, and perceived that his own ruin would be the only reward for saving Hugh.

The latter, who was watching him, misconstrued this outburst of impatience and went over and grasped his hand, saying:

“Forgive me, old fellow, for what I’ve just said. We ought not to quarrel, more especially to-day. I was rather hasty, but I love Valérie, and anything hinted against her excites my anger. Come, let’s forget it.” His companion succumbed to fate, having done all he could in the way of resistance. Laughing a trifle sadly, he replied—

“There’s nothing whatever to forgive. I shall go with you to the church, and I hope—well, I hope your marriage will bring you nothing but happiness. Nevertheless, whatever is the result, remember I am still your friend.”

Trethowen thanked him, although astonished at his friend’s tone, and inwardly tried to account for his apparent sadness.

Could it be, that he entertained affection for Valérie himself? Or was it that their conversation that morning had brought back to his memory thoughts of the lost woman who, although his friend, assistant, and critic, was not his mistress? He had spoken very little of her, with the exception of describing the strange circumstances in which she disappeared. Still, any mention of her seemed to cause him sorrowful reflections.

Walking to a side-table whereon stood a bottle of champagne and some glasses, Hugh uncorked the wine, at the same time touching the gong.

In answer to the summons old Jacob appeared. He wore a large wedding-favour, and his scanty hair was parted and brushed with unusual care.

Having filled three glasses, his master turned to him, saying—

“Take a glass with us, Jacob, to celebrate the event. Come, Jack, here you are. It’s no innovation to drink with a servant like my trusty old fossil here!”

The artist took the glass, and, as he did so, Hugh, holding up his own, gave the toast.

“Here’s to the last hour of bachelorhood.”

“Long life and prosperity to Hugh Trethowen!” Egerton exclaimed.

“And may they always lead happy lives!” added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.

“Hurrah! Let’s hope so,” remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.

“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them—tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”

“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”

“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”

Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.

An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.

On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.

“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.

“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.

“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”

“I tell you he’s not here.”

“Then where is he?”

Jacob, always a discreet and discriminating servant, did not like the look of this ill-attired stranger. He was particularly distrustful of females.

“I want to see him—to tell him something for his own advantage. It’s imperative that I should see him immediately,” she continued.

“Well,” remarked Jacob, hesitating, and reflecting that it might possibly be to his master’s advantage. “The fact is, he’s gone to be married.”

“To be married!” she echoed, staggering as if she had been dealt a blow.

“Yes; he and the French lady were to be married at twelve o’clock at St. James’s. He’s gone there to meet her.”

“Where’s the church? Quick, I must go there,” she cried anxiously.

“In Piccadilly. Go to the top of the road here, turn to the right, and you’ll come to it.”

“Will he return here?”

“No; he goes to Cornwall to-night.”

Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. “Well, well,” remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. “Now, I wonder what she wants? It’s very strange—very; but, somehow, I believe I’ve seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can’t recollect. Ah, well,” he added, sighing, “I’m not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it’s only fancy.”

Then he helped himself to a glass of his master’s old port in celebration of the happy occasion.

Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James’s church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.

At the door she was met by the pew-opener—a stout elderly female in rusty black—who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.

“Is Mr Trethowen to be married here to-day?” she inquired.

“Trethowen! Yes. I think that’s the gentleman’s name. What do you want to know for?” she asked, regarding her suspiciously.

“I must see him. Is he inside?”

“No, he ain’t. The party left a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Gone!” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, they’re married,” remarked the woman. “Did you come to congratulate them?” she asked with a sneer.

“Married!” the other echoed, her face ashen pale. “Then, I’m too late! He’s married her—and I cannot save him.”

“You seem in rather a bad way over him,” observed the woman, with an amused air.

“Where have they gone? Tell me quickly.”

“How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don’t ask no questions.”

“Gone?” she repeated.

Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself and shuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes was lost in the crowd in Piccadilly.

The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as, with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, was Dolly Vivian.

Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her. Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had their effect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As she walked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since the night she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had been horrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.

When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer, she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding a cup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank. Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly and painful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, and the wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of where she was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hovering between life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied by two persons—the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man. They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer any questions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when they left.

The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mental and physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, months passed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, and debarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had been nailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground to admit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into the orchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market garden beyond.

