The Temptress

by William Le Queux

shifting lights that flashed into the carriage she feltconfident that he would be unable to detect any change in her. It wasby her voice alone that he could discover her intoxication, and,therefore, she continued the conversation in what she believed was thesame 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 afeeling as if her brain were a leaden weight. With alarm she becameaware that it was gradually taking possession of her senses, and that tobear up against it was unavailing. Confused noises sounded in her ears,her breath became short, and she fancied she was falling from a greatheight. Then all the objects and lights in the street seemed to danceabout her, and, with a suppressed groan, she sank back into the cornerof the carriage inert and insensible.

  The man by her side watched her gradually lapsing into unconsciousnesswith evident satisfaction, and, having taken both her arms and workedthem up and down violently to assure himself of her total insensibility,he shouted to the coachman that he would go to another address--onewhich necessitated the brougham being driven back towards the placewhence they had started.

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

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

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

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

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

  "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'spurse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinisingthem carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. Thehouse being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased toalmost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.

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

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

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

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

  "Fool!" replied the other, with an impatient gesture, looking at himwith threatening eyes. "Can't you see that if she lives she canfrustrate 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, haddrawn a long-bladed knife from its sheath, and it flashed in the lightas 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 otherreplied roughly.

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  LAROCHE.

  Upon a veranda overlooking the clear, rippling Ourthe, and protectedfrom the hot sun by a striped awning, Valerie and Pierre were laughingand sipping kummel. Lounging lazily in a loose-fitting cotton dress shelooked 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 thetable, smoking a cigarette with an air of insouciance.

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

  The little place is charming, although to the gregarious, who findpleasure amid the summer turmoil of the Rhine, with its crowd ofcheap-trippers and overflowing hotels, it presents the aspect of averitable village of the dead. Its inhabitants have not yet becomedemoralised by the advance of progress; for, although a few rusticatingBelgians from Brussels and Liege and one or two English families visitit during the summer, still its beauties are comparatively unknown. Thestreets are crooked and narrow, the houses quaint and old-fashioned, andpervading the whole town is an old-world air that is distinct anddelightful. Kindly, genial, and honest, the people are an averagespecimen of the simple, rustic dwellers in the Walloon country, who lookaskance at the increasing number of tourists who intrude upon theirsolitude and alight at their unpretentious hotels. Modern improvementis almost unknown in this Arcadia. True, there is a steam tramway toMalreux, forming the link which connects the Larochois with the outsideworld, but the place itself is still, quiet, even lethargic; in fact, itis very much the same to-day as it was a century ago. The dusty,lumbering old diligences, with bells upon the horses, rumble through thestreets at frequent intervals, always stopping at the Bureau de Poste;and it is so antiquated as to possess a guardian of the town in theperson 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.

  It was a month since Hugh had left London, and the weeks that passed inBrussels after the reunion had been pleasant ones. He saw her daily,and was only content when in her company, driving in the Bois de laCambre, shopping in the Montagne de la Cour, or taking her to thetheatre. During this time he had been introduced to one of herrelatives--the first he had known. When he called upon her as usual oneevening, he found a man some ten years her senior seated in thedrawing-room. His bearing was that of a gentleman. He waswell-dressed, wearing in his coat the crimson button of the FrenchLegion of Honour, and was introduced by Valerie as the ComteChaulin-Serviniere, her cousin.

  The men shook hands, and quickly became friends. At first Hugh wasinclined to regard him with suspicion and distrust, but on closeracquaintance found him a genial, reckless man of the world, who waspossessed of plenty of money, and whose tastes were similar to his own.Being apparently a prominent figure in Brussels society, he introducedHugh to various people worth knowing, and soon became his constantcompanion.

  Had he known that the Comte Lucien Chaulin-Serviniere was the sameperson as one Victor Berard whose name was inscribed upon a rather bulkyfile preserved in the archives of the Prefecture of Police in Paris, itis probable that he would have shunned his companionship, and ma
ny evilconsequences would thereby have been avoided.

  Blissfully ignorant, however, and confident of Valerie's love anddevotion, Hugh was perfectly happy as the weeks glided by, until one dayshe announced that she was compelled to depart at once for Namur tovisit an aunt who was ill, and not expected to recover.

  It was thereupon arranged that she should travel to Namur by herself,visit her relative, and that the Comte and Hugh should meet her threedays later at Laroche. The suggestion was the Comte's, for he declaredshe was looking worn, and that a sojourn of a week or two in theinvigorating and health-promoting Ardennes would do her good.

  Valerie left on the following morning, but the dying aunt was a pureinvention, and instead of remaining at Namur, she proceeded at once toMalreux, and thence to Laroche, where she arrived after spending thegreater part of the day in performing the journey. At the Hotel Royalshe found Pierre Rouillier awaiting her, for the