William Le Queux (continued 4)

When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shivering slightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seated herself by the fire. Soon Mrs O’Shea brought in her luncheon on a tray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhile. After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose and wandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artist might have made during her absence. She turned one which was hanging with its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the woman she hated—her rival, Valérie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, but the features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon the full red lips.

“I wonder,” she said, aloud—“I wonder what secret tie there is between Jack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I’ll not rest until I solve the mystery. Yet—yet she is Hugh’s wife—Hugh loves her!” she added bitterly.

With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.

“Yes, my precious mademoiselle,” she continued menacingly, “you may well hide your face. Some day you will curse the chance which brought you and Hugh together. You little suspect the revenge that I am waiting for.”

Pausing in thought, she ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.

“And yet,” she cried in dismay, as the sudden thought occurred to her, “by unmasking you, Hugh would suffer, for he adores you! The discovery of your villainy would break his heart. You are his wife—his wife—and for me—for me he cares nothing!”

A tear trickled down her cheek, but it was only for an instant; she brushed it away, and stood motionless for several minutes gazing disconsolately into the fire. Then she noticed that Jack’s secretaire bookcase, which stood close beside her, was open. Feminine curiosity at once asserted itself, and the thought crossed her mind that it was possible she might discover some clue to the secret between the Frenchwoman and the artist.

At once she proceeded to search, at the same time listening attentively for any sign of the approach of Mrs O’Shea. Prying among the papers in the desk she could discover nothing which had any interest for her among the bills, letters, theatre programmes and memoranda it contained. Turning her attention to the small drawers above, her search was equally fruitless. One drawer she opened, however, contained nothing but an old newspaper folded small and lying along the bottom. A red mark upon it attracted her, and she took it out and unfolded it, but with disappointment she found herself unable to read it, as it was in French. Half a column on the front page had been marked round boldly with a red pencil, and was evidently some important report which had been carefully preserved. The heading was set in great capitals, and the type was larger than that in the body of the paper.

She glanced down the lines of print, but they were unintelligible to her. The heading, which was the only sentence she could make out, was “Le Mystère du Boulevard Haussmann,” and the newspaper was the Paris Gaulois. Truth to tell, it was the paper which Egerton had abstracted from the bureau at Coombe when Dolly and he had visited Trethowen.

The “Sultan’s Favourite” carefully scanned each line in an endeavour to discover some word that was familiar, but found none. She knew it contained details of some mystery or other, and that was sufficient incentive for her to try and translate it. Soon, however, she found that all her efforts were futile; so, refolding it, she was about to replace it in its former position when she suddenly reflected that if she copied out a portion of it she might get it translated by a governess who lodged in the same house as herself, and with whom she was on friendly terms.

Taking a seat at the desk, she spread out the paper before her, and carefully copied several sentences, taking heed to place the accents accurately, and scrupulously avoiding errors in orthography. Having covered two sheets of notepaper, she replaced the newspaper in the drawer, afterwards going into her dressing-room and putting her notes into the pocket of her dress.

Once or twice she felt inclined to laugh at herself for attaching so much importance to a mere newspaper report which seemed to contain nothing to connect it with the persons in whom she was interested, nevertheless she felt convinced that no clue was too small or insignificant for her to investigate. One discovery, amazing yet incomprehensible, she had already made, and it had whetted her desire to know the whole truth in order that her revenge might be more complete.

Egerton returned shortly afterwards. Handing her a bag of burnt almonds of a kind for which she had a particular weakness, he expressed a hope that she had not been dull, and quickly prepared to resume his work. With eyes sparkling like those of a spoiled child, she tasted the almonds, and gave him one, then, flinging aside her wrap, lay again upon the divan before him, laughing, and crunching her sweets.

The artist was in a mood even more joyful than before he went out, the cause being that he had been given commission for a portrait that was at once easy and lucrative, a fact which he triumphantly announced to his model, and upon which she congratulated him.

In November the light in London grows yellow early, and before four o’clock the artist had to lay down his palette for the day. Tea was brought in a few minutes later, and the pair sat tête-à-tête before the blazing fire, Dolly listening to the painter’s technical description of the picture that he had been commissioned to execute.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Without the Queen’s Proctor.

The last act of a matrimonial drama was being watched attentively by six rows of eager spectators.

Already the gas had been lit, for the dull yellow light of the wintry London moon was insufficient to illuminate the sombre Court. Upon the bench, at the rear of which hung a large square board covered with dark-blue cloth and bearing a golden anchor, the judge sat—grave, silent, almost statuesque. The public who filled the tiers of seats before him listened intently to every word of the story of a woman’s faithlessness, which counsel was relating. It was an undefended, and therefore not an unusually interesting case. Nevertheless, the Divorce Court has an attraction for the curious, and is nearly always crowded, even when there are scarcely a dozen people in any of the Queen’s Bench or Chancery Divisions. The very word divorce is sufficient to interest some, and for the novelty of the thing they desire to witness the procedure by which husband and wife are disunited.

Perhaps such curiosity is pardonable. It certainly is more excusable than the ignominious conduct of some soi-disant ladies, who consider it good form to attend a Criminal Court where a woman is indicted for murder, and there watch and comment audibly, and with heartless inhumanity, upon the agonies of their wretched sister who is being tried for her life. Such scenes at recent trials of unfortunate women have been a scandal to our civilisation.

In the Divorce Court, however, it is different. The surroundings are more refined. The dénouement of the marriage drama there enacted frequently develops into broad comedy before the curtain is rung down by the judicial decision. Even there, however, women gloat over the stories of the domestic woe of another woman, and ridicule the deceived husband with a cool indifference that is astounding; they are apparently quite unimpressed by the gravity of the question at issue.

The President had already disposed of half a dozen undefended suits, when the case of Willoughby versus Willoughby and Lapasque had been called on.

“Pardon me, Mr Grover. My attention was diverted for the moment, and I did not catch your opening sentences,” the judge was saying to counsel for the petitioner.

“The facts of the case before you, m’lord, are briefly these,” exclaimed the barrister, recommencing. “The petitioner, Captain Willoughby, late of the 10th Hussars, married the respondent, a French subject, at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington, in June, 1884. The parties lived happily at Brighton, Leeds, Toulon, and other places until about a year had elapsed, when frequent quarrels arose. The petitioner discovered that his wife was carrying on an intrigue with a wealthy young man named Arthur Kingscote, with whom she had been acquainted before marriage. This led to an encounter between the two men at a Manchester hotel, with the result that my client was severely injured in the head, in consequence of which petitioner took proceedings against Kingscote, who was fined at the Manchester Police Court for the assault. This apparently incensed the respondent, and quarrels became of more frequent occurrence, until one day, while living at San Remo, Mrs Willoughby left her home unexpectedly, and never returned. Eventually, after a long series of inquiries, the petitioner found that his wife was living at Nice, and that she had formed a liaison with the co-respondent, Gustava Lapasque, who is one of the officials connected with the Casino at Monte Carlo. The evidence I shall call before you, m’lord, will prove the latter part of my statement; and as I understand there is no one present representing either respondent or co-respondent, I shall ask your lordship to pronounce the decree usual in such a case.”

The captain having briefly borne out the statement of his counsel, the latter turned to the usher, saying—

“Call Giovanni Moretti, please.”

In a few minutes a dapper and rather well-dressed Italian stepped into the witness-box.

“What are you, Signore Moretti?” asked Mr Grover, when the witness had been sworn and his name taken.

“Head waiter at the Hôtel Victoria, Nice,” he replied in broken English.

“Do you recognise this lady?” counsel asked, handing up a cabinet photograph of Valérie.

“Yes,” he said, taking a long glance at it. “The lady is Madame Lapasque.”

“And this photograph?” continued Mr Grover, handing him another.

“Monsieur Lapasque. They both stayed at our hotel for nearly three months the summer before last. They came in July and left in October.”

“During those months would you have many visitors at your hotel?”

“No; very few. It is not our season.”

“In that case you would have plenty of facilities for observing them?”

“I saw them perhaps a dozen times each day. I superintended the waiting at à déjeûner and table d’hôte.”

“You have no doubt that the lady was the original of that portrait?”

“Not the slightest,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Have you seen the respondent, Mrs Willoughby, since?” the judge asked, in slow deliberate tones.

“Yes, I saw her here in London a few weeks ago. I was brought to England by Monsieur Willoughby to identify madame and give evidence.”

“When you saw her, did you tell her that you recognised her as Madame Lapasque?”

“Of course I told her. She then grew angry, and ordered me from the room.”

“Is that all the evidence you have, Mr Grover?” asked the judge, when he had concluded taking notes of the witness’s cross-examination.

