"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 unassuming
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
glass. 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 glass 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 glass 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 shining 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 glass 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 principal attraction at mothers' meetings and other
similar gatherings of the more enlightened parishioners of the mean and
squalid parish of St. Barnabas. They, however, were in blissful
ignorance of the character of his associates, 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 hoarse whisper.
"Egerton."
The curate thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed upon the floor a
few moments.
"Well, I tell you candidly I don't half like it," he remarked
apprehensively.
"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 from
his 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 I
offer."
"If I refuse?"
"You dare not," interrupted Victor in a changed tone. "Think of what
your future would be if Valerie uttered one word."
"Yes--yes," Holt replied, with a fierce frown. "I know I've linked
myself with you. I'm your cat's-paw, however detestable your shady
transactions are."
"You always receive money for your services."
"Yes," he muttered between his teeth. "Gold with a curse upon it."