One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of assistance being forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she saw both of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meant to be absent several hours.

Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it. Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. The woman had, by a most fortuitous circumstance, forgotten to lock it.

Nevertheless, there was still another point that required careful consideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the only garment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descending the stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored the place in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the ground floor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-out boots—all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept her prisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement, lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, she opened the door and stole out.

Passing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, at the end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to a small town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told her the way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack of exercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond and Kew she passed, then along the straight broad road leading through Chiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almost fainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street, and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.

During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! she had come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointed and heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless, she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would be terrible and complete.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Pretty Artist’s Model.

“I’ve a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confounded mystery; yet—”

Hugh Trethowen hesitated.

Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother’s possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valérie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.

Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife’s handwriting.

“I’m half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer,” he argued, aloud. “I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust.”

He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.

Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying—

“No, I’ll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it’s probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair.”

Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.

“Bah! I’m a fool to think about them,” he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. “Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack’s semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there’s no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait.”

He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valérie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar’s wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o’clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile. His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.

While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible message it contained. It ran as follows:—

Dear Mr Trethowen,—It is imperative that I should see you as soon as possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even including Mrs Trethowen.—Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian.

“I wonder what it can mean?” he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the paper. “Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it’s strange Jack has said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she know that concerns me?”

He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.

“I suspect that, if the truth were known, she’s been on a holiday trip with some admirer. But I shouldn’t have thought it of her, she was so quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself,” he repeated. “It sounds mysterious, certainly.”

Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the cushion of his chair, and thought.

“After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note,” he said aloud.

“Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What’s that in your hand? A letter! In a girl’s handwriting, too!”

The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter hurriedly into his pocket. Valérie had opened the door noiselessly and crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring to read the communication.

“You made me jump, darling,” he said, laughing confusedly. “I’ve been waiting for you an hour.”

“And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my absence,” she added cynically.

“I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of which I am ashamed.”

“Then I presume I may read it?” she suggested.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, remembering Dolly’s injunctions as to secrecy. “Its contents are of a strictly private nature.”

“Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife’s confidence could contain secrets that she should not learn,” Valérie remarked in a tone of annoyance.

“That is true, dearest,” he said earnestly, taking her hand. “It is through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you.”

“May I not know who the writer is?” she asked, standing erect, and looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before coming in search of him.

Her husband shook his head gravely.

It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to assure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity, that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was curious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, in consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.

This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to his embrace and returned his kiss.

A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served. Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.

Valérie’s nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed her interests to her caprices.

Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirely forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only for the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfect felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of permanent duration.

How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness, that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always anticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.

On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.

In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed, she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an old friend.

“Then you won’t tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no address?” he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time, and he had told her of his doings in her absence.

“No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except myself.”

“I, too, am an interested party,” he argued, smiling gallantly.

“Well, yes. I suppose you haven’t yet finished ‘The Sultan’s Favourite’?”

“No; there it is,” he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face towards the wall. “I have not touched it since you left. It has been awaiting your return before I could finish it.”

“Am I to continue my sittings, then?” she asked coquettishly.

“Why, of course,” he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding her amusedly. “You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success to you, and since your absence I’ve done absolutely nothing that has satisfied me.”

She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his adviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress. Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what promised to be his masterpiece, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”

In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments and velvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent upon the silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumed exactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near the ground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him to commence.

During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits. Delighted at the return of his companion and confidante, whom he had despaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quite unusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when he had any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable, and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting about an hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone of the neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked her to turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, he thought—and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavy necklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.

“Why, Dolly!” he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel and walking up to examine her more closely, “what’s the matter with your neck?”

“Nothing,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed.

“But you’ve had a fearful wound. How did it occur?”

“It was a mere trifle. I—I fell down.”

“Where?”

“In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb.”

“A fall couldn’t cause a cut like that,” he exclaimed incredulously.

“It did. But don’t bother about it,” she replied, a trifle petulantly. “It has healed now, and I have no pain.”

He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealing the truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observed that the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that she felt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued to put in the lighter flesh tints.

About two o’clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointment to call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and that it would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. She raised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took his departure, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted to finish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before the light failed.