“No, my lord. I have further corroborative evidence,” counsel replied.

The Italian walked from the box, and his place was taken by Nanette Rambert.

“What are you, Miss Rambert?” asked Mr Grover, glancing at his brief.

“Lady’s maid.”

“You identify these photographs, I believe?”

“Yes; the lady is Madame Lapasque, my late mistress, and the gentleman her husband.”

“How long were you in the respondent’s service?”

“About two years. At the time she engaged me at Cannes, monsieur was not with her, but about three months later he joined her, and we travelled first to San Remo, then to Rome, Homburg, and London.”

“And you always believed Lapasque to be her husband?” asked Mr Grover.

“Of course, m’sieur. Madame always told me he was.”

“How long ago did you leave her service?”

“About six months.”

“Have you seen either since?”

“I have only seen madame. I was with M’sieur Willoughby, and we saw her come from a house in Victoria Street, Westminster.”

“Did you identify her?”

“Yes, without the slightest difficulty. I did not, however, speak to her.”

No other questions were asked the witness, and she left the box.

His lordship then recalled the petitioner, and questioned him at some length upon his wife’s general conduct, to which the gallant captain replied with the sorrowful yet indignant air of the injured husband.

After counsel had delivered a brief and pointed address there was a pause. The judge was weighing the evidence. He read and re-read his notes, underlining words here and there with a pencil, while the Court silently awaited his decision.

Suddenly he looked up, coughed slightly, and, addressing Mr Grover, who at once rose, said—

“In this case I find that the wife has been guilty of misconduct, and I shall therefore grant a decree nisi with costs against the co-respondent.”

Counsel, bowing, thanked his lordship, and, tying up his brief, left the Court, accompanied by the captain, while the onlookers stirred uneasily in their seats, whispered among each other, and then sat eager to be regaled with another story of domestic woe.

As the barrister and his client gained the large hall of the Courts, Nanette joined them. Mr Grover excused himself on the ground that he had an appointment at his chambers in the Temple, and, bidding them adieu, departed. The captain and the maid followed him down the steps, and, turning in the opposite direction, strolled leisurely past St. Clement’s church and along the Strand.

Willoughby was elated. Not only had he freed himself from a tie that might some day prove detrimental, but—what was much more to the point—he was also entitled to claim twenty-five thousand francs, the price his wife had offered for her liberty. The matter had been rendered quite easy, the details, together with Lapasque’s address, having been furnished by Valérie herself.

“You’re a smart girl, Nanette,” he exclaimed flatteringly, after expressing approbation at the manner in which she had given her evidence. “Your story had a ring of truth about it that was delightful, and in answering the questions you drew a long, serious face, and never once faltered.”

Nodding her head knowingly and laughing, she replied—

“That’s true, m’sieur. But, you see, I know the way to tell fibs as well as most people. I haven’t been maid to mademoiselle without contriving to learn a few tricks. I was taught them when I first entered her service; now they come quite naturally.”

“So it seems,” he said, with an amused smile. “But, tell me, how do matters stand down at the country mansion? Is all serene?”

“Quite. Mademoiselle’s new husband is such a mild-mannered young man, and has suspected absolutely nothing from the first. He’s madly infatuated with her, and she can twist him round her little finger.”

“Now, speaking candidly, Nanette,” asked the captain, after a few moments’ silence, “have you any idea what object she had in marrying him?”

“None; I’m as ignorant as yourself. It seems unaccountable, yet you may rest assured she had some very good reason for such a step.”

“Of course, Trethowen has money, yet somehow I don’t believe that her sole object was to become the wife of a rich man. It is a matter that has puzzled me ever since I heard of the match,” observed the captain thoughtfully.

In truth, he was the reverse of sorry that his wife had entered into the alliance. Providing Hugh really loved Valérie, he saw there was a possibility of obtaining hush-money from him, as it was certain he would avoid the scandal which would inevitably result if his wife were prosecuted for bigamy.

Nanette, although unacquainted with many of her mistress’s schemes, nevertheless knew so much that it would have been highly undesirable that any disagreement should occur between them. She was saucy and self-confident, yet discreet and—when occasion required—a model maid.

“You should be happy, m’sieur, now that you have obtained your divorce, and can live en garçon again,” she remarked, her eyes sparkling with diablerie.

“So I am, Nanette,” he replied with a smile. “Everything has come off just as I arranged that it should. In the judgment of a fool there are no wise men. To-night you must return to Coombe, and your mistress will pay you the money that was agreed. You might tell her that, the business being so far concluded, she may expect a visit from me in the course of a day or two, when I hope we shall be able to close the incident.”

“Very well. I’ll give her your message,” replied the girl. “But you will not call upon her at Coombe? Surely that would be unwise,” she suggested in concern.

“I haven’t yet decided whether I shall go there or not. It all depends upon circumstances,” he answered rather abruptly.

Then they turned into a restaurant for luncheon, and the captain celebrated the occasion with a bottle of Pommery, which Nanette assisted him to drink.

A week had passed.

Before a large fire in the private parlour of the Ship Hotel, at Bude, Percy Willoughby sat with legs stretched out and feet upon the fender. The ancient hostelry, which, although styled a hotel, was merely an inn, stood in a somewhat sheltered position under the rocks, and faced the sea. Fishermen were its chief customers, but on this particular night the smacks were out, and the place was comparatively quiet, with the exception of two loungers, who were holding a noisy argument in the bar. The room was low, with heavy oak beams across a ceiling blackened by the smoke of years, a sanded floor, a wide old-fashioned hearth, and straight-backed wooden chairs that had evidently done duty for a century. A tall, antiquated clock ticked solemnly in a corner, and the efforts at ornamentation were mostly in the form of shell-boxes and faded wool-flowers.

The wind moaned dismally in the chimney, and aroused the captain from his reverie.

“I suppose she’ll come,” he murmured aloud, as he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtain. The night was dark and cloudy. Nothing could be seen except the distant flashing light at sea, which glimmered for a moment like a star and disappeared. “The weather is certainly not very propitious, and I’m afraid if I went out alone in this confoundedly dark hole I should lose myself. But of course she’ll come,” he added reassuringly. “She dare not disappoint me.” And he dashed the curtains together again and returned to his chair.

A few minutes afterwards Valérie entered. She wore a long fur-lined cloak, and a thick dark veil concealed her features.

“At last I’m here,” she said glancing round, as if half fearful lest she should be recognised, and walking over to the fire, she warmed her benumbed hands. “It was by the merest chance that I was able to come. We’ve been dining with some people about a mile away, and I at last managed to slip out.”

As she loosened her cloak he noticed that underneath she wore a charming toilet of pale blue silk.

“Well,” he said, after they had greeted one another and seated themselves before the fire. “The affair we planned at Spa has proved successful, Valérie, and we’re man and wife no longer.”

“And an excellent thing, too,” she remarked, ridiculing his sentimental tone.

“I entirely agree with you; we are much better apart. Nevertheless, although we are divorced, there surely is no reason why we should not remain friends, is there?” he asked, speaking in French.

“Oh, there’s no harm in that, I suppose,” she replied in the same language, laughing lightly. “I saw from the papers that you obtained the decree, and Nanette gave me a most graphic description of the hearing of the case. It must have been highly entertaining. I should so much liked to have been there.”

“It certainly was a trifle diverting,” the captain admitted; “but let’s get to business. Have you brought the money?”

“No.”

“What?—you haven’t?” he cried in dismay. “Then why have you brought me down to this infernal hole?”

“For the benefit of your health,” she replied with tantalising coquetry.

“I want the money,” he declared angrily.

“If you’ll be patient, and allow me to speak, I’ll explain.”

“I want none of your excuses; nothing but the money. In dealing with me, Mrs Trethowen, you’ll have to play fair, or, by heaven! it will be the worse for you. Bear that in mind.”

“Neither my intention nor desire is to deceive you,” she replied haughtily; “but since you cannot talk without abuse, perhaps a week longer without your money will cause you to be more polite.” And she rose and made a movement towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he exclaimed roughly, rushing to the door and standing with his back against it. “I’ve come down here to be paid for the service I’ve rendered you at the risk of being prosecuted myself, and therefore you don’t leave this room until I have the money.”

His face was blanched with anger, and he spoke with determination. She had seen his countenance wear a similar look on more than one occasion, and knew that when in such a mood he was not to be trifled with.

“But you won’t let me explain, Percy,” she complained in a softened tone. “Do be reasonable.”

“I am. I want the thousand pounds you promised.”

“Hush,” she said, holding up a finger. “We might be overheard!”

“Never mind. Do you intend to pay me?” he asked in a lower tone.

