The Temptress Part 24

But the pretty model was unsuspecting, and the man, after shadowing them for nearly an hour, went to the bar, and stood drinking, but in a position whereby he could observe their movements through the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

Presently Dolly and her companion returned to their seats, and sat for some time watching the performance.

"I must really be going now," Dolly said to her companion, as, an hour afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a private room at a neighbouring restaurant finis.h.i.+ng their meal. "I've enjoyed myself very much indeed; I'm sure it's awfully kind of you to be so good to me."

"Not at all. I'm pleased you haven't been bored," he replied gallantly.

"And I hope you'll honour me with your company on another occasion.

Shall we arrange for one night early next week?"

"As you like," she answered, smiling.

"Very well; I'll write making an appointment, and we'll spend an hour or two at some other hall--the Alhambra, or the Palace."

"I left my cape outside in the pa.s.sage. I'll fetch it, and commence to get ready," she said, and rising suddenly, left the room in search of her outdoor attire.

The moment he was alone her admirer reached over the table quickly, and took up her emptied winegla.s.s. From his vest pocket he produced a tiny phial, the contents of which he poured into the gla.s.s, then, taking up the champagne, filled both his own gla.s.s and hers, replacing the latter in the position where it had originally been. It was accomplished in a few seconds, for scarcely had he put down the bottle before she reappeared.

When she had a.s.sumed her cape, and tied her veil by the aid of the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf, she noticed her gla.s.s had been refilled.

"I really don't think I ought to drink any more," she exclaimed. "I'm not used to so much, and it might affect me."

"Oh, I a.s.sure you it won't," declared Mansell, laughing. "It's a good brand, and I can recommend it. Besides the night is chilly."

He was watching her face narrowly, but he a.s.sumed a well-feigned air of unconcern. His argument, however, convinced her that another gla.s.s would do her no harm, thereupon she raised it to her lips and drank it.

Being in a hurry to return home, she noticed no peculiar taste about it, and the man smiled faintly with self-satisfaction.

"I have to go to King's Cross, so I'll drive you home if you'll allow me," he suggested, as they descended to the street, and to this proposal she gladly acquiesced.

Outside they entered a brougham that was apparently awaiting them--and which Mansell incidentally remarked was his own--and were quickly driven along Shaftesbury Avenue, on their way to King's Cross.

Scarcely had they been in the carriage five minutes when she was seized with a sudden giddiness and faintness. At first she struggled against it, trying to rouse herself, for she attributed it to the wine she had consumed, combined with the heated atmosphere. Recognising the disgrace which would fall upon her should she return to her mother intoxicated, she determined that her companion should notice no difference in her manner. In the s.h.i.+fting lights that flashed into the carriage she felt confident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It was by her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and, therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was the same tone as before.

Yet, as they drove along, the strange, sickening sensation increased, her eyes burned, and an acute pain on the top of her head caused a feeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she became aware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that to bear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears, her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a great height. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to dance about her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the corner of the carriage inert and insensible.

The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousness with evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and worked them up and down violently to a.s.sure himself of her total insensibility, he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address--one which necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the place whence they had started.

Two hours afterwards a strange scene was presented in a house that stood by itself in the centre of a market garden, in a lonely position surrounded by fields midway between Twickenham and Isleworth.

In a small, bare attic, carpetless and almost devoid of furniture, the inanimate form of Dolly Vivian lay crouched in a rickety armchair. The feeble light of a guttering candle revealed the closed eyes and deathlike pallor of the features, while her breathing was almost imperceptible, so completely had the drug accomplished its work.

Near her stood Mansell and the man who had dogged their movements during the evening.

The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the night.

Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one another.

"Listen! What's that?" asked Mansell in an awed voice.

"Nothing; merely the wind," the other replied sharply.

Mansell tried to smile, and said--

"I suppose you're right, but I feel as nervous as a cat."

His companion, who had driven the carriage, and who had taken Dolly's purse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinising them carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. The house being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased to almost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.

"If anyone should find the brougham outside it would strike them as strange, wouldn't it?" suggested Mansell.

"Never fear; we're perfectly safe. It's a by-road, and not a soul comes this way. Besides, whom do you expect would walk about this lonely part at such an hour?"

Mansell crossed to where the girl lay, and, taking up the candle, gazed into her face.

"It's a pity to sacrifice her life," he remarked sympathetically. "She has done us no harm."

"Fool!" replied the other, with an impatient gesture, looking at him with threatening eyes. "Can't you see that if she lives she can frustrate all our plans? Even now I believe she knows our secret."

"She does?" gasped the other breathlessly.

"Yes."

"But are there no other means of silencing her?"

"No. She must die!"

The man, whose sinister face wore a heavy, determined expression, had drawn a long-bladed knife from its sheath, and it flashed in the light as he held it in his hand. Mansell noticed it, and shuddered.

"I cannot stay and see her murdered," he cried in horror.

"Very well; if you're so chicken-hearted, wait outside," the other replied roughly.

He saw it was useless to intercede for the life of the girl whose beauty he had admired, so obeyed the injunction. Pale and agitated, he waited upon the landing in the darkness.

The seconds seemed hours, but presently his companion emerged from the room carrying the candle, which, however had been blown out. As he struck a match, Mansell saw blood upon his hand.

Neither spoke, but both quietly descended the stairs. Then they again blew out the candle and left the house, locking the door after them.

A short distance away the brougham was standing without any one to look after it, the horse grazing quietly at the roadside.

Mansell entered, while his companion mounted the box, driving along the private road, and turning into the highway towards Twickenham.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

LAROCHE.

Upon a veranda overlooking the clear, rippling Ourthe, and protected from the hot sun by a striped awning, Valerie and Pierre were laughing and sipping k.u.mmel. Lounging lazily in a loose-fitting cotton dress she looked cool and piquante, while he, attired in a suit of light tweed, with a soft felt hat set jauntily on his head, sat on the edge of the table, smoking a cigarette with an air of insouciance.

In the whole of rural Belgium it would probably be difficult to find scenery more picturesque than that surrounding the small town of Laroche. Ten miles distant from the Liege-Marloye Railway, it lies in the very heart of the Ardennes, nestling beside the gurgling Ourthe at the junction of five beautiful valleys. Above, rise bold, bare crags and high hills covered with sombre pines, while from a dark, rugged height frown the ivy-clad ruins of an ancient chateau.

The little place is charming, although to the gregarious, who find pleasure amid the summer turmoil of the Rhine, with its crowd of cheap-trippers and overflowing hotels, it presents the aspect of a veritable village of the dead. Its inhabitants have not yet become demoralised by the advance of progress; for, although a few rusticating Belgians from Brussels and Liege and one or two English families visit it during the summer, still its beauties are comparatively unknown. The streets are crooked and narrow, the houses quaint and old-fas.h.i.+oned, and pervading the whole town is an old-world air that is distinct and delightful. Kindly, genial, and honest, the people are an average specimen of the simple, rustic dwellers in the Walloon country, who look askance at the increasing number of tourists who intrude upon their solitude and alight at their unpretentious hotels. Modern improvement is almost unknown in this Arcadia. True, there is a steam tramway to Malreux, forming the link which connects the Larochois with the outside world, but the place itself is still, quiet, even lethargic; in fact, it is very much the same to-day as it was a century ago. The dusty, lumbering old diligences, with bells upon the horses, rumble through the streets at frequent intervals, always stopping at the Bureau de Poste; and it is so antiquated as to possess a guardian of the town in the person of a _garde du nuit_, who blows every hour upon his tin _trompette_ from eleven o'clock at night until five in the morning-- truly a relic of an age bygone.