The Temptress

Lounging in a capacious chair in the smoking-room, Hugh was scanning some letters he had just received. A few days had elapsed since their arrival, and this morning Valérie had gone out alone in order to visit her milliner in the Rue de la Paix. Left to his own resources, her husband had taken the letters that Jacob had forwarded to him, and, repairing to the smoking-room, endeavoured to amuse himself with their contents.

One which he had read and still held in his hand caused him to twirl his moustache thoughtfully and knit his brows.

Upon a half sheet of notepaper one sentence only was written, in a fine angular hand, and read:

“If you obtain a copy of the Paris newspaper, Le Gaulois, for 10th May, 1886, you will find in it something that will interest you.”

It was dated from Chelsea, and signed by Dolly Vivian.

“Now, I wonder what on earth she means?” he exclaimed aloud, her strange request for an interview – to which he had not replied – recurring to him.

It was exceedingly curious, he thought, that she should write him these vague, puzzling letters, well knowing that he was married and could now be nothing more to her than a friend. There was a mystery about this last communication that had aroused his curiosity, and for some time he sat trying in vain to find an explanation of her strange conduct.

Suddenly he made a resolve. Gathering up his letters he thrust them into his pocket, and went to his room to get his overcoat.

“If your mistress returns, Nanette, tell her I’ve gone for a stroll, and shall return in an hour,” he said to his wife’s maid, who handed him his hat.

“Very well, m’sieur,” the girl replied. Then, as Trethowen descended the stairs to leave the hotel, she watched him, and added to herself: “You will return in an hour, will you? Perhaps so; we shall see.”

She laughed heartily, for something appeared to amuse her, and when he had disappeared she returned to her mistress’s room and commenced packing a trunk.

As Trethowen walked along the Rue Castiglione, crossed the Place Vendôme, and went on towards the Boulevard des Capucines, a tall well-dressed man, with dark, pointed beard and curled moustaches, followed leisurely in his footsteps. This individual lounged aimlessly along, halting now and then to gaze into shop windows; nevertheless, from under the rather broad brim of his glossy silk hat a pair of keen grey eyes watched every movement of the man upon whom he was keeping observation. In the boulevard he was careful to cross to the opposite side of the way, in case the other should take a fancy to retrace his steps, for it appeared as if he did not desire an encounter. Sauntering along contemplating the engravings of the illustrated papers displayed in the kiosques, he loitered so naturally that to an ordinary observer he was but an honest citizen of the suburbs.

The morning was bright and frosty. Hugh, bent upon investigating the truth of Dolly’s strange assertion, and unaware of the presence of the individual who had suddenly displayed such intense interest in his movements, walked down the Boulevard des Italiens, and, turning into the Rue Drouot, entered the offices of Le Gaulois.

Addressing one of the clerks at the counter, he said —

“I desire to search your file for May, 1886. Can I do so?”

“If m’sieur will have the kindness to fill up this form which we have for the purpose, I will see that the file is brought,” replied the man politely, handing him a dip of paper and a pen.

Trethowen complied with this request, and waited rather impatiently, taking Dolly’s letter from his pocket, and glancing at it to reassure himself that he had made no mistake in the date. There were many persons in the office, some transacting business and others reading that day’s newspapers, which were spread open upon stands. Consequently he did not observe the entrance of three men, who, although coming in separately, met a short distance from where he stood, and held a hurried consultation in an undertone.

One of the men, apparently a respectable workman, took out an unmounted photograph from his wallet, glanced at it, and afterwards looked intently at Hugh who stood calmly unconscious of the scrutiny.

“It’s our man, without a doubt,” declared the workman emphatically. “I’d know him again amongst ten thousand.”

“I wonder what his game is here?” asked the man who had dogged his footsteps from the hotel.

“Cannot you see? He’s asked for the file of the month when the affair occurred,” observed the third man. “Well, what of that?”

“The thing is quite plain. Out of morbid curiosity he wants to read what the paper said,” replied his companion, who, turning to the workman, asked, “Have you any doubt that he is the same man?”

“None whatever.”

“In that case we’ll arrest him at once. He won’t elude us this time.”

The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire —

“M’sieur Trethowen, I believe?”

Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. “Yes,” he replied in French, “that’s my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m’sieur.”

“It scarcely will be a pleasure,” the man replied, grinning sardonically. “I’m Paul Chémerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest,” he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.

“My arrest!” cried Trethowen incredulously. “What for, pray?”

He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.

“If m’sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?”

“I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?” Hugh asked indignantly.

“That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence – ”

The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.

“Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I’ve only been in Paris a few days.”

“We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hôtel Continental.”

“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”

Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile —

“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”

“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.

“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”

“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”

Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows – when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.

Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chémerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner’s features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.

They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l’Horloge, and turning off to the right, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.

“Here we are, m’sieur,” said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.

“You said that you would take me to the Commissary,” exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.

“It is all the same,” replied the detective; “we are here, at the Préfecture of Police.”

Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth. Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.

One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes. Chémerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.