The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

back to the house with her, ‘I will ask you to let me have some of the roots of that plant to make an experiment with.’

      ‘As much as you like,’ said the fair Martha, amiably; ‘it’s a nasty smelling thing. What are you going to make out of it?’

      ‘Nothing particular,’ returned Vandeloup, with a yawn, as they entered the house and stopped at the door of Pierre’s room. ‘I’m a bit of a chemist, and amuse myself with these things.’

      ‘You are clever,’ observed Martha, admiringly; ‘but here’s that man’s room—we didn’t give him the best’—apologetically—‘as miners are so rough.’

      ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, eagerly, as she turned to go, ‘I see there are a few blossoms of hemlock left in your flower there,’ touching it with his finger; ‘will you give them to me?’

      Martha Twexby stared; surely this was the long-expected come at last—she had secured a lover; and such a lover—handsome, young, and gallant,—the very hero of her dreams. She almost fainted in delighted surprise, and unfastening the flowers with trembling fingers, gave them to Gaston. He placed them in a button-hole of his flannel coat, then before she could scream, or even draw back in time, this audacious young man put his arm round her and kissed her virginal lips. Miss Twexby was so taken by surprise, that she could offer no resistance, and by the time she had recovered herself, Gaston had disappeared into Pierre’s room and closed the door after him.

      ‘Well,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar, ‘if that isn’t a case of love at first sight, my name ain’t Martha Twexby,’ and she sat down in the bar with her nerves all of a flutter, as she afterwards told a female friend who dropped in sometimes for a friendly cup of tea.

      Gaston closed the door after him, and found himself in a moderately large room, with one window looking on to the garden, and having a dressing-table with a mirror in front of it. There were two beds, one on each side, and on the farthest of these Pierre was sleeping heavily, not even Gaston’s entrance having roused him. Going over to him, Vandeloup touched him slightly, and with a spring the dumb man sat up in bed as if he expected to be arrested, and was all on the alert to escape.

      ‘It’s only I, my friend,’ said Gaston, in French, crossing over to the other bed and sitting on it. ‘Come here; I wish to speak to you.’

      Pierre rose from his sleeping place, and, stumbling across the room, stood before Gaston with downcast eyes, his shaggy hair all tossed and tumbled by the contact with the pillow. Gaston himself coolly relit his cigarette, which had gone out, threw his straw hat on the bed, and then, curling one leg inside the other, looked long and keenly at Pierre.

      ‘You saw Madame’s husband to-day?’ he said sharply, still eyeing the slouching figure before him, that seemed so restless under his steady gaze.

      Pierre nodded and shuffled his large feet.

      ‘Did he want to know about his wife?’

      Another nod.

      ‘I thought so; and about the new nugget also, I presume?’

      Still another nod.

      ‘Humph,’ thoughtfully. ‘He’d like to get a share of it, I’ve no doubt.’

      The dumb man nodded violently; then, crossing over to his own bed, he placed the pillow in the centre of it, and falling on his knees, imitated the action of miners in working at the wash. Then he arose to his feet and pointed to the pillow.

      ‘I see,’ said M. Vandeloup, who had been watching this pantomime with considerable interest; ‘that pillow is the nugget of which our friend wants a share.’

      Pierre assented; then, snatching up the pillow, he ran with it to the end of the room.

      ‘Oh,’ said Gaston, after a moment’s thought, ‘so he’s going to run away with it. A very good idea; but how does he propose to get it?’

      Pierre dropped his pillow and pointed in the direction of the Black Hill.

      ‘Does he know it’s up there?’ asked Vandeloup; ‘you told him, I suppose?’ As Pierre nodded, ‘Humph! I think I can see what Mr Villiers intends to do—rob his wife as she goes home tonight.’

      Pierre nodded in a half doubtful manner.

      ‘You’re not quite sure,’ interrupted M. Vandeloup, ‘but I am. He won’t stop at anything to get money. You stay all night in town?’

      The dumb man assented.

      ‘So do I,’ replied Vandeloup; ‘it’s a happy coincidence, because I see a chance of our getting that nugget.’ Pierre’s dull eyes brightened, and he rubbed his hands together in a pleased manner.

      ‘Sit down,’ said Vandeloup, in a peremptory tone, pointing to the floor. ‘I wish to tell you what I think.’

      Pierre obediently dropped on to the floor, where he squatted like a huge misshapen toad, while Vandeloup, after going to the door to see that it was closed, returned to the bed, sat down again, and, having lighted another cigarette, began to speak. All this precaution was somewhat needless, as he was talking rapidly in French, but then M. Vandeloup knew that walls have ears and possibly might understand foreign languages.

      ‘I need hardly remind you,’ said Vandeloup, in a pleasant voice, ‘that when we landed in Australia I told you that there was war between ourselves and society, and that, at any cost, we must try to make money; so far, we have only been able to earn an honest livelihood—a way of getting rich which you must admit is remarkably slow. Here, however, is a chance of making, if not a fortune, at least a good sum of money at one stroke. This M. Villiers is going to rob his wife, and his plan will no doubt be this: he will lie in wait for her, and when she drives slowly down the hill, he will spring on to the trap and perhaps attempt to kill her; at all events, he will seize the box containing the nugget, and try to make off with it. How he intends to manage it I cannot tell you—it must be left to the chapter of accidents; but,’ in a lower voice, bending forward, ‘when he does get the nugget we must obtain it from him.’

      Pierre looked up and drew his hand across his throat.

      ‘Not necessarily,’ returned Vandeloup, coolly; ‘I know your adage, “dead men tell no tales,” but it is a mistake—they do, and to kill him is dangerous. No, if we stun him we can go off with the nugget, and then make our way to Melbourne, where we can get rid of it quietly. As to Madame Midas, if her husband allows her to live—which I think is unlikely—I will make our excuses to her for leaving the mine. Now, I’m going up to M. Marchurst’s house, so you can meet me at the top of the hill, at eight o’clock tonight. Madame will probably start at half-past eight or nine, so that will give us plenty of time to see what M. Villiers is going to do.’

      They both rose to their feet. Then Vandeloup put on his hat, and, going to the glass, arranged his tie in as cool and nonchalant a manner as if he had been merely planning the details for a picnic instead of a possible crime. While admiring himself in the glass he caught sight of the bunch of flowers given to him by Miss Twexby, and, taking them from his coat, he turned round to Pierre, who stood watching him in his usual sullen manner.

      ‘Do you see these?’ he asked, touching the white blossoms with the cigarette he held between his fingers.

      Pierre intimated that he did.

      ‘From the plant of these, my friend,’ said Vandeloup, looking at them critically, ‘I can prepare a vegetable poison as deadly as any of Caesar Borgia’s. It is a powerful narcotic, and leaves hardly any trace. Having been a medical student, you know,’ he went on, conversationally, ‘I made quite a study of toxicology, and the juice of this plant,’ touching the white flower, ‘has done me good service, although it was the cause of my exile to New Caledonia. Well,’ with a shrug of the shoulders as he put the flowers back in his coat, ‘it is always something to have in reserve; I did not know that I could get this plant here, my friend. But now that I have I will prepare a