“Yes, but not all now. I’m really hard up, otherwise you should have every penny I promised.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense. You can get money from that confiding husband of yours, if you like—”

“But I don’t like, so there’s the difference,” she interrupted. “I know my own business best.”

“How much can you give me?”

“Two hundred pounds.”

“Pooh! I’m not going to accept that,” said he decisively. “What next? If you offered me five hundred as the first instalment, I might feel disposed to take it.”

“Take it or leave it, you’ll get no more just now.”

“Look here,” he cried fiercely, standing before her in a threatening attitude. “Do you think I’m going to be made sport of in this manner? If so, you’ve made a huge mistake. I want the money and I mean to have it. If you won’t give it to me, then I shall be under the necessity of requesting a loan from your husband. That would queer your delightful little game, wouldn’t it—eh?”

She drew a long breath, and for an instant the colour left her face. Nevertheless, it took more than a threat of that kind to disconcert her.

“You are at liberty to do even that,” she answered, with a sardonic smile. “But you would be the sufferer, I’m thinking.”

“I want none of your trickery. Pay me, and you’ll never hear of me again.”

“If I could believe that, it would relieve my mind very considerably,” she observed with candour. “The facts are these: the whole of the money I have been able to scrape together only amounts to two hundred pounds. I admit it is but a small proportion of my debt, yet I think it should satisfy your present needs. Just now I cannot ask my husband for a large sum, as I can think of no excuse for wanting it.”

“I should think it is the first time you were ever at a loss for a lie,” he remarked sarcastically.

“It doesn’t do to carry imposition too far. I flatter myself I know when and where to draw the line.”

“I’ve some plans in hand, and must have five hundred pounds to carry them out. Not a penny less will be of any use to me.”

“But I tell you I can’t give it to you.”

“Then I must get it from another source, that’s all,” he declared, selecting a cigarette from his case, and assuming an air of unconcern.

“Come, enough of this,” she exclaimed petulantly; “I cannot stay here half the night arguing with you.” Putting her hand into the breast of her dress she drew forth some bank-notes. There were four, each for fifty pounds. “Will you take these or not?” she asked, offering them to him.

“Don’t I tell you they’re no use? I must have twice as much.”

“Then, I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, and will wish you bon soir,” she replied, with a mock curtsey.

“Why do you play with me like this?” he cried in anger, gripping her roughly by the arm. “I want five hundred pounds, and I’ll have it before you leave this place.”

“How is that possible when I do not possess it? Do talk sense.”

“I’m talking sense. You have it; you can give it me if you choose.”

“What do you mean?”

“The diamonds you are wearing. They’re worth that, I suppose.”

She hesitated, and holding her wrist to the dull lamplight revealed the diamond bangles which sparkled and flashed as she moved. His proposal was somewhat disconcerting, for the bracelets, as well as the necklet she was wearing, were a portion of Hugh’s wedding gifts. She was puzzled to know how she should account for them if she yielded to the man’s inexorable demands.

“I cannot. My husband would inquire what had become of them. What could I say? If I told him they were lost he would give information to the police, and you could not get rid of them without some ugly revelations resulting.”

“It’s no use arguing. I mean to have them.”

He had taken the notes and thrust them carelessly into his vest pocket.

“No, my dear Percy, the thing’s impossible.”

“Nonsense,” he cried fiercely, at the same time making a sudden snatch at the row of gleaming stones which encircled her white neck. When she saw his intention she put both hands up in an endeavour to prevent him, and gave vent to a slight scream.

But she was powerless. The clasp snapped, and the necklet was a moment later in his pocket.

“Return that at once,” she cried, stamping her foot with rage. “If you don’t I’ll tell the police you’ve robbed me.”

The captain stuck his hands into his pockets and laughed.

“Go and tell them, my dear,” he said. “We should make an interesting pair before the magistrate.”

“I never thought you were such a coward as to rob a woman,” observed she, with indignant disgust, after demanding the return of her necklet several times, and being met with blank refusal.

“My dear Valérie,” he replied coolly, “you needn’t be surprised. When I want money, I’m ready to do anything in order to get it. But it’s getting late,” he continued, glancing at the clock. “Isn’t it almost time you were at home?”

His bitter sarcasm maddened her. She did not speak for a few moments.

“I’ve had an illustration to-night of your fair dealing, Captain Willoughby,” she said in a low, harsh voice, her face flushed with passion. “When I met you I meant to pay the amount I arranged, but now you’ve taken my jewellery from me by force, and acted as the scoundrel you are, not another farthing shall you have—”

“Oh, won’t I? You’ll pay up when I come to you next time.”

“We shall see,” she said meaningly; and, drawing her cloak around her, she pulled down her veil and left the room, banging the door after her.

She knew her way out, for it was evident that it was not the first time she had been there.

When alone, the captain reseated himself, and, taking the necklet from his pocket, examined it carefully with the eye of a connoisseur.

“Humph,” he murmured to himself, “they seem well-matched stones. I shall ask old Vlieger two hundred and fifty for it, and he’ll send it over to Amsterdam and get it out of the way in case any inquiries are made. You’ve had a very profitable evening, Percy, my boy—very profitable.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Truth in Masquerade.

Before Valérie had resided at Coombe six weeks she grew weary of the monotony of country life. In her discontented mood her surroundings were dull and uninteresting, while the local people she met lacked polish and chic, which, to her eyes, were the two necessary qualifications in acquaintances. Nothing was extraordinary in this, however. Women of the world meet in their life so many men and women—young, middle aged, and old—who commit all sorts of absurdities for or around them, that they end by entertaining a sovereign contempt for the whole human race, placing all persons in the same category. In each woman they see only an individual to impose upon and outvie in the matter of dress, and each fresh specimen of the genus man which is brought before them they regard only as a lamb destined for the sacrifice after being sufficiently shorn.

It was in consequence of an earnest wish she expressed that they had left Cornwall and travelled to Paris, taking up their abode at the Hôtel Continental.

Lounging in a capacious chair in the smoking-room, Hugh was scanning some letters he had just received. A few days had elapsed since their arrival, and this morning Valérie had gone out alone in order to visit her milliner in the Rue de la Paix. Left to his own resources, her husband had taken the letters that Jacob had forwarded to him, and, repairing to the smoking-room, endeavoured to amuse himself with their contents.

One which he had read and still held in his hand caused him to twirl his moustache thoughtfully and knit his brows.

Upon a half sheet of notepaper one sentence only was written, in a fine angular hand, and read:

“If you obtain a copy of the Paris newspaper, Le Gaulois, for 10th May, 1886, you will find in it something that will interest you.”

It was dated from Chelsea, and signed by Dolly Vivian.

“Now, I wonder what on earth she means?” he exclaimed aloud, her strange request for an interview—to which he had not replied—recurring to him.

It was exceedingly curious, he thought, that she should write him these vague, puzzling letters, well knowing that he was married and could now be nothing more to her than a friend. There was a mystery about this last communication that had aroused his curiosity, and for some time he sat trying in vain to find an explanation of her strange conduct.

Suddenly he made a resolve. Gathering up his letters he thrust them into his pocket, and went to his room to get his overcoat.

“If your mistress returns, Nanette, tell her I’ve gone for a stroll, and shall return in an hour,” he said to his wife’s maid, who handed him his hat.

“Very well, m’sieur,” the girl replied. Then, as Trethowen descended the stairs to leave the hotel, she watched him, and added to herself: “You will return in an hour, will you? Perhaps so; we shall see.”

She laughed heartily, for something appeared to amuse her, and when he had disappeared she returned to her mistress’s room and commenced packing a trunk.

As Trethowen walked along the Rue Castiglione, crossed the Place Vendôme, and went on towards the Boulevard des Capucines, a tall well-dressed man, with dark, pointed beard and curled moustaches, followed leisurely in his footsteps. This individual lounged aimlessly along, halting now and then to gaze into shop windows; nevertheless, from under the rather broad brim of his glossy silk hat a pair of keen grey eyes watched every movement of the man upon whom he was keeping observation. In the boulevard he was careful to cross to the opposite side of the way, in case the other should take a fancy to retrace his steps, for it appeared as if he did not desire an encounter. Sauntering along contemplating the engravings of the illustrated papers displayed in the kiosques, he loitered so naturally that to an ordinary observer he was but an honest citizen of the suburbs.

The morning was bright and frosty. Hugh, bent upon investigating the truth of Dolly’s strange assertion, and unaware of the presence of the individual who had suddenly displayed such intense interest in his movements, walked down the Boulevard des Italiens, and, turning into the Rue Drouot, entered the offices of Le Gaulois.

Addressing one of the clerks at the counter, he said—

“I desire to search your file for May, 1886. Can I do so?”

