generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?” asked the younger man of his companion.
“Two thousand sterling.”
“Just the sum,” interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her enthusiasm. “We’ll divide it. When can I have my half?”
“As soon as possible, but don’t be impatient, as hurried action means certain failure.”
“All right,” she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips, and contemplating it. “You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody else,” she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.
Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.
“What, are you going so soon?” asked the younger homme de faciende.
“Yes, it’s late; and, besides, I can’t go straight home in such a get-up as this.”
Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from laughing. When they grew serious again, she said —
“Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don’t we?”
Victor Bérard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. “You will promise me?”
“Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks,” he replied. “Of course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans boldly, it will be all right.”
“Bien,” she said in a satisfied tone. “And now you can both come out with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine; for,” she added, with a little mock curtsey, “I feel faint after all this exertion.”
“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”
“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”
Chapter Ten
Deadly Pair
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose – deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
“I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
“M’sieur Trethowen,” she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl’s heels, with a fond, glad smile.
“I must really apologise, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
“I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I’ve brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”
“Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. “Yes, it is lovely,” she assented. “But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied with a smile; “really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thanks,” she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.
“No, no, at your feet; Valérie – always at your feet,” the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.
Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:
“Non, ma jeunesse n’est pas morte,
Il n’est pas mort ton souvenir.”
But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.
“Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?” she asked suddenly.
He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.
“Yes, frequently,” he said in turn. “We have known one another so long, that I look upon him as my best friend.”
“Your best friend!” she echoed. “Ah! that is to be regretted. Then you could not have known him when he was a student in Paris.”
“No; tell me about him,” Hugh asked anxiously.
“Although I knew him, I shall say nothing beyond the fact that his was an unenviable reputation.”
His lips were parted in surprise as he looked at her.
“My darling,” he said, a trifle coldly, “you can’t expect me to judge my friend without being aware of his offence.”
“His offence?” she exclaimed, with a start. “What – what do you mean? What do you know of his offence?”
He was astonished at her sudden and intense interest.
“Nothing beyond what you have just told me,” he replied calmly, although her strange agitation had not escaped him.
It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wished to hide. Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.
“Ah,
