"I suppose we shall each owe an ornamental wax taper to St. Jean le
Baptiste for to-night's manoeuvre." Turning away he went to a drawer,
from which he took a card-case and some letters, placing them in his
pocket.
"Now, Sky Pilot," he continued resolutely, as he walked up to where Holt
stood, "are you ready?" The curate held his breath.
"Very well," he replied, after a brief pause, "I suppose I must do the
bidding of my masters."
"It would be best--that is, if you respect your position as a holy man,"
the Frenchman replied, with a mocking laugh.
"Come, gentlemen," he exclaimed aloud, turning to the pair seated at the
table. "It's time we started, or we shall not keep our appointment."
"There is no immediate hurry, is there?" asked Chavoix in a husky voice.
"Yes," Berard replied, "we must be at West Brompton at eight."
"In that case I'm ready," said he, rising, at the same time casting a
longing look at the unfinished bottle of cognac before him. With
unsteady gait he stumbled across the room, and, with the assistance of
Pierre, arrayed himself in his overcoat and hat--not, however, without
some difficulty and much good-humoured banter.
The other men sought their outdoor garments, and descended the stairs
together, Berard remaining behind a moment to blow out the lamp and lock
the door.
A few minutes later they were strolling across Soho Square, which, at
that hour, was dismal and deserted. A four-wheeled cab stood on the
opposite side of the square, and they hailed it. When they had entered
the conveyance, Holt gave the coachman orders to drive to the
underground station at Charing Cross with all possible speed.
While passing along the more unfrequented thoroughfares the interior of
the vehicle was dark, and of this Pierre and Victor took advantage. As
for Chavoix, he had arrived at the drowsy state of intoxication, and
quickly sank into a corner, where the rocking of the rickety old vehicle
soon lulled him into a heavy slumber.
Pierre, who was seated at his side, turned and grasped his hand. First
satisfying himself of the man's unconsciousness, he slowly, and with
deliberate caution, unbuttoned his overcoat. As he accomplished this
without rousing him, Berard withdrew from his pocket a card-case, a
folded paper, and several other articles.
Not a word was uttered. With much dexterity Pierre also unbuttoned the
black frock-coat Chavoix wore, and, diving his hand into the
breast-pocket, abstracted an old morocco letter-case, with some loose
cards and about half a dozen letters. Hastily glancing at these, he
transferred them to his own pocket, while, at the same time, Berard bent
over and carefully substituted them for those he had just produced.
After feeling in both pockets of the sleeping man's vest, as if to
reassure himself that nothing remained, Pierre commenced to rebutton the
overcoat. While so engaged Chavoix stirred uneasily and uttered a
grunt, but a moment afterwards he subsided again into the dull, heavy
slumber of intoxication, thus allowing the expert pickpocket to
accomplish his task.
As the cab rumbled down Villiers Street, Berard grasped him roughly by
the shoulder, exclaiming in French--
"Wake up, old fellow. Come; pull yourself together."
Starting, rubbing his eyes, and with a muttered and husky, "Pardon,
messieurs," he commenced a profuse apology for sleeping in their
company. This, however, was suddenly interrupted by the vehicle coming
to a standstill before the station.
The four men alighted, and Holt, after a brief consultation with Berard,
took first-class tickets for West Brompton.
Pierre's arm afforded Chavoix a friendly aid as they descended to the
platform; for, although the latter was not sufficiently inebriated to
attract attention, yet his equilibrium was slightly disarranged.
When the train drew up they entered an empty first-class compartment,
and continued their journey westward, a decidedly jovial quartette.
On leaving the next station, Westminster, Pierre remarked that he had
developed a great thirst, and, curiously enough, Holt immediately
produced a nickel travelling flask filled with brandy, which he held up
triumphantly. Amid the laughter which followed an assertion of
Chavoix's, to the effect that priests always appreciated good liquor,
Pierre took the flask, and, unscrewing the top, placed the mouth to his
lips.
Then he handed it to Adolphe.
"I'm so thirsty that I feel as if I could drink all that's in the
flask," remarked the latter.
"You couldn't do it in your present state," argued Berard incredulously.
"It's very strong," commented Pierre. "I doubt whether you could drain
it at one draught. In fact, I'm open to bet you half a sovereign that
you won't."
"Bah! it's just as easy as winking," replied the intoxicated man,
regarding the flask with a complacent smile. "With m'sieur's permission
I'll drink his health."
"By all means," replied Holt, with a laugh. "I'm really afraid,
however, that we shall be compelled to see you home afterwards."
"Never fear; I'm safe enough in your hands," he answered, with a