“If m’sieur will have the kindness to fill up this form which we have for the purpose, I will see that the file is brought,” replied the man politely, handing him a dip of paper and a pen.

Trethowen complied with this request, and waited rather impatiently, taking Dolly’s letter from his pocket, and glancing at it to reassure himself that he had made no mistake in the date. There were many persons in the office, some transacting business and others reading that day’s newspapers, which were spread open upon stands. Consequently he did not observe the entrance of three men, who, although coming in separately, met a short distance from where he stood, and held a hurried consultation in an undertone.

One of the men, apparently a respectable workman, took out an unmounted photograph from his wallet, glanced at it, and afterwards looked intently at Hugh who stood calmly unconscious of the scrutiny.

“It’s our man, without a doubt,” declared the workman emphatically. “I’d know him again amongst ten thousand.”

“I wonder what his game is here?” asked the man who had dogged his footsteps from the hotel.

“Cannot you see? He’s asked for the file of the month when the affair occurred,” observed the third man. “Well, what of that?”

“The thing is quite plain. Out of morbid curiosity he wants to read what the paper said,” replied his companion, who, turning to the workman, asked, “Have you any doubt that he is the same man?”

“None whatever.”

“In that case we’ll arrest him at once. He won’t elude us this time.”

The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire—

“M’sieur Trethowen, I believe?”

Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. “Yes,” he replied in French, “that’s my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m’sieur.”

“It scarcely will be a pleasure,” the man replied, grinning sardonically. “I’m Paul Chémerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest,” he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.

“My arrest!” cried Trethowen incredulously. “What for, pray?”

He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.

“If m’sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?”

“I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?” Hugh asked indignantly.

“That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence—”

The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.

“Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I’ve only been in Paris a few days.”

“We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hôtel Continental.”

“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”

Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile—

“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”

“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.

“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”

“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”

Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows—when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.

Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chémerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner’s features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.

They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l’Horloge, and turning off to the right, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.

“Here we are, m’sieur,” said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.

“You said that you would take me to the Commissary,” exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.

“It is all the same,” replied the detective; “we are here, at the Préfecture of Police.”

Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth. Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.

One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes. Chémerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.

“Which way shall I go?” asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of the narrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant tread of detectives and criminals.

“Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor.”

Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted on walking behind—that their politeness was merely prudence.

They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, and meagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs. Chémerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down without uttering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, and thought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.

The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference. They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similar predicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued their writing.

The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answering affirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one from the private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping at the door, entered.

Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after giving some instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany him into the presence of the chief.

During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective’s exit and the prisoner’s entry, the director of criminal investigations prepared himself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantage always lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode of attack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points his replies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, the other confused, embarrassed, and dreading lest he should make any reply that may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.

The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph which Chémerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from a pigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spread them out before him.

Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced, conducted by the detectives.

“You may be seated, m’sieur,” said the director of criminal investigations politely.

Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waited to be questioned.

The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions for a few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had to deal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he had entertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. With that special memory for faces which an expert engaged in the investigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised the features of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examine him and the principal points for confirmation.

Late that afternoon Monsieur Chémerault called at the bureau of the Hôtel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.

“Trethowen,” repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him. “Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid.”

“Gone!”

“Yes. Madame’s husband went out about eleven, she being already out. Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back.”

“Perhaps it contains her address,” remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. “I’ll see.” Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.

“Oh,” observed the detective to himself, “it seems she’s playing a deeper game than I thought.”

“Do you know whether she has left Paris?” he asked of the clerk, to whom he was known as a police agent.

“I really don’t. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the number.”

“You didn’t hear the cabman receive any orders?” The clerk shook his head.

“Ah, that is unfortunate,” observed the detective, perplexed. “Would not any one be likely to know where they went?”

“No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out.”

The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paper in the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a small café in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he had displayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greater promptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fix upon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husband so mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise, he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen as soon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Préfecture. Now, however, he was baffled.

Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise she would not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for her husband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficient evidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover, that she was desirous of hiding herself.

He remained at the café only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe, then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Préfecture and consulted his chief.

From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within an hour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from the hotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, which started at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St. Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.

Monsieur Chémerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object of stopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathless he alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.

In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search. Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive at Quévy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.

He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.

“Diable! She’s beaten us!” he cried with chagrin. “She’s crossed the frontier and escaped!” At that moment one of his colleagues joined him. “We’re too late,” said Chémerault disappointedly. “She’s got clear away. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case than we imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and she turns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made a very important capture.”

“Who is she?” asked his companion.

“Well, her name is Valérie—not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I was certain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would apply for her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition.”

“Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St. Lazare, wasn’t it—that celebrated case of yours?”

“Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now, after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quite unexpectedly,” replied the detective. “To-morrow I shall recommence my inquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me, and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it up satisfactorily.”

His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left the station, and directed their steps towards the Quai de l’Horloge.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Shekels of Judas.

Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valérie’s hurried exit from Paris had baffled the most expert member of the Paris detective force.

The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the Rue de Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée de Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz, where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.

“Ah!” the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, “it’s a good thing you’ve come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in a fine state.”

“What! have they had supper, then?”

“Yes; and there are several fresh people—swells.”

“Who are they?”

“You’ll see.”

“Who’s there, Nanette?” asked a shrill, musical voice.

“M’sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle,” replied the girl.

“Ah, Pierre!” said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in another direction: “Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived.”

Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced singing the first verse of the chansonette, “Pierre, my long-lost love,” as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valérie was standing at the door, and whispered to him—

“There are some rich men here to-night. We can make a big coup if we are careful.”

Then, turning to her guests, she exclaimed—

“Cease your chatter, please, just for one moment. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you—”

This was greeted with discordant cries—

“Enough! Everybody knows Pierre.”

“Ladies, do please listen to me,” implored Valérie. Continuing, Valérie again endeavoured to make herself heard.

“Gentlemen, I—”

At that moment somebody commenced to strum a waltz upon the piano, and, as if by magic, the twenty persons in the room rose to their feet and commenced to whirl madly round, while Valérie and Pierre stood at the door whispering and regarding the scene of Bacchanalian revelry with perfect satisfaction.

She liked to see her guests enjoy themselves.

“I want a few moments’ private conversation with you,” Pierre said, after they had been standing silent for a minute or two.

She acquiesced at once, and led the way to a small anteroom behind the drawing-room. It was furnished gaudily and cheaply, but quite in keeping with the rest of the house.

As he closed, the door, Pierre said—

“I’ve some good news.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Victor has fallen into the trap.”

“Arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Hurrah!” she cried, almost dancing for joy; “now we are safely rid of him we shall have nothing to fear. But, tell me, how did you manage to carry out the suggestion?”

“It was quite simple. We met in London three weeks ago, and I told him that he was running a great risk in remaining there, because the girl Vivian had discovered that it was he who gave her the little gash in the throat, and that she had placed the matter in the hands of the police. He asked my advice as to where he should go, and, of course, I suggested Paris. We arranged to go over separately, and meet at the old place a week later. He went, and as he stepped from the train at the St. Lazare he fell into the inviting arms of that vulture Chémerault.”

“You had previously given information, I suppose?”

“Exactly.”

“What was the charge?” she asked in a low tone.

“Complicity in the affair of the Englishman.”

“Is he already sentenced?”

“Yes; to-day the Assize Court sent him to penal servitude for ten years. I had a telegram an hour ago. It will be in the papers to-morrow.”

“Do you think that he’ll peach upon us?” Valérie asked seriously.

“No, never fear that. He does not suspect that we put the police upon him; besides, he will live in the hope of escaping, and returning to you and your newly-acquired wealth.”

“Yes, I suppose he will,” she said, laughing. “But you’ve managed the affair very cleverly, and although it is hard to send such a boon companion to prison merely because you and I love one another, yet, after all, I suppose it’s the best course.”

“Undoubtedly, ma chère,” he said. “Now both are safely in prison, we need fear nothing. Our manoeuvres have been successful in obtaining for us a fortune ample for our needs, and by keeping on this house, as well as yours in the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, we can continue to amuse ourselves profitably by getting our guests to stake their louis on the tapis vert. We have had many obstacles to face, but they are now all removed.”

“Where is your wedding-ring—the one he gave you?” he asked.

She drew it from her purse, and handed it to him, wondering why he required it.

“This reminds you of him, I know,” he said, as he turned and threw up the window. “See, I fling it away, for it’s merely a worthless bond,” and he tossed the ring as far as he could out into the road.

Valérie sighed. A tear stood in her eye. Even at that moment she was thinking of Hugh Trethowen. It was unusual for her to be troubled by recurring pangs of conscience, nevertheless his face had haunted her constantly during the past few months, and she could not get rid of the thought that some day a terrible Nemesis might fall and crush her.

