The Temptress

by William Le Queux

which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, wasan imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of QueenAnne. Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivycovered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneysbacked by thick masses of foliage. Striking as was its exterior, withinthe arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort hadnot been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never beena distinctive quality of any of its masters.

  In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, werepaintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of theTrethowens, _Sit sine labe fines_, was conspicuous, while the rooms,furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built,contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.

  Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.

  During Douglas Trethowen's absence the place had been left with only agardener and his wife as caretakers. The park had been neglected, grasshad grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens hadbeen allowed to become choked with weeds. Though the whole place had apotency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot wasthe flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, itslichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle,with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzagwalks. Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powderedwigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or,clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherdswith crooks in their hands. Here, the scene of many a brilliant _fetechampetre_, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeous _beaux_ uttered prettyphrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, andwere punished by being lightly tapped by fans.

  Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen foundhimself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion ofthe house was in process of renovation, and the architect required hisinstructions.

  Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there aweek before his habitual _blase_ restlessness returned. Only a few daysago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he waslonging to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on themorrow.

  He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden inorder, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily uponhis hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour ortwo that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers leftby his dead brother.

  Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth,lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him. Hefound little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, andas the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illuminedthe room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction inmaking himself acquainted with his brother's secrets.

  One by one he took the letters and digested their contents. Many wereCupid's missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting anodour of stale perfume. Some were tied together in bundles from variousfair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among aheterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other paperssimilarly uninteresting.

  At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he satback, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.

  "By Jove," he exclaimed at last, aloud, "Douglas must have had a varietyof lady friends of whose existence nobody knew. And they all loved him,poor little dears. No doubt his money attracted them more than hisprecious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to becomeenmeshed in the matrimonial net." And he laughed amusedly. "Theirpretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, wereall to no purpose," he continued, taking up one of the letters, andcontemplating the address. "What a disappointment it must have beenwhen he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine--or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize. And theirpresents! Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with thejewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, andother such trash mentioned in their dainty notes. I suppose I shallfind the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for theymust have been forgotten as soon as received. What strange beings womenare, to be sure!"

  Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, andexclaimed:

  "Now I wonder whether there's anything else worth looking at? Suchletters are quite as amusing as the comic papers."

  He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for hefelt half inclined to burn them, as at best they were only rubbish. Itwas a pity, he thought, that such a fine old piece of furniture as theChippendale bureau should be used for no better purpose than to storethese forgotten and useless communications. Again, why should heharbour the evidences of his dead brother's flirtations.

  As these and similar thoughts were passing through his mind, he suddenlygave vent to an exclamation of intense surprise. Withdrawing his handquickly from the bureau, he rushed across to the window in order toexamine more closely the object which had evoked his astonishment.

  It was a coloured cabinet photograph.

  He gazed upon it in dumb amazement, for the light revealed the picturedface of Valerie Dedieu!

  Evidently it had been taken several years ago, as the hair was dressedin a style that was now out of date; still there was no doubt as to theidentity of the original. With the exact contour of the features he wastoo well acquainted to regard it as a striking resemblance heightened byimagination. He examined every detail with eager eyes, and wasconvinced that the photograph was hers. The colouring, so far fromaltering the expression of the features, added a lifelike look,enhancing the beauty of the picture. The lips were parted, disclosingeven rows of small white teeth; the counterfeit presentment seemed tosmile mockingly at him.

  "Valerie's photograph!" he ejaculated, running his fingers through hishair, and gazing around in blank bewilderment. "How could it have comeinto Douglas's possession? Strange that I should find it here, unless--unless she, too, loved him."

  "No," he added savagely, a moment afterwards. "Why should I think that?I'll not believe it until I have proof. And then, after all, they maynot have been acquainted; the photograph may have come into hispossession in some roundabout way. By the way," he continued, as asudden thought occurred to him, "I might possibly discover somethingfurther."

  Again he returned to the bureau, still holding the photograph in hishand, and after a few moments' eager search drew forth a small packet ofletters tied with pink tape and sealed with red wax.

  They had evidently been carefully preserved, for he discovered thepacket concealed at the back of one of the small drawers in theinterior.

  With hands trembling with feverish excitement he took them to thewindow. Hastily he broke the seals, drew off the tape, and found therewere three letters.

  He felt a sudden throb at his heart, a touch of suspense that waspainful, as he opened the first anxiously.

  "Her handwriting!" he ejaculated excitedly, at the same time taking fromhis pocket a letter he had received that morning from Valerie, andplacing them side by side.

  The peculiarities of the fine angular calligraphy were exactly similar.

  He read the letter. It was disappointing.

  Merely a plain, curt note, commencing: "Dear Douglas," making anappointment to meet at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, from which placeit was dated and signed with the initial "V."

  The discovery had wrought a great change in him. He was not the sameman. A cloud overspread his countenance, and he remained buried inthought.

  When he roused himself to glance at the second letter, he seemed yetmore melancholy.

  It certainly was an interesting and correspondingly mysteriouscommunication.

  Dated from 14 Rue d'Amsterdam, Paris, it commenced without any prefix,endearing or formal, and
bore unmistakable signs of having been hastilywritten. It read as follows:

  _If you do not call before midday to-morrow I shall know that you refuseto entertain any conciliatory measure. Time does not admit of argument;I must act. At least, I must leave Paris to-morrow night, and even thenall may be known. Fail to come, and I shall know you are my enemy. IfI am unfortunate, rest assured I shall not suffer alone. Take my adviceand seek me the moment you receive this, as it is imperative we shouldarrange matters before my departure. This course will be the best foryou_.

  _V_.

  "There was some secret between them!" Hugh said to himself in a strangehalf-whisper, as he finished the curious epistle. "I wonder what itwas? It is clear she had a very strong motive in her desire to see him,and the letter, from its general tone, appears to relate to sometransaction in which they were both implicated."

  Suddenly the words of