The Temptress

by William Le Queux

sneer.

  "Married!" the other echoed, her face ashen pale. "Then, I'm too late!He's married her--and I cannot save him."

  "You seem in rather a bad way over him," observed the woman, with anamused air.

  "Where have they gone? Tell me quickly."

  "How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don't askno questions."

  "Gone?" she repeated.

  Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself andshuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes waslost in the crowd in Piccadilly.

  The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as,with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde ParkCorner, was Dolly Vivian.

  Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her.Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had theireffect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As shewalked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since thenight she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had beenhorrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.

  When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer,she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding acup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank.Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly andpainful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, andthe wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of whereshe was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hoveringbetween life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied bytwo persons--the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man.They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer anyquestions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when theyleft.

  The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mentaland physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, monthspassed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, anddebarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had beennailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground toadmit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into theorchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market gardenbeyond.

  One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of assistancebeing forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she sawboth of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meantto be absent several hours.

  Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it.Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. Thewoman had, by a most fortuitous circumstance, forgotten to lock it.

  Nevertheless, there was still another point that required carefulconsideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the onlygarment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descendingthe stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored theplace in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the groundfloor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-outboots--all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept herprisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement,lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, sheopened the door and stole out.

  Passing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, atthe end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to asmall town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told herthe way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack ofexercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond andKew she passed, then along the straight broad road leading throughChiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almostfainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street,and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.

  During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! shehad come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointedand heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless,she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would beterrible and complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

  THE PRETTY ARTIST'S MODEL.

  "I've a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confoundedmystery; yet--"

  Hugh Trethowen hesitated.

  Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnightafter his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partiallydestroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among hisbrother's possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he heldthe photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valerie seemed to smilewith tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, hetold himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on thecontrary, she had grown handsomer.

  Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, beencarefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequentlycaused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of themissives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the factthat they were in his wife's handwriting.

  "I'm half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, theycertainly would worry me no longer," he argued, aloud. "I wish I couldlet her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it wouldshow mistrust."

  He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around theapartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy thecarefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them wasfascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.

  Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying--

  "No, I'll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurdapprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainlyrelate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery;nevertheless, it's probable that, after all, they only refer to somevery commonplace affair."

  Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at thephotograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table;then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.

  "Bah! I'm a fool to think about them," he added, as he locked the flapand turned away. "Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts,interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? EvenJack's semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when theyare before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in theircupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there's no reason why Ishould bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, anduntil then I can wait."

  He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. Thatafternoon Valerie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar's wife, whomshe had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seveno'clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismallyin the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaitingdinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone,with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterlyunbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile.His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.

  While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him aletter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. Inwas in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open theenvelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensiblemessage it contained. It ran as follows:--

  _Dear Mr. Trethowen,--It is imperative that I should see you as soon aspossible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper theobject of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it isof great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me inLondon? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, evenincluding Mrs. Trethowen.--Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian_.

  "I wonder what it can mean?" he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon thepaper. "Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it's strange Jack hassaid nothing of her reapp
earance in his letters. Where can she havebeen, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can sheknow that concerns me?"

  He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.

  "I suspect that, if the truth were known, she's been on a holiday tripwith some admirer. But I shouldn't have thought it of her, she was soquiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself," herepeated. "It sounds mysterious, certainly."

  Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on thecushion of his chair, and thought.

  "After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note," he saidaloud.

  "Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What'sthat in your hand? A letter! In a girl's handwriting, too!"

  The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the