Part 15 (2/2)
THE FOURTH Pa.s.sENGER.
”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 and replied--
”Of course. I quite understand.”
This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman's Buildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valerie, and the two men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were Victor Berard and the Rev. Hubert Holt. In every particular they were dissimilar. The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-looking rings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most una.s.suming and orthodox cut. Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasily toward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the table facing each other.
”Come,” exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, ”fill your gla.s.s. Good stuff like this never hurts one.”
His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised his head, and stammered--
”You're--you're right, _mon ami_. Such cognac warms the blood this weather. Let's have another gla.s.s before we go.”
He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curious that when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed features strangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.
Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, with closely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-looking face. The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheeks were flushed, and as he grasped his gla.s.s his lean bony hand had the appearance of the talons of a bird of prey.
Berard and his clerical companion continued their conversation in an undertone.
The Rev. Hubert Holt, upon whom the international gang of adventurers had long ago bestowed the sobriquet of ”The Sky Pilot,” certainly did not, amid such surroundings, present the appearance of a spiritual guide. True, he was the s.h.i.+ning light of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, where he held the office of curate, but as a clerical luminary he was by no means of the chalk-and-water type. On the contrary, he could wink wickedly at a pretty girl, drink a gla.s.s of ”fizz,” or handle a billiard cue in a style only acquired by long practice. Nevertheless, he was considered thoroughly devout by his aged and antiquated vicar, and not having joined the ranks of Benedicts, was consequently the princ.i.p.al attraction at mothers' meetings and other similar gatherings of the more enlightened paris.h.i.+oners of the mean and squalid parish of St. Barnabas. They, however, were in blissful ignorance of the character of his a.s.sociates, otherwise it is more than probable that the pulpit and altar of the transpontine church would have been at once occupied by mother fledgling pastor.
”Suppose the whole business came to light? How should I fare?” asked the sable-coated ecclesiastic thoughtfully, after they had been in conversation 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 can never 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 we should have the utmost difficulty in clearing ourselves. Somehow, I don't like the fellow; he knows too much.”
”What nonsense you talk,” replied the Frenchman impatiently. ”He can never know the truth. He loves Valerie, and you ought to know her well enough to recognise her consummate tact and ingenuity.”
”Exactly. But why are you so positive that strict secrecy will be observed?”
”Because--because the only person who knew the secret has been silenced.”
”Who?” demanded Holt in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.
”Egerton.”
The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor a few moments.
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