The Red Widow: or, The Death-Dealers of London. Le Queux William

the attitude you adopted towards old Daniel Fleming." Then he added: "I wish you'd order breakfast to be served up here, for I'm ravenously hungry."

      She rose, rang the bell, and ordered breakfast for two.

      While it was being prepared, Boyne went along the corridor to wash, while Ena retired to her room, and packed her trunk ready for her departure south at ten o'clock.

      Afterwards she saw the head porter and got him to secure her a place on the train, and also in the restaurant-car, which is usually crowded.

      They breakfasted tête-à-tête, after which she paid her bill, and at ten o'clock left him standing upon the platform to idle away three hours wandering about the crowded Glasgow streets before his departure at one o'clock.

      Next morning Ena Pollen took her déjeuner at half-past eleven in the elegant table d'hôte room of the aristocratic Hôtel Bristol, in Paris, a big white salon which overlooks the Place Vendôme. Afterwards she took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, whence she travelled to Melun, thirty miles distant – that town from which come the Brie cheeses. On arrival, she inquired for the Boulevard Victor Hugo, and an open cab drove her away across the little island in the Seine, past the old church of St. Aspais, to a point where, in the boulevard, stood a monument to the great savant, Pasteur. The cab pulled up opposite the monument, where, alighting, Ena found herself before a large four-storied house, the ground floor of which was occupied by a tobacconist and a shop which sold comestibles.

      Of the old bespectacled concierge who was cobbling boots in the entrance she inquired for Madame Ténot, and his gruff reply was:

      "Au troisième, à gauche."

      So, mounting the stone steps, she found the left-hand door on the third floor, and rang the bell.

      The door opened, and the good-looking young French girl, who had been her maid for six months at Brighton, confronted her.

      "Well, Céline!" exclaimed Ena merrily in French. "You didn't expect to see me – did you?"

      The girl stood aghast and open-mouthed.

      "Dieu! Madame!" she gasped. "I – I certainly did not!"

      "Well, I chanced to be passing through Melun, and I thought I would call upon you."

      The girl stood in the doorway, apparently disinclined to invite her late mistress into the small flat which she and her mother, the widow of the local postmaster, occupied.

      "I wrote to you, Madame, two months ago – but you never replied!"

      "I have never had any letter from you, Céline," Ena declared. "But may I not come in for a moment to have a chat with you? Ah! but perhaps you have visitors?"

      "No, Madame," was her reply; "I am alone. My mother went to my aunt's, at Provins, this morning."

      "Good! Then I may come in?"

      "If Madame wishes," she said, still with some reluctance, and led the way to a small, rather sparsely-furnished salon, which overlooked the cobbled street below.

      "I have been staying a few days at Marlotte, and am now on my way back to Paris," said her former mistress, seating herself in a chair. "Besides, I wanted particularly to see you, Céline, for several reasons. I feel somehow that – well, that I have not treated you as I really ought to have done. I dismissed you abruptly after poor Mr. Martin's death. But I was so very upset – I was not actually myself. I know I ought not to have done what I did. Please forgive me."

      The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in well-cut black skirt and cotton blouse merely shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. She uttered no word. Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise at the sudden appearance of her former mistress.

      "I don't know what you must have thought of me, Céline," Ena added.

      "I thought many things of Madame," the girl admitted.

      "Naturally. You must have thought me most ungrateful, after all the services you had rendered me, often without reward," remarked the red-haired widow. "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful."

      The girl only smiled. She recollected the manner in which she had been suddenly dismissed and sent out from the house at five minutes' notice – and for no fault that she could discover.

      She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor, living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame, who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room. That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's wages, and requesting her to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in France.

      It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered her.

      And now this woman's sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity.

      "Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly.

      "No, no, Céline! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me."

      Céline, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died.

      Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite another reason – in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger.

      Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was in her service.

      "Now look here, Céline," she said at last. "I'll be perfectly frank with you. I've come to ask you if you'll let bygones be bygones, and return to me?"

      The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

      "I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."

      That was exactly the reply for which the clever woman wished.

      "Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone of regret.

      "Because the man to whom I am betrothed would not allow me," was her reply.

      "Oh! Then you are engaged, Céline! Happy girl! I congratulate you most heartily. And who is the happy man?"

      "Henri Galtier."

      "And what is his profession?"

      "He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was her reply.

      "He is at Chantilly now?"

      The girl again hesitated. Then she replied:

      "No – he is in London."

      Ena held her breath. It was evidently the man to whom Céline was engaged who was in London in search of Richard Bennett. Next second she recovered from her excitement at her success in making the discovery.

      "In London? Is he employed there?"

      "Yes – temporarily," she answered.

      "And when are you to marry?"

      "In December – we hope."

      "Ah! Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand that you cannot return to me, Céline," exclaimed Ena. "Does Monsieur Galtier speak English?"

      "Yes; very well, Madame. He was born in London, and lived there until he was eighteen."

      "Oh, well, of course he would speak our language excellently. But though you will no doubt both be happy in the near future, I myself am not at all satisfied with my own conduct towards you. I've treated you badly; I feel that in some way or other I ought to put myself right