“Why look so serious?”

“I was only thinking. It is one of woman’s privileges,” she said, laughing.

“Come, there is no cause for sadness surely. You have a handsome income. What more could you desire?”

Soon afterwards the unsuspecting guests departed, with aching heads and empty pockets. And Valérie was left alone.

Chapter Twenty Six.

And You—A Clergyman.

“Where is Mr Holt? I must see him at once.”

“He’s in the vestry, miss, talking to a gentleman. But he’ll be disengaged in a moment,” the verger replied.

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

The girl who had listened with disgust to the Sunday morning sermon preached by the Rev. Hubert Holt, and who had afterwards gone round to the vestry of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, was Dolly Vivian.

A few days previously, while walking along Buckingham Palace Road, she unexpectedly passed the man who called himself Mansell. Attired as he was in the garb of a clergyman, she was not quite certain as to his identity with the man who had assisted in her abduction. Yet, with justifiable curiosity, she turned and set herself to watch him. For hours she dogged his footsteps, always at a respectable distance. First he went up Victoria Street, and along the Embankment to the City, then he crossed London Bridge and continued through the Borough and Walworth Road, ultimately entering one of a terrace of smoke-begrimed houses in Boyson Road, Camberwell. Once or twice while following him she contrived to obtain an uninterrupted view of his features, and each time felt more convinced that he was the man for whom she was in search.

When he had disappeared she returned, and noticed upon the railing outside the house was a small, tarnished brass plate bearing the name, “Rev. Hubert Holt.” Carefully noting the number, she proceeded to make diligent inquiries, and was not long in discovering that Holt and Mansell was one and the same person, and that he was curate of St. Barnabas church, which was situated at the end of the road.

At first she was prompted to call upon him at once and denounce him; but on reflection she saw that such a course might not effect the object she had in view. She regarded him as a scoundrel, and in consequence carefully prepared a tableau by which she could obtain the information she sought, and if possible, compass his ruin. The vindictive nature latent in every woman was aroused in her when she discovered his hypocrisy, and she saw that if she met him face to face in the midst of his holy duties her revenge could be rendered more complete.

As she stood awaiting the interview her cheeks were flushed by excitement, and she nervously toyed with the buttons of her gloves. Her lips were compressed, her fair forehead was furrowed by an unbecoming frown of resolution, for she had resolved to meet him boldly, and show him no mercy.

“What name shall I tell Mr Holt, miss?” the verger asked, re-entering the small, bare anteroom a moment later.

“Never mind,” she replied. “He—he doesn’t know my name.” Then the verger went out.

While she was uttering these words the curate’s visitor—a tall, military-looking old gentleman—emerged from the vestry, leaving the door ajar.

Dolly pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door after her.

Holt was still in his surplice, standing beside the small writing-table.

He looked up as the intruder entered. The colour left his face, and he drew back in dismay when he recognised her.

“You!” he stammered. “I—I did not know you were here!”

“Yes,” replied she sternly. “I’m not a welcome visitor, am I? Nevertheless, now I’ve found you, we have an account to settle.”

He did not reply; but, the subject being distasteful to him, he walked quickly round the table and opened the door, which led into the church. She saw that his intention was to escape.

“Shut that door, if you don’t wish our conversation to be overheard,” she said, pale and determined. “Remember, you are in my hands, my reverend murderer!”

Starting at the word “murderer,” he closed the door slowly, and stood with his back against it, and head bowed before her.

“Now,” she said, advancing towards him, “first of all, I want to know what harm I have ever done you that you should drug me, and then attempt to kill me.” The pointed question was asked in a tone that was the reverse of reassuring.

“I did not.”

“To deny it is useless,” she declared vehemently. “I have ample proof of your villainy; moreover, I intend that you shall be justly punished.”

“Why, what do you mean to do?” he cried in alarm. He had been cleverly entrapped, and saw no means of escape from his irate victim.

“What I do depends entirely upon your attitude towards me,” answered she in a calm tone. “Like a foolish girl, I trusted implicitly to your honour, and you—a clergyman—tried to kill me.”

“I did not do it—indeed I did not.”

“No; I am well aware that you were too cowardly to draw the knife across my throat. But you enticed me to dine with you: you put a narcotic into my wine and conveyed me to that house—for what purpose? Why, so that your cowardly accomplice might kill me.” He was thoroughly alarmed. She evidently knew the whole circumstances, and it was useless, he thought, to conceal the truth.

“If—if I admit all this, may I not ask your pardon—your mercy?”

“Mercy!” she repeated. “What mercy did you show me when I was helpless in your hands? Only by a mere vagary of Fate I am not now in my grave. You thought you were safe—that your holy habiliments would prevent you being recognised as the man with whom I dined. But you made a great mistake, and I have found you.”

“Will you not accept my apology?” he asked in a low voice.

“Upon one condition only.”

“What is that?” he inquired eagerly.

“That you tell me the reasons which caused you to drug me, and the name of the scoundrel who assisted you,” she replied calmly.

Their conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the reappearance of the verger, who inquired whether he would be wanted any more, as he had locked up the church, and was ready to go to his dinner. Holt replied in the negative, and the feeble old man departed, swinging his great bunch of jingling keys as he went.

When they were alone, the artist’s model again referred to her stipulation, and pressed for an answer.

“No,” he replied decisively, “I cannot tell you—I cannot.”

“For what reason, pray?”

“The reason is best known to myself,” he answered, endeavouring to assume an air of unconcern.

“You flatly refuse?”

“I do.”

“In that case, then, I shall call the police, and have you arrested.”

“No, my God! not that!” he cried; “anything but that.”

“Ah, I can quite understand that police inquiries would be distasteful to you.”

She paused, reflecting whether she should hazard a statement which she had overheard among other things in the conversation of her janitors at the lonely house near Twickenham.

At length she resolved to make an assertion, and watch its effect.

“If I’m not mistaken,” she continued, regarding him closely, “the police are very desirous of interviewing you. They might like to hear some of your glib remarks about spiritual welfare, like those you made in the pulpit this morning.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“If I speak plainer possibly you will. Some months ago a man was found dead on the railway. The affair is being investigated by the police, and—”

“God! You know of that!” he cried hoarsely, as he rushed towards her, and gripped her white throat with his hands in a frenzy of madness. “Speak lower—whisper—or—”

“No,” urged Dolly, as coolly as she was able. “It would only add another crime to your list. Besides, if you comply with my stipulations, your secret will still be safe.”

Her words had the desired effect. He released his hold, and, grasping her hand, pleaded forgiveness.

Flinging himself upon his knees before her, he pleaded for mercy, declaring that the injury he had done her was under sheer compulsion. He admitted he was a base, heartless villain, undeserving of pity or leniency; still he implored forgiveness on the ground that he had been sufficiently punished by a remorseful conscience.

But Dolly was inexorable to his appeals, and turned a deaf ear to his expressions of regret. She had come there for a fixed purpose, which she meant to accomplish at all hazards. It was evident he had some connection with the crime which she had heard discussed by the man and woman who had kept her prisoner, and it was likewise apparent that he was in deadly fear of the police. The effect of her remark about the murder had been almost magical, and she was at a loss how to account for it.

“Your entreaty is useless,” she said coldly, after a few moments’ reflection, stretching forth her hand and assisting him to his feet. She despised the cringing coward. “Before you need hope for leniency, I desire to know where Hugh Trethowen is to be found.”

“I don’t know him. How should I know?” he stammered confusedly.

By his agitation she was convinced he was not telling the truth.

“Oh, perhaps you will tell me next that you are unacquainted with Mr Egerton, the artist,” she observed, with a curious smile.

“I’ve met him once, I think,” replied the curate, with feigned reflection.

“And you declare solemnly that you know nothing of Hugh Trethowen?” she asked incredulously.

He shook his head.

“Then you are speaking falsely,” she said angrily; “and the sooner we understand each other the better. You believe me to be a weak girl, easily cajoled, but you’ll discover your mistake, sir, when it’s too late—when you have fallen into the clutches of the police and your crime has been exposed.”

“Do you think I’m going to allow you to give information!” he cried fiercely, shaking his fist threateningly before her face.

This outburst of passion did not intimidate her. Laughing, she said—

“I’m well aware that we are alone, and I’m completely in your power. If you are so anxious to murder me, you’d better set about it at once.”

“Bah!” he exclaimed, turning from her with chagrin. “Why do you taunt me like this? Why did you come here and incite me to lay murderous hands upon you?”

“Merely because I desire some information—nothing more.”

“Why do you seek it of me?”

