such a get-upas this."
Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and thenstruck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain fromlaughing. When they grew serious again, she said--
"Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand oneanother sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don't we?"
Victor Berard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. "You will promiseme?"
"Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks," he replied. "Ofcourse, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plansboldly, it will be all right."
"_Bien_," she said in a satisfied tone. "And now you can both come outwith 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 allthis exertion."
"Very well," said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
"We'll drink to another successful disappearance," Valerie said, pattinghim playfully on the cheek. "The dear boy will prove our salvation frommisery, provided he doesn't blunder."
"Not much fear of that," answered the young man she caressed. "It isn'tthe first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my worktoo well to take an incautious step," he remarked in a low whisper, asthe strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
"That's all very well," muttered Berard, "but we can't afford to actrashly, for it'll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business atbest."
CHAPTER TEN.
DEADLY PAIR.
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in VictoriaStreet, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the goldenshadows of silken hangings, sat Valerie. Her attitude was one ofrepose--deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tipof her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously uponthe ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of adozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted withrich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman's cunning she hadchosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artisticfolds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, anddiffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does whenencountering 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 discreetFrench 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 Valerie. Have I kept you waiting?" hecried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him withcontemplative eyes as he rushed on.
"I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detainedin 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, shedrew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the brightafternoon. "Yes, it is lovely," she assented. "But you must excuse meto-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well."
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in alarm, noticing for the first timethat there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
"Oh, it's nothing," she replied with a smile; "really nothing. A mereheadache. 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; Valerie--always at your feet," the young manreplied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his headback in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes abovehim.
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 theburden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose ofher 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 youcould 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 wasan 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 myfriend 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, althoughher strange agitation had not escaped him.
It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wishedto hide. Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.
"Ah, I understand," she said; "I thought you were referring to--otherthings."
The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strangeletters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother'spapers. A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, inan endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but eachtime he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing herannoyance.
Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton,he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from hislips he regretted.
"Valerie," he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into hereyes, "I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquaintedwith my brother?"
The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, herdelicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.
"What do you mean?" she gasped.
"I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brotherDouglas, who was murdered, poor fellow."
"Murdered!" she cried hoarsely. "Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?"
"Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident."
"_Dieu_!" she ejaculated, with a shudder. "I knew he was dead, but Iwas told he died of fever," she said in a harsh, low voice.
"Then you knew him?"
"No--I--we were not acquainted," she replied, endeavouring to remaincalm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.
Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled. But it was onlyfor a moment.
"Strange that you did not know him," Hugh said in a tone of distrust.
"What caused you to think that he and I were friends?" she asked, ratherhaughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.
He hesitated. He was on the point of telling her of his discovery anddemanding an explanation, but he decided that such a course might beindiscreet.
"Well," he replied, "I had reason for believing so."
"What was your reason?" she inquired, breathless with anxiety, as ifhalf fearing his reply.
He had determined not to tell her the truth.
"Oh, a very foolish one," replied he, with a laugh. "It was a merefancy."
"Only a fancy," she said dreamily. "Are you sure it was nothing more?"
"Why are you so anxious to know?" he demanded, raising her hand to hislips.
"It's feminine curiosity, I suppose," she said, smiling.
"Well, then, I assure you it was only an absurd notion that somehow tookpossession of me."
"An absurd notion," sh
e echoed absently. "Why, of course it is! Howcould I have known your brother when I have been so little in England?"
"You might have met him in society."
"No; believe me, to my knowledge I have never seen him. If I had, whatdifference could it make?"
"If you entertained any affection for him--"
"What nonsense you are talking to-day, Hugh," she interrupted, with alittle derisive laugh. "I really believe you are jealous."
"Perhaps I am," he admitted; "but, you see, I love so well that any
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