Jack Egerton, when he had pointed Valerie out atEastbourne, recurred to him.
"The less of her sort the better," he mused, gazing out of the windowabstractedly. "I never asked Jack what he meant by that mysteriousallusion. Perhaps, however, he didn't mean it seriously, and only saidit in chaff."
He remained silent for some moments.
"Why," he suddenly exclaimed, "why should I believe malignant stories,when there is nothing to prove them? These letters are certainlystrange, yet, after all, they may relate to some purely matter-of-factaffair."
Truth to tell, he felt half inclined to believe there had been a deepermeaning in the artist's words than he imagined, and was stupefied in theagony of mental struggle. He stood rigid and confounded, gazing in turnat the letters and photograph, utterly unable to account for the curiousand secret correspondence that had evidently taken place between hislate brother and the woman who had promised to become his wife.
At last he opened the remaining letter, and was astonished to find itmerely a blank sheet of notepaper, inside which was carefully preserveda scrap of half-burned paper about two inches square. Apparently it wasa portion of a letter which, after being torn across, had been throwninto the fire. By some means the edges had been burned, the remainderbeing severely scorched.
It was written on one side of the paper, and the words, which were inFrench, and in a disguised hand, revealed a fact which added interest tothe discovery. Necessarily few, they were very pointed, and translatedthey read:
_Our agreement... dies I will... meet in London... of that sum on June13th... Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard... defy detectionby_...
He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them. Thesmall piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, butit was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant,for in two instances the orthography was faulty.
Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was apromise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word "dies" seemedas if it had connection with some dark deed. Perhaps it alluded to thesecret referred to by Valerie in the former letter! With tantalisingcontrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, andnothing but the few words already given remained as indication of whatthe communication originally contained.
Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as ofconsiderable importance by his brother, or it would not have been socarefully preserved and concealed. So crisp was it in its half-consumedcondition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise itwould have crumbled.
Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from thealmost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet ofnotepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.
In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly,hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon theextraordinary missives. None, however, contained any reference toValerie, or to Paris. When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, andordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, whichappeared of a business character.
Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stoodthoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and thebillets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.
The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determinedto find out its meaning. Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valerie wereintimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appearedas if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she wasleaving Paris by compulsion.
His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatredtowards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discoverywhich might possibly lead to strange disclosures.
Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly. We cannot tamperwith what is right and for the best in order to secure what istemporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comeswith a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.
Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowenlittle dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by astrange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.
CHAPTER NINE.
DENIZENS OF SOHO.
A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceilingblackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.
Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteelattire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs of_caporal_ cigarettes of the most rank description.
Bateman's Buildings, Soho--where, on the second floor of one of thehouses, this apartment was situated--is a thoroughfare but little known,even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner,whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass adozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering itsexistence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauseshalfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedinglyuninviting passage between a marine-store dealer's and the shop of asmall vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself atBateman's Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy,squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of ahundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.
It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, incomparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly putforward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago somewell-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in theirpresent state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantialair about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and theinhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.
Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time,combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected evencosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road havenow opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them moreconventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is stillthe French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, withcheap French cafes where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, orgrenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine with _potage_ and three_plats_ for less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature atevery turn.
Within a small radius of Bateman's Buildings several thousand strangersstruggle for the bare necessaries of life--deluded Germans, Belgians,and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado,and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger,and crime.
The two men who were seated together in this upper room were noexception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet theywere disappointed that the business which brought them over had notresulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected byreason of their funds being almost exhausted.
They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smellingparaffin lamp between them.
The silence was broken by the elder man.
"You must admit, Pierre," he exclaimed in French, contracting his darkbushy eyebrows slightly, "it is no use sitting down and giving vent toempty lamentations. We must act."
Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jetblack hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rathermelancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of goodlooks which his features possessed.
"Why can't we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?" he suggested."If we wait, something good may turn up."
"Remain and do nothing!" echoed Victor Berard. "Are you an imbecile?While we rest, the chance may slip from us."
"There's no fear of that," Pierre replied confidently. "My opinion isthat we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage toourselves."
"Bah!" ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about tenyears his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger anddisgust.
"Well, speaki
ng candidly," continued Pierre, "do you really think itadvisable to do anything just now?"
"I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible tocarry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until thebusiness is more developed any attempt would be mere folly."
"Exactly. That's just my reason for remaining idle."
"The fact is, you're afraid," exclaimed Berard, regarding himcontemptuously.
"Afraid of what?"
"Of making a false move," he replied; and then he added: "Look here,Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our variousaffairs satisfactorily, and there's no reason why we should not besuccessful in this. It only requires tact and caution--qualities withwhich both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete weshall leave this wretched country."
"As for myself, I
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