“Because I know that with your assistance I can discover Hugh Trethowen. But we have parleyed long enough. I ask you now, for the last time, whether you wish me to show you mercy—whether you will answer my questions in confidence?”

He drew a deep breath, and stood motionless, perplexed and hesitating. They had emerged from the vestry, and were standing close to the altar. About her fair face shone a stream of richest life. This came from the painted window above—three bars of coloured sunlight, that bathed the hair in fire and left the dark body in deepest shadow.

“By betraying the secret I should run a great risk—how great you have little idea.”

“Will not the risk be greater if you refuse to answer me?” she asked, looking at him steadily.

Her argument was conclusive. A few minutes, and he had apparently decided.

“Well, if you compel me, I suppose I must tell you,” said he, dropping into a hoarse whisper. “If I do, you’ll promise never to repeat it?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“Swear to keep the secret. Indeed, it was through my efforts that your life was saved.”

“I’ll preserve silence,” she promised. “Then, the truth is that you were the dangerous rival of a woman in the affections of a man whom she desired should marry her. The man merely admired her, but loved you. Having set her mind upon marrying him, she deliberately planned that you, the only obstacle, should be removed. The woman—”

“Whose name is Valérie Dedieu,” interposed Dolly calmly.

“Why, how did you know?” he asked in surprise.

“I know more than you anticipate,” replied she meaningly.

“Ah, it was a diabolical plot! The woman—I mean Valérie—planned it with Victor.”

“Victor? Who is Victor?”

“Bérard—the man who attempted to take your life. But I was about to tell you how it was that I became complicated in the affair. The truth is, they compelled me. The Frenchwoman holds a certain power over me which causes me to be absolutely ruled by her caprices. In her hands I am helpless, for she can order me to perform any menial service, any crime, being fully aware that I could not—that I dare not—disobey her.”

He spoke with heartfelt bitterness, as if the whole of the transactions were repugnant to him.

“And you—a clergyman!” Dolly incredulously observed.

“Yes. Unfortunately, our evil deeds pursue us. At times, when we least anticipate, the closed pages of one’s life are reopened and revealed in all their hideousness.”

“Yours is a bitter past, then?” she said in a tone of reproach. “Ah! now I understand. You are bound to mademoiselle with the same bond of guilt as Jack Egerton?”

“Who—who told you it was guilt?” he stammered.

“You and Mr Egerton are bound to Valérie Dedieu by a secret,” she said.

An astounding thought had just crossed her mind. The Christian name Victor occurred frequently in the report in the Gaulois, which she had had translated, and which she had since treasured carefully, determined to use it as a final and unimpeachable document to bring Nemesis upon her enemy when occasion offered.

“I understand. Much is now plain to me,” she continued in a firm, harsh voice. “Yet you have not answered my first question. Mademoiselle’s husband left England some months ago, and has not since been heard of. Tell me, where is he?”

“I’m quite as ignorant of his whereabouts as yourself.”

“Then, I’ll put the question in another form. Why has Hugh Trethowen disappeared?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m convinced that you know where he is.”

“I do not. How should I?” he asked impatiently. “It is futile to prevaricate. If you are one of mademoiselle’s myrmidons, as you admit, you surely can form some idea why he has disappeared so mysteriously. Are you not aware that he is no longer living with her, and that all efforts to discover him have been in vain?”

“I—I really know nothing, and care less, about your lover,” he answered disdainfully. “Besides, why should you renew your friendship with him now he is married?”

His words maddened her. She had attacked her adversary with circumspection, but in her sudden ebullition of passionate indignation she gave vent to a flood of words, which, as soon as they were uttered, she regretted.

“I did not ask you to assist Hugh,” she cried. “I know he—like myself—has fallen a victim to the machinations of your hired assassins. But you refuse to tell me where I can find him, and speak of him as my lover. Even if we do love one another, what does it concern you? Would you preach to me of morals?” This last remark caused him to start, and he scowled at her ominously. “I warn you,” she said. “The day is not far distant when the whole mystery will be cleared up, and your villainy exposed.”

“Perhaps so,” he replied, with a forced laugh. “I’m sure I don’t care.”

“But you will, I fancy. You’ll be glad enough, when the time arrives, to fall upon your knees, as you did just now, and beg for mercy.”

“You’re mad,” he said in a tone of disgust.

She did not heed his remark, but continued—

“Perhaps,” she cried, “you will deny that a celebrated case was recently investigated by the Assize Court of the Seine, and was popularly known as the Mystery of the Boulevard Haussmann. Perhaps you will deny that Valérie Dardignac and Mrs Trethowen are the same person; that she—”

“What are you saying?”

“The truth. Moreover, I tell you I intend having satisfaction from you who lured me almost to my death.”

“Oh! How?” he asked defiantly.

“By a very simple process. I have merely to place the police in possession of the true facts regarding the crime which startled Paris not long ago. You shall not escape me now.”

He stood erect, glaring at her, his mouth twitching, his face pale, with a murderous expression upon it.

“So those are your tactics, miss?” he cried, with rage, springing upon her, and clutching with both hands at her throat. “You are the only person who knows our secret.”

“Help! police!” she shouted in alarm, noticing his determined manner.

Her cries echoed through the great empty church, but no assistance came.

His fingers tightened their hold upon her throat. He was strangling her.

The light had died away from above, and the shadows mingled in a shapeless mass.

“Help! help!” she screamed again; but her voice was fainter, for she was choking.

“Silence!” he hissed. “It’s you—you who would brand me as a murderer, and send me to the gallows! Do you think I’m going to allow you to do that! By heaven, you shan’t do it!”

She attempted to scream, but he placed his hand over her mouth.

His face was blanched, and his eyes gleamed with murderous hate as he glanced quickly around. His gaze fell upon the altar. Releasing her, he bounded towards it, and snatched up a heavy brass vase.

She saw his intention, but was powerless to recede.

“Help!” she shrieked.

Upon her throat she felt a hot hand; she saw the heavy vase uplifted above her.

“Take that!” he cried, as he brought it down upon her head with a crushing blow, and she fell senseless upon the stone pavement.

For a second or two he looked at her, wondering if she were dead. Then tearing off his surplice, he rushed into the vestry, and, putting on his coat and hat, fled from the church, locking the door after him.

The upturned face of the prostrate girl was calm and deathlike. She lay motionless upon the cold grey flags. The sun shone out again, and the coloured light, streaming from the stained-glass window, fell full upon her handsome features. But its warmth did not rouse her; she gave no sign of life.

Late in the afternoon, however, she struggled back to consciousness, and sat for a long time on the pulpit steps trying to calm herself and decide how to act.

The excruciating pain in her head would not allow her thoughts to shape sufficiently, so she made a tour of the building to discover some mode of egress. It was not long before she found that in one of the main doors the key had been left, and, unlocking it, she stepped out into the bright, warm afternoon with a feeling that a strange, oppressive weight had suddenly clouded her brain.

That evening the city clerks, small shopkeepers, with their wives and relations, who comprise the majority of the congregation of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, were agog when it transpired that their popular spiritual guide, the Rev. Hubert Holt, had suddenly thrown up his curacy. The vicar took the service, and at the conclusion announced with regret that his assistant had written to him that afternoon resigning his appointment, stating that a pressing engagement made it imperative that he should leave England at once. He gave no reason, but when the vicar sent round to his lodgings to request him to call and wish him adieu, it was discovered that he had packed a few things hurriedly, and already departed.

Then a local sensation was produced in the district between Denmark Hill and Camberwell Gate, and the devout parishioners prayed for the preservation and well-being of their popular but absent curate.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Silken Sackcloth.

The certificate of death is all we require.

“I have it here.”

“Why, how did you obtain it?”

“By a most fortunate circumstance. We saw one day, in the Indépendance Belge, that an unknown Englishman, apparently a gentleman, had died at the Hôtel du Nord at Antwerp. Pierre at once suggested that he might identify him as Hugh Trethowen. He went to Antwerp and did so. The man was buried as my husband, and here is the certificate.”

“A very smart stroke of business—very smart. But—er—don’t talk quite so plainly; you—”

“What do you mean? Surely you have no qualm of conscience? The payment we agreed upon ought to counteract all that.”

“Of course. Nevertheless, it is unnecessary to refer to the strategy too frequently. As long as we have an indisputable death certificate in the name of Hugh Trethowen, and you have your marriage certificate as his wife, there will not be the slightest difficulty.”

“I know that. To me you appear afraid lest we should be exposed.”

“You need not upbraid me for exercising due caution. The success of the plan you have been so long maturing depends upon it. Supposing we were unable to prove the will, in what position should we be?”

“In an awkward one—decidedly awkward. But why speak of failure when we are bound to succeed?”

