The Temptress

Then he held the envelope in the stream of steam. In a few moments the gum had become loosened, and he was reading the missive.

When he had finished it his face grew hard and stern. Slowly he replaced the letter in its envelope and re-gummed the flap in its original position. Standing before the fire, his arms folded, his head bent deep in thought, he muttered to himself:

“So that is your plan, Valérie! As a masterpiece of ingenuity and chicanery, it does you great credit, and fully sustains your reputation. But the bird is scarcely in the net yet. You have me under your merciless hand, it is true, and you know well that I dare not expose you, for you could send me to a convict’s cell, or worse. No, I am not such a fool as to run the risk. I know you and your brutal myrmidons too well for that. I cannot show you in your true colours, except vaguely, and therefore ineffectually; still we may be quits yet.”

Taking the lamp from the table, he placed it upon the old bureau wherein Hugh had found the strange letters and photograph.

“You gave me this to use in your interests,” he continued, taking a small key from his pocket. “I’ve searched for the missing letters. I’ve been a thief, because I’m compelled, like the cringing slave that I am. But how little you dream of what still remains! The most cleverly-arranged schemes are apt to fail sometimes.”

Inserting the key, he unhesitatingly opened the bureau. On pressing one of the dark panels of the side it fell forward, revealing a secret cavity, the existence of which Hugh had never discovered. All it contained was a slip of paper, together with an old copy of the Gaulois newspaper.

“Yes,” he said, aloud, “these will prove useful, perhaps, some day. They will be safer in my possession than here.”

Replacing the panel, he closed and locked the bureau, and, turning to the table, first read the words upon the piece of paper, then spread out the newspaper, and became absorbed in a long report which had been marked round with coloured crayon.

“And after all,” he reflected, when he had placed the papers in his pocket, “I may be only forging fetters for my own wear. Who knows?”

Then he sank back into his armchair, and, lighting his meerschaum, calmly smoked until the return of the pair who had been gossiping by the sea.

Chapter Fifteen

Queen of the Silent Kingdom

One of the most pleasant thoroughfares in Brussels is perhaps that broad boulevard, lying on the La Cambre side, between the Fontaine Debroeckère and the Porte de Hal. The Boulevard de Waterloo is scarcely as fashionable as the Bontanique or the Regent, but it certainly possesses another and greater charm, inasmuch as the trees are more abundant, and, being older than those in the other boulevards, their branches meet overhead, forming long avenues of dark foliage which in summer constitute a cool and pleasant promenade.

Hugh Trethowen, dressed with evident care, had strolled from his hotel in the Place Royale one afternoon, three days later, and, walking up the Rue de Namur, had turned into this leafy resort of idlers.

Under a clear blue sky the sun shone upon the fresh green of the spring foliage, lighting up the usually sombre pathways with a shimmering golden light, and presenting the boulevard at its best, with its crowds of flaneurs strolling under the old elms, or seated enjoying the exhilarating air.

But by Hugh the picturesqueness of the scene was unappreciated. He was too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the beauty or charms of his surroundings; he was only bent on finding the house Valérie had given as her address. Crossing the boulevard without scarcely giving it a glance, he found himself before a long row of tall houses which line the left side, and constitute the Avenue de la Toison d’Or. Their dead white fronts were the reverse of artistic, although their general character spoke of stability and wealth, for the majority were of almost stereotyped exactness, each with its wide porte cochère, its enormous door, its three tall drawing-room windows with white jalousies thrown back, and its four storeys above.

With little difficulty Hugh discovered that the house he was in search of was situated at the corner of the Place Louise, and that its façade was more imposing than that of its neighbours.

Meanwhile, seated on a low gypsy chair, in a small but elegant room, Valérie was deciphering a long letter which had been just handed to her by the man who sat near, Victor Bérard.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the latter, twirling the needle-like points of his moustache, as she folded the paper slowly and replaced it in the envelope.

“It only shows how very near he was to bungling – the idiot! If he had, well – the results would have been too dreadful to think of.”

“Matters are progressing as well as can be wished, and the disappearance has been accomplished excellently, with the exception of that one hitch – ”

“Which might have sent us both to a very unfashionable lodging,” she interrupted.

Nodding acquiescence, he replied —

“Sapristi! that’s all very well. But you have the money; you can’t grumble. Again, why need we fear the failure? You have beauty – indeed, you’re the best-looking woman in Brussels. As long as you retain that charm, we need not be apprehensive.”

“You pay me a pretty compliment, Victor,” she laughed. “Nevertheless, I must admit my face has always been my fortune.”

“And other people’s misfortune, eh?” observed her companion, smiling grimly.

“Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it, but you – ”

“M’sieur Trethowen desires to see mademoiselle,” Nanette said, for she had opened the door unobserved.

“Trethowen!” gasped Victor, twisting his moustache nervously. “He must not find us together.”

“No,” exclaimed Valérie. “Go quickly through the garden, and out by the side door.”

He had already put on his hat, and without further hesitation he waved his hand, and vanished through a door communicating with the conservatory.

“Au revoir,” he said. “You will know how to manage him, and I will return at six to take you to the Molière.”

She went to a long mirror and hurriedly arranged her hair; then, turning to the maid, ordered her visitor to be shown in.

“I wonder what his object is in coming here,” she muttered to herself, as she sank into her wicker chair, and commenced twisting her rings round her shapely fingers perplexedly. “Surely he cannot suspect! Yet the threats of that fool Egerton still ring in my ears,” and she frowned thoughtfully.

When her visitor entered she rose, calm and pale, to meet him.

“So you have returned to me at last, Hugh,” she said in a faltering voice, almost overcome with emotion.

“Yes, dearest,” he replied, placing his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to him. “I have come to beg forgiveness for being so rash.”

“My forgiveness!” she exclaimed in a tone of surprise, looking up into his face. “Why, I have nothing really to forgive.”

“I judged you too hastily, Valérie, and, now I have learned the error of my ways, I have come over here to receive your pardon.”

“And I grant that freely,” she said, with a happy smile, for she was unfeignedly delighted that he had returned.

“Do you know,” he said, as he slowly released her, and sank into a chair beside her, “I’ve been unspeakably dull and miserable. By Jove! life hasn’t been worth living lately.”

“Why?” asked she naïvely.

“Because you have been absent.”

“I should scarcely have thought it,” observed mademoiselle mischievously. “You had Jack Egerton’s model. Surely she did not object to a mild flirtation?”

“Dolly Vivian! I flirt with her!” he echoed in surprise. “No, indeed, I’ve never done so. She is my friend, it is true; but nothing more.”

“Ah, don’t tell me that, Hugh. You men are all alike. A pretty woman’s face, a smile, a pair of merry eyes, and you are captivated.”

“But I have not been, except by yourself,” he declared, grasping her hand, and raising it reverently to his lips. “You do not know how blank and colourless my life has been without you – what an utterly miserable existence mine is when we are apart.”

He spoke low and earnestly, for all the fervour of the old love had returned, and, heedless of the warnings of his friends, he was repeating assurances of affection to the woman who held him in her toils for life or death. She did not reply, but, gazing trustingly into his eyes, her breast heaved convulsively.

“Tell me, shall we be the same to one another as before? Forgive me, and we shall live as if nothing had happened to mar our happiness,” he urged.

“Then, you really love me still, Hugh?” she asked, in a low, tremulous voice.