The Temptress. Le Queux William

her utterance.

      Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying —

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

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

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

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

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

      “I’ve been a fool. Forgive me for speaking as I did,” he entreated.

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

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

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

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

      “I – I am satisfied,” she murmured. “But tell me, Hugh, once more, that I shall be your wife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I hate myself. It’s horrible, and yet I am powerless,” she cried passionately.

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

      Chapter Eleven

      The Fourth Passenger

      “I think the trick is almost accomplished.”

      “So do I.”

      “Is everything ready?”

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

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

      “Of course. I quite understand.”

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

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

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

      “You’re – you’re right, mon ami. Such cognac warms the blood this weather. Let’s have another glass before we go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Because – because the only person who knew the secret has been silenced.”

      “Who?” demanded Holt in a hoarse whisper.

      “Egerton.”

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

      “Well, I tell you candidly I don’t half like it,” he remarked apprehensively.

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

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

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

      “One hundred pounds.”

      “The job is worth double.”

      “You’ll not have a sou more, so think yourself lucky to get what I offer.”

      “If I refuse?”

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

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

      “You always receive money for your services.”

      “Yes,”