“Are you quite sure the—er—dead man will never trouble us?”

“Positive. A sentence of fifteen years in New Caledonia means certain death. He might just as well have been buried at once, poor devil!”

This confidential conversation took place in Mr Bernard Graham’s gloomy private office in Devereux Court. The old solicitor, with a serious, intense expression upon his countenance, was sitting at his littered writing-table with a short legal document, covering only half of the sheet of foolscap, spread out upon his blotting-pad. Its purport was that the testator, Hugh Trethowen, left all he possessed to his “dear wife, Valérie,” and the date of the signatures showed that it had been completed only a few days before they left Coombe for Paris.

In the client’s chair, opposite her legal adviser, sat Valérie. Attired in deep mourning, that became her well, her thin black veil scarcely hid the anxious expression upon her face. Assuming her part with an actress’s regard to detail, she did not overlook the fact that pallor was becoming to a widow; therefore, since she had put on the garments of sorrow, she had refrained from adding those little touches of carmine to her cheeks which she knew always enhanced her beauty. Neither her face nor voice betrayed signs of nervousness. With the steady, dogged perseverance of the inveterate gambler she had been playing for heavy stakes, and now, at the last throw of the dice, she had determined to win.

Their interview had been by appointment in order to arrange the final details. Now that Graham was in possession of the death certificate, he was to proceed at once to obtain probate on the will, after which the estate would pass to her. For his services in this matter, and in various other little affairs to which she was indebted to him, he was to receive twelve thousand pounds. A munificent fee, indeed, for proving a will!

There was a silence while the old solicitor took up the certificate she had handed him, and carefully scrutinised it. The declaration was quite plain and straightforward. It stated that Hugh Trethowen, English subject, had died from syncope at the Hôtel du Nord, and had been buried at the cemetery of Stuivenberg.

“If he lived to complete his sentence?” hazarded Mr Graham in a low voice, putting down the slip of paper, and removing his pince-nez to polish them. “Imprisoned persons, you know, have an awkward knack of turning up at an inopportune moment.”

“And supposing he did, what could he prove?” she asked. “Has he not left a will bequeathing everything to me?—am I not mourning for him as his widow? Besides, he knows nothing—he can never know.”

“I admit your cleverness,” he said. “Notwithstanding that, however, we cannot be too circumspect.”

“We’ve absolutely nothing to fear, I tell you,” she exclaimed impatiently. “Hugh is as safely out of the way as if he were in his grave.”

“And what of the others—Egerton, for instance?”

“He dare not breathe a word. As a matter of fact, he is ignorant of the whereabouts of his friend.”

“Is Holt to be relied upon?”

“Absolutely. He has left the country.”

“Oh! Where is he?”

“In America Through some unexplained cause he took a passage to New York. I expect he is in disgrace.”

“Does he share?”

“Of course. He has written me a long letter announcing his intention not to return to England at present, and giving an address in Chicago where I am to send the money.”

“Very good,” Graham said approvingly. “As long as we can safely rely upon the secret being preserved, we need apprehend nothing.”

“It will be preserved, never fear,” declared Valérie flippantly. “They know how essential is secrecy for the safety of their own necks.”

“Don’t be so unsentimental,” urged the old man smiling. “You talk a little too plainly.”

“Merely the truth,” declared she laughing. “But never mind—you prove the will, and the twelve thousand pounds are yours.”

“Agreed. I shall take preliminary steps to-morrow.”

“The sooner the better, you know.”

“Shan’t you live at Coombe?”

“Oh, what an idea!” she exclaimed in ridicule. “How could I live there among all those country busy-bodies and old fogies? I should cut a nice figure as a widow, shouldn’t I? No. When I get the money I shall set up a good house here in London, mourn for a little time, then cast off my sackcloth and ashes.”

“Remember,” he said, “I am to receive twelve thousand pounds. But, really, you make a most charming widow.”

“And you bestow a little flattery upon me as a sort of recognition,” she observed, a trifle piqued at the point of his remark. Then, laughing again, she said lightly, “Well, if I really am so charming as some people tell me, I suppose I ought to be able to keep my head above water in the social vortex. At all events I mean to try.”

“You cannot fail. Your beauty is always fatal to those who oppose you,” he remarked pleasantly.

“We shall see!” she exclaimed, with a merry little peal of laughter. Rising and stretching forth her hand, she added, “I must be going. I consign the certificate to your care, and if you want me you know my address. I shall remain in London till the matter is settled.”

The old man rose, and grasped the hand offered to him. Bidding her adieu, he again assured her that he would give his prompt attention to the business on hand, and, as his clerk entered at that moment, he ceremoniously bowed her out.

During the time Valérie had been in conversation with Mr Graham, a woman had been standing on the opposite side of the Strand, against the railings of the Law Courts, intently watching the persons emerging from Devereux Court. She was young and not bad-looking, but her wan face betrayed the pinch of poverty, and her dress, although rather shabby, was nevertheless fashionable. Her dark features were refined, and her bright eyes had an earnest, intense look in them as she stood in watchful expectancy.

After she had kept the narrow passage under observation for nearly an hour, the object of her diligent investigation suddenly came into view. It was Valérie, who, when she gained the thoroughfare, hesitated for a moment whether she should walk or take a cab to the Prince of Wales’ Club. Deciding upon the former course, as she wanted to call at a shop on the way, she turned and walked along the Strand in the direction of Charing Cross.

When the woman who had been waiting caught sight of her she gave vent to an imprecation, the fingers of her gloveless hands twitched nervously, and her sharp nails buried themselves in the flesh of her palms.

As she started to walk in the same direction she muttered aloud to herself, in mixed French and English—

“Then I was not mistaken. To think I have waited for so long, and I find you here! You little dream that I am here! Ah, you fancy you have been clever; that your secret is safe; that the police here in London will not know Valérie Dedieu! You have yet to discover your mistake. Ha, ha! what a tableau that will be when you and I are quits! Bien, for the present I will wait and ascertain what is going on.”

Throughout the whole length of the Strand the strange woman walked on the opposite pavement, always keeping Valérie in sight—a difficult task sometimes, owing to the crowded state of the thoroughfare. At a jeweller’s near Charing Cross, Mrs Trethowen stopped for a few minutes, then, resuming her walk, crossed Trafalgar Square, and went up the Haymarket to the Prince of Wales’ Club, calmly unconscious of the woman who was following and taking such intense interest in her movements.

Muttering to herself sentences in French, interspersed by many epithets and imprecations, she waited for Valérie’s reappearance, and then continued to follow her down the Haymarket and through St. James’s Park to her flat in Victoria Street.

She saw her enter the building, and, after allowing her a few moments to ascend the stairs, returned and ascertained the number of the suite.

Then she turned away and walked in the direction of Westminster Bridge, smiling and evidently on very good terms with herself. Indeed, she had made a discovery which meant almost more to her than she could realise.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

At La Nouvelle.

A wide, vast expanse of glassy sapphire sea.

The giant mountains rose in the west, sheer and steep—purple barriers between the land and the setting sun. A golden fire edging their white crests, that grew from their own dense, sombre shadows to the crimson light which flooded their heads, solemn and silent. And the calm Pacific Ocean lay unruffled in the brilliant blood-red afterglow.

Seated upon a great lichen-covered boulder on the outskirts of a dense forest, a solitary man gazed blankly and with unutterable sadness upon the magnificent scene. Above him the trees were hung with a drapery of vines and tropical creepers bearing red and purple flowers, and forming natural arches and bowers more beautiful than ever fashioned by man. Parrots and other birds of bright plumage were flying about among the trees—among them guacamayas, or great macaws, large, clothed in red, yellow, and green, and when on the wing displaying a splendid plumage. But there were also vultures and scorpions, and, running across the road to the beach and up the trees, innumerable iguanas. Great cocoanut and plantain trees jutted out and massed themselves to the right and to the left. A mountain torrent, sweeping swiftly over a moss-grown rocky ledge, seethed for a few moments in white foam, and then gurgled away down the bright shingles into the sea.

The man sat there stonily, voiceless, motionless, his chin fallen upon his chest, his hands clasped in front of him. Dressed in grey shirt and trousers that were ragged and covered with dust and dried clay, his appearance was scarcely prepossessing. On the back of his shirt was painted in large black numerals “3098,” and his ankles were fettered by two oblong iron links. He was a convict.

Under the broad-brimmed, battered straw hat that protected his head from the tropical glare was a ruddy, auburn-bearded face, with sad blue eyes which at times turned anxiously up and down the beach path—the sun-tanned face of Hugh Trethowen.

His pickaxe lay on the ground before him, for he was resting after his long day’s toil in the mine.

