The Temptress

by William Le Queux

suchshortcoming you really must excuse."

  He laughed inwardly at the glibness of his invention.

  But her manner had suddenly changed.

  "You will love me always, will you not, Hugh?" she whispered earnestly.

  "Yes, dearest; of course I shall," he replied tenderly. "I have spokenunkindly--forgive me."

  Bravely smothering a storm of rising sobs, she held him with both hersmall hands until she had sufficiently controlled herself to speak.

  "I thought a few moments ago that--that you no longer cared for me," shesaid, with an effort, watching the effect of her words with wide-open,earnest eyes.

  "No, Valerie, you were mistaken," he replied in a low, intense tone. "Ilove you, and nothing shall ever part us."

  They had risen, and were standing together before the fireplace.

  For a moment she stared vacantly before her. Then she threw herselfinto his arms, and, clinging to him convulsively, hid her face upon hisshoulder.

  "I love you, Hugh; I love you more than I have loved any man," shemurmured.

  He strained her to his heart--a heart remorseful, even miserable andunhappy. Not even her declaration of love brought him a ray ofconsolation, for the gnawing consciousness of some deep mysteryconnected with her past, and the danger of their love for one another,had crushed all happiness from his soul.

  And although he was feigning love and endeavouring to console her, yetthere was no help for it--they were inseparable, their beings were knittogether, their hearts were one.

  She possessed the fatal power of fascination. He was under her spell.

  With an effort to shake off the gloom that was possessing him, he spoketo her words of comfort.

  She tried to reply, but a great sob choked her utterance.

  Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying--

  "You must go, Hugh; you have been here too long, and I am not wellto-day. I want to be alone."

  "Yes, you are right," replied he woefully. "I ought not to have causedyou this pain. I am to blame."

  Yet something of hope returned to him as he spoke, for she clasped herarms around his neck, and, clinging to him closely, fixed upon him alook of moving appeal.

  Slowly she drew down his head towards her face, and then gave him awarm, passionate kiss.

  "Good-bye, Hugh," she said in a broken pleading voice. "Remember youhave one who loves you more dearly than life."

  "I've been a fool. Forgive me for speaking as I did," he entreated.

  "Yes," she replied, with a sigh; "if we love one another, why shouldthere be any mistrust between us?"

  Why? Had he not cause for apprehension? he asked himself.

  But her arms were about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder.The sweet perfume of violets intoxicated him. In a moment he becameconvinced that she was terribly in earnest, and was confident of herintense affection.

  "I have no mistrust whatever, darling," he said reassuringly, strokingher hair with infinite tenderness.

  "I--I am satisfied," she murmured. "But tell me, Hugh, once more, thatI shall be your wife."

  "Yes, indeed you shall, dearest; I care for no one else but you," saidhe, with a grave look.

  Her labouring heart throbbed against his as their lips met in a longlast caress. His anguished soul invoked the blessing on her that hisquivering lips refused to utter, and he tore himself away.

  He took one look back, and saw her totter a few steps after him witharms outstretched, then stop.

  Gazing upon her with a loving glance, he waved his hand, and passed out.

  When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments,looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts.Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, andsank upon it.

  The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happinessfound vent in hysterical sobs.

  "I hate myself. It's horrible, and yet I am powerless," she criedpassionately.

  Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  THE FOURTH PASSENGER.

  "I think the trick is almost accomplished."

  "So do I."

  "Is everything ready?"

  "Yes; but remember, we must keep very cool. A false step means ruin."

  The man addressed laid his finger significantly upon his lips andreplied--

  "Of course. I quite understand."

  This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman'sBuildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valerie, and thetwo men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were VictorBerard and the Rev. Hubert Holt. In every particular they weredissimilar. The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-lookingrings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most unassumingand orthodox cut. Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasilytoward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the tablefacing each other.

  "Come," exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, "fill yourglass. Good stuff like this never hurts one."

  His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised hishead, and stammered--

  "You're--you're right, _mon ami_. Such cognac warms the blood thisweather. Let's have another glass before we go."

  He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curiousthat when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed featuresstrangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.

  Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, withclosely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-lookingface. The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheekswere flushed, and as he grasped his glass his lean bony hand had theappearance of the talons of a bird of prey.

  Berard and his clerical companion continued their conversation in anundertone.

  The Rev. Hubert Holt, upon whom the international gang of adventurershad long ago bestowed the sobriquet of "The Sky Pilot," certainly didnot, amid such surroundings, present the appearance of a spiritualguide. True, he was the shining light of the church of St. Barnabas,Camberwell, where he held the office of curate, but as a clericalluminary he was by no means of the chalk-and-water type. On thecontrary, he could wink wickedly at a pretty girl, drink a glass of"fizz," or handle a billiard cue in a style only acquired by longpractice. Nevertheless, he was considered thoroughly devout by his agedand antiquated vicar, and not having joined the ranks of Benedicts, wasconsequently the principal attraction at mothers' meetings and othersimilar gatherings of the more enlightened parishioners of the mean andsqualid parish of St. Barnabas. They, however, were in blissfulignorance of the character of his associates, otherwise it is more thanprobable that the pulpit and altar of the transpontine church would havebeen at once occupied by mother fledgling pastor.

  "Suppose the whole business came to light? How should I fare?" askedthe sable-coated ecclesiastic thoughtfully, after they had been inconversation some minutes.

  "Bah! _Vous-vous moquez des gens_! Besides, you are always safe,surrounded as you are by a cloak of honesty. I tell you, the game cannever be detected."

  "Don't be too confident; it's a bad habit. Hugh Trethowen may suspect._Il est degourdi_, and if he should discover anything, depend upon it weshould have the utmost difficulty in clearing ourselves. Somehow, Idon't like the fellow; he knows too much."

  "What nonsense you talk," replied the Frenchman impatiently. "He cannever know the truth. He loves Valerie, and you ought to know her wellenough to recognise her consummate tact and ingenuity."

  "Exactly. But why are you so positive that strict secrecy will beobserved?"

  "Because--because the only person who knew the secret has beensilenced."

  "Who?" demanded Holt in a hoarse whisper.

  "Egerton."

  The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor afew moments.

  "Well,
I tell you candidly I don't half like it," he remarkedapprehensively.

  "Content yourself; neither of us are such imbeciles as to run any risks.Have you not already assisted us and shared our profits?"

  Holt bit his lip. It was an allusion to unpleasant reminiscences.

  "That is so," he admitted, twirling the small gold cross suspended fromhis watch-chain. "And what is the extent of my remuneration this time?"

  "One hundred pounds."

  "The job is worth double."

  "You'll not have a sou more, so think yourself lucky to get what Ioffer."

  "If I refuse?"

  "You dare not," interrupted Victor in a changed tone. "Think of whatyour future would be if Valerie uttered one word."

  "Yes--yes,"