The Temptress

“Ah! I understand Jack,” exclaimed Trethowen. “Your explanation shows that you did your best to prevent me from falling a victim. We have both been duped; but she shall not go unpunished.”

“What! You mean to denounce her?” he cried, in alarm.

“Why not?”

“Because – because – I am a murderer, and she will have me arrested and tried for taking the life of her lover! Cannot you see that for my own safety we must preserve silence?”

Trethowen started as this truth flashed across his mind. He had not before thought of that contingency, and with a sinking heart was compelled to admit the truth of the assertion.

The fetters of matrimony which bound him to this woman were irrevocably welded around his life, unless, perchance, by divorce he could free himself. The “gentleman” of whom the hall-porter had spoken, who was he?

“I have a strong suspicion that it was by her plotting you were sent to New Caledonia,” continued Egerton. “Depend upon it, sooner or later, we shall discover that ‘La Belle Hirondelle’ has had a hand in it.”

“What causes you to think so?” his companion asked, in amazement.

“It was to her interest that you should be imprisoned. When you were safely out of the way, with a long sentence before you, her course was quite clear.”

“How?”

“Simply this: A man who died at a hotel in Antwerp was identified as yourself, a death certificate was obtained in your name, and – ”

“And what then?” cried Hugh, astonished.

“Your will was proved.”

“My will?”

“Yes; you left everything unreservedly to your wife, and consequently she has obtained possession of it.”

“How did you know?” asked the other, dumbfounded.

The artist, without replying, went to his secretaire and took out a newspaper, which he handed to his companion.

Then he flung himself into his chair again, and sat staring blankly into the fire, his face wearing an expression of abject despair.

As Hugh read the paragraph indicated, he uttered an imprecation under his breath, and savagely flung the paper from him. Presently he placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, exclaiming in a sad, sympathetic, voice:

“Jack, forgive me! I have judged you unjustly, for before my marriage I was jealous of you, and from the day I found Valérie here in your studio I confess I distrusted; now, however, I find you are my companion in misfortune – that you have also been duped by her. I clearly understand your inability to warn me by relating the terrible story I have just heard from your lips; I know you were powerless to prevent me falling into her cunningly-baited trap. The discovery of her infamy and exposure of her real character is, indeed, a cruel shock to me. Nevertheless, why should our friendship be any the less sincere? Come, let’s shake hands.”

“No, Hugh,” he replied despondently, shaking his head. “I’m unworthy to grasp the hand of any honest man.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a murderer.”

“M’sieur Jack does not speak the truth,” interrupted a shrill, musical voice in French.

Both men started and turned in astonishment. Standing in the deep shadow at the opposite end of the studio was a tall female form, which had apparently been concealed behind a large canvas fixed upon an easel. She had been admitted by Mrs O’Shea, and her presence had remained unnoticed by the men, so engrossed had they been in their conversation.

They glanced at one another apprehensively, and as she advanced the artist sprang to his feet in indignation and alarm.

A moment later, when the lamplight revealed her features, he drew back in amazement.

“You – Gabrielle?” he cried.

“Oui, I am that unfortunate personage,” she replied, with an air of nonchalance. “And, moreover, I have been an unintentional eavesdropper.”

“You heard my confession?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well – yes. It was an interesting story, yet scarcely novel – at least, to one who is better acquainted with the real facts than yourself.”

“Then you knew of my crime?”

“Yes. A combination of circumstances revealed to me who it was who committed the murder.”

“Ah! It was I – I who killed him,” he cried wildly, glaring with haggard eyes.

Hugh stood staring at the strange visitor. Amazed at her sudden appearance, he was speechless. About twenty-eight, tall, dark, with features that were decidedly foreign, she was well-dressed, wearing a smart little sealskin cape, the collar of which was turned up around her neck, while upon her head was perched a coquettish little bonnet.

Jack Egerton recovered himself quickly, and, apologising for neglecting to introduce them, presented her to his friend as Mademoiselle Gabrielle Debriège. Then offering her his chair, he stood before her, and commenced a series of inquiries as to her movements since they last met, and what had induced her to seek him.

“This world is a very little place,” she replied in broken English, and with a winning smile. “An artist is one of the easiest men to find. Let’s see, I believe it’s five years ago since we last saw one another. On the Pont de la Concorde, if I remember aright, and on the morning you left Paris so suddenly without bidding us farewell, you – ”

“How is Glanville?” interrupted the artist. “Have you met him since he forsook the Quartier Latin?”

“Forsook! Bah!” exclaimed the voluble Frenchwoman, shrugging her shoulders deprecatingly. Without answering the question, she continued: “At the time your departure caused some surprise among us, but we little dreamed that you had any connection with the affair of the Boulevard Haussmann. It was only afterwards that the reason of your flight was discovered – ”

“By whom?” he asked anxiously.

“By me alone. Never fear, I shall act with circumspection,” she added, noticing his look of anxiety and alarm. “My life has been as adventurous as yours, and since that occurrence I have learnt wisdom. I have sought you for two reasons.”

“What are they?”

“Firstly, your friend here, M’sieur Trethowen, and yourself have both been the victims of Valérie Duvauchel. You drank of her love philtre, and succumbed to her beauty. You desire revenge – eh?”

Hugh bent his head in acquiescence.

“I, too, have been cruelly wronged by her. I have waited long in order to repay the debt I owe, and the hour of her retribution is now at hand.”

“What has she done to you?” asked Hugh anxiously.

“I will explain everything when in your presence, I meet her face to face. Till then I keep my own secret, fully confident that after the revelations I shall make she will not dare to trouble you again with her presence.”

“But you must not – you shall not – do this!” cried Egerton excitedly. “She will wreak her vengeance upon me.”

“Entertain no such gloomy apprehensions,” urged Gabrielle, with a smile of assurance. “Before I have done with ‘La Belle Hirondelle’ she will implore for mercy upon her knees. But will I extend any to her? No. Grand Dieu! She shall suffer for her crime, as I have done.”

She spoke determinedly, her dark eyes emitting a fierce gleam of hatred.