Toil! He shuddered when he thought of the weary monotony of his life. Down in the dark, dismal working he was compelled to hew and delve for twelve hours each day, and to satisfactorily perform the task set him by his warder before he was allowed his ration of food. Half an hour’s relaxation when leaving the mine was all that the discipline allowed, after which the convicts were compelled to return to the prison to their evening meal, and afterwards to work at various trades for two hours longer before they were sent to their cells. The French Republic shows no leniency towards prisoners condemned to travaux forces, and transported to the penal settlement in New Caledonia, consequently the latter live under a régime that is terribly harsh and oft-times absolutely inhuman.

Instead of chattering with the forcats, assassins, robbers, and scoundrels of all denominations and varieties of crime who were his fellow-prisoners, Hugh, in the brief half-hour’s respite, usually came daily to the same spot, to reflect upon his position, and try to devise some means of escape.

His conviction and transportation had been so rapid that only a confused recollection of it existed in his memory. He remembered the Assize Court—how the sun insolently, ironically, cast his joyous, sparkling beams into the gloomy, densely packed apartment. The hall, dismal and smoke-begrimed, is anything but imposing at best, but it was filled with the foetid exhalations from the crowd that had long taken up every vacant space. The gendarmes at his side looked at one another and smiled. The evidence was given—what it was he did not thoroughly understand—yet he, an upright man, resolute, honest to the very soul, and good-natured to simplicity, found himself accused of complicity in the murder of a man he had never heard of. Despondent at Valérie’s desertion, he took no steps to defend himself; he was heedless of everything.

Then the verdict was pronounced, and the sentence—fifteen years’ penal servitude!

He heard it, but in his apathetic frame of mind he was unaffected by it. He smiled as he recognised how mean was this noted Criminal Court of the Seine, with its paltry chandelier, the smoky ceiling, and the battered crucifix that hung over the bench on which the judges sat in their scarlet robes. Suddenly he thought of Valérie. Surely she would know through the newspapers that his trial was fixed for that day? Why did she not come forward and assist him in proving his innocence.

He strained his eyes among the sea of faces that were turned towards him with the same inquisitive look. She was not there.

“Prisoner, have you anything to say?” asked the presiding judge, when he delivered sentence.

The question fell upon Hugh’s ears and roused him. The thought that Valérie had made no sign since his arrest, although he had written to her, again recurred to him. The die was cast. What probability, what hope, was there of liberty? For the twentieth time, perhaps, this cruel agony, this doubt as to Valérie’s faithfulness, returned to him. She was absent; she had forsaken him.

“Will you answer me, prisoner? Have you anything to say?” repeated the judge sternly.

“I wish to say nothing, except that I am entirely innocent.”

Then they hurried him back to his cell.

He had a hazy recollection of a brief incarceration in the Toulon convict prison, after which came the long voyage to La Nouvelle, and the settlement into the dull, hopeless existence he was now leading—a life so terrible that more than once he longed for death instead.

Sitting there that evening, he was thinking of his wife, refusing even then to believe that she had willingly held aloof from him. He felt confident that by some unfortunate freak of fate she had been unaware of his arrest, and might still be searching for him in vain. Perhaps the letters he wrote to her to the hotel and to Coombe might never have been posted. If they had not, there was now no chance of sending a message home, for one of the rules observed most strictly in the penal colony is that letters from convicts to their friends are forbidden. The unfortunate ones are completely isolated from the world. The families of French prisoners sent out to the Pacific Islands can obtain news of them at the Bureau of Prisons in Paris, but nowhere else. When convicts are handed over to the governor of the colony, their names are not given; they are known henceforth by numbers only.

Convict number 3098 knew that it was useless to hope any longer, yet it was almost incredible, he told himself, that he, an innocent man and an English subject, should be sent there to a living tomb for an offence that he did not commit—for the murder of a person whose name he had never before heard.

“I wonder where Valérie is now?” he said aloud, giving vent to a long-drawn sigh. “I wonder whether she ever thinks about me? Perhaps she does; perhaps she is wearing her heart out scouring every continental city in a futile endeavour to find me; perhaps—perhaps she’ll think I’m dead, and after a year or two of mourning marry some one else.”

He uttered the words in a low voice, more marked by suffering than by resignation. He preferred the companionship of his own thoughts, sad as they were; his mind always turned to Valérie, to the sad ruin of all his hopes.

“And Jack Egerton,” he continued, resting his chin upon his hands; “he must know, too, that I have disappeared. Will he seek me? Yet, what’s the use of hoping—trusting in the impossible—no one would dream of finding me in a French convict prison. No,” he added bitterly, “I must abandon hope, which at best is but a phantom pursued by eager fools. I must cast aside all thought of returning to civilisation, to home—to Valérie. I’ve seen her—seen her for the last time! No, it can’t be that we shall ever meet—that I shall ever set eyes again upon the woman who is more to me than life itself!”

He paused. In his ears there seemed to ring a little peal of Valérie’s silvery laughter, which mocked the chill, dead despair that had buried itself so deeply in his heart.

The tears sprang to his eyes, but he wiped them away with a brusque movement, and looked about abstractedly. The sun had set behind the crags, and had been succeeded by the soft tropical twilight. A faint breeze was abroad. The sough of the leaves above was lost in the gurgling of the mountain torrent as it rushed over its rocky bed. The palms, played upon by the wind, made a sound of their own. It was silence in the midst of sound, and sound in the midst of silence—majestic, contradictory, although natural.

“And I shall never see her again!” he murmured. “I shall remain here working and living from day to day, a blank, aimless existence until I die. I’ve heard it said that Fate puts her mark on those she intends to strike, and the truth of that I’ve never recognised until now. I remember what a strange apprehensive feeling came over me on the night we left London for Paris—a kind of foreboding that misfortune was upon me, a strange presage of evil. Again, that warning of Dolly’s was curious. I wonder what was contained in that newspaper report that she so particularly desired me to see? I’m sure Dolly loved me. If I had married her, perhaps, after all, I should have been happier. It was inflicting an absolute cruelty upon her when I cast her aside and married Valérie. Yet she bore it silently, without complaint, although I’m confident it almost broke her heart, poor girl!”

Sighing heavily, he passed his grimy, blistered hand wearily across his forehead.

“To think that I’m dead to them; that we shall never again meet! It seems impossible, although it’s the plain, undisguised truth. That canting old priest told me yesterday that God would extend His mercy to those of us who sought it. Bah! I don’t believe it. If the circumstances of our lives were controlled by the Almighty, He would never allow an innocent man like myself to suffer such punishment unjustly. No,” he declared in a wild outburst of despair, “the belief that God is Master of the world is an exploded fallacy. What proof have we of the existence of a Supreme Being? None. What proof of a life hereafter? None. Religion is a mere sentimental pastime for women and fools. For priests to try and convert convicts is a sorry, miserable farce. There is no God!”

Several minutes elapsed, during which he thought seriously upon the mad words that had escaped him. The recollection of the religious teaching he had received at his mother’s knee came back to him. He had often jested at holy things, but never before had he been smitten by conscience as now.

“Suppose—suppose, after all, there is an Almighty Power,” he said thoughtfully, in an awed voice. “Suppose it is enabled to direct circumstances and control destiny. In that case God could give me freedom. He could give Valérie back to me, and I should return home and resume the perfect happiness that was so brief and so suddenly dispelled. Ah! if such things could be! And—why not? My mother—did she not believe in God? Were not the words she uttered with her dying breath a declaration of implicit trust in Him? Did she not die peacefully because of her firm, unshaken faith?”

Jumping to his feet with a sudden resolution, he stretched forth his hands in supplication to heaven, exclaiming, in a hoarse, half-choked whisper—

“I—I believe—yes, I believe there’s a Ruling Power. No! I’ll not abandon all hope yet.”

His arms dropped listlessly to his side again, and he sank upon the boulder where he had been sitting, silent and thoughtful, wondering whether freedom would ever again be his.

“Hulloa,” exclaimed a voice in French. “Why, what’s the matter? Any one watching you from a distance, as I’ve been doing, would think you’d taken leave of your senses.”

Glancing up quickly, he saw it was a bearded, unkempt prisoner who, condemned to a sentence à perpétuité, worked in the mine in the same labour gang as himself.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed the entertainment,” he said, in annoyance.

“Entertainment,” echoed the other. “There is scarcely entertainment in the mauvais quart-d’heure, is there? Bah! we all of us in this malarial death-trap have periods of melancholy, more or less. For myself, I’m never troubled with them. When you’ve been here a few years you’ll see the folly of giving way to gloomy thoughts, and the utter uselessness of entertaining any anticipation of either escape or release.”