BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

he added in French, turning to Pierre.

      The dumb man nodded and slouched slowly back into the hotel. Villiers stood out in the blazing sunshine, thinking.

      ‘She’s got the nugget with her in the trap,’ he said to himself; ‘and she’s taken it to show Marchurst. Well, she’s sure to stop there to tea, and won’t start for home till about nine o’clock: it will be pretty dark by then. She’ll be by herself, and if I—’ here he stopped and looked round cautiously, and then, without another word, set off down the street at a run.

      The fact was, Mr Villiers had come to the conclusion that as his wife would not give him money willingly, the best thing to be done would be to take it by force, and accordingly he had made up his mind to rob her of the nugget that night if possible. Of course there was a risk, for he knew his wife was a determined woman; still, while she was driving in the darkness down the hill, if he took her by surprise he would be able to stun her with a blow and get possession of the nugget. Then he could hide it in one of the old shafts of the Black Hill Company until he required it. As to the possibility of his wife knowing him, there would be no chance of that in the darkness, so he could escape any unpleasant inquiries, then take the nugget to Melbourne and get it melted down secretly. He would be able to make nearly twelve hundred pounds out of it, so the game would certainly be worth the candle. Full of this brilliant idea of making a good sum at one stroke, Mr Villiers went home, had something to eat, and taking with him a good stout stick, the nob of which was loaded with lead, he started for the Black Hill with the intent of watching Marchurst’s house until his wife left there, and then following her down the hill and possessing himself of the nugget.

      The afternoon wore drowsily along, and the great heat made everybody inclined to sleep. Pierre had demanded by signs to be shown his bedroom, and having been conducted thereto by a crushed-looking waiter, who drifted aimlessly before him, threw himself on the bed and went fast asleep.

      Old Simon, in the dimly-lit back parlour, was already snoring, and only Miss Twexby, amid the glitter of the glasses in the bar and the glare of the sunshine through the open door, was wide awake. Customers came in for foaming tankards of beer, and sometimes a little girl, with a jug hidden under her apron, would appear, with a request that it might be filled for ‘mother’, who was ironing. Indeed, the number of women who were ironing that afternoon, and wanted to quench their thirst, was something wonderful; but Miss Twexby seemed to know all about it as she put a frothy head on each jug, and received the silver in exchange. At last, however, even Martha the wide-awake was yielding to the somniferous heat of the day when a young man entered the bar and made her sit up with great alacrity, beaming all over her hard wooden face.

      This was none other than M. Vandeloup, who had come down to see Pierre. Dressed in flannels, with a blue scarf tied carelessly round his waist, a blue necktie knotted loosely round his throat under the collar of his shirt, and wearing a straw hat on his fair head, he looked wonderfully cool and handsome, and as he leaned over the counter composedly smoking a cigarette, Miss Twexby thought that the hero of her novel must have stepped bodily out of the book. Gaston stared complacently at her while he pulled at his fair moustache, and thought how horribly plain-looking she was, and what a contrast to his charming Bebe.

      ‘I’ll take something cool to drink,’ he said, with a yawn, ‘and also a chair, if you have no objection,’ suiting the action to the word; ‘whew! how warm it is.’

      ‘What would you like to drink, sir?’ asked the fair Martha, putting on her brightest smile, which seemed rather out of place on her features; ‘brandy and soda?’

      ‘Thank you, I’ll have a lemon squash if you will kindly make me one,’ he said, carelessly, and as Martha flew to obey his order, he added, ‘you might put a little curacoa in it.’

      ‘It’s very hot, ain’t it,’ observed Miss Twexby, affably, as she cut up the lemon; ‘par’s gone to sleep in the other room,’ jerking her head in the direction of the parlour, ‘but Mr Villiers went out in all the heat, and it ain’t no wonder if he gets a sunstroke.’

      ‘Oh, was Mr Villiers here?’ asked Gaston, idly, not that he cared much about that gentleman’s movements, but merely for something to say.

      ‘Lor, yes, sir,’ giggled Martha, ‘he’s one of our regulars, sir.’

      ‘I can understand that, Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, bowing as he took the drink from her hand.

      Miss Twexby giggled again, and her nose grew a shade redder at the pleasure of being bantered by this handsome young man.

      ‘You’re a furriner,’ she said, shortly; ‘I knew you were,’ she went on triumphantly as he nodded, ‘you talk well enough, but there’s something wrong about the way you pronounces your words.’

      Vandeloup hardly thought Miss Twexby a mistress of Queen’s English, but he did not attempt to contradict her.

      ‘I must get you to give me a few lessons,’ he replied, gallantly, setting down the empty glass; ‘and what has Mr Villiers gone out into the heat for?’

      ‘It’s more nor I can tell,’ said Martha, emphatically, nodding her head till the short curls dangling over her ears vibrated as if they were made of wire. ‘He spoke to the dumb man and drew pictures for him, and then off he goes.’

      The dumb man! Gaston pricked up his ears at this, and, wondering what Villiers wanted to talk to Pierre about, he determined to find out.

      ‘That dumb man is one of our miners from the Pactolus,’ he said, lighting another cigarette; ‘I wish to speak to him—has he gone out also?’

      ‘No, he ain’t,’ returned Miss Twexby, decisively; ‘he’s gone to lie down; d’ye want to see him; I’ll send for him—’ with her hand on the bell-rope.

      ‘No, thank you,’ said Vandeloup, stopping her, ‘I’ll go up to his room if you will show me the way.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ said Martha, preparing to leave the bar, but first ringing the bell so that the crushed-looking waiter might come and attend to possible customers; ‘he’s on the ground floor, and there ain’t no stairs to climb—now what are you looking at, sir?’ with another gratified giggle, as she caught Vandeloup staring at her.

      But he was not looking at her somewhat mature charms, but at a bunch of pale blue flowers, among which were some white blossoms she wore in the front of her dress.

      ‘What are these?’ he asked, touching the white blossoms lightly with his finger.

      ‘I do declare it’s that nasty hemlock!’ said Martha, in surprise, pulling the white flowers out of the bunch; ‘and I never knew it was there. Pah!’ and she threw the blossom down with a gesture of disgust. ‘How they smell!’

      Gaston picked up one of the flowers, and crushed it between his fingers, upon which it gave out a peculiar mousy odour eminently disagreeable. It was hemlock sure enough, and he wondered how such a plant had come into Australia.

      ‘Does it grow in your garden?’ he asked Martha.

      That damsel intimated it did, and offered to show him the plant, so that he could believe his own eyes.

      Vandeloup assented eagerly, and they were soon in the flower garden at the back of the house, which was blazing with vivid colours, in the hot glare of the sunshine.

      ‘There you are,’ said Miss Twexby, pointing to a corner of the garden near the fence where the plant was growing; ‘par brought a lot of seeds from home, and that beastly thing got mixed up with them. Par keeps it growing, though, ‘cause no one else has got it. It’s quite a curiosity.’

      Vandeloup bent down and examined the plant, with its large, round, smooth, purple-spotted stem—its smooth, shining green leaves, and the tiny white flowers with their disagreeable odour.

      ‘Yes, it is hemlock,’ he said, half to himself; ‘I did not know it could be grown here. Some day, Mademoiselle,’ he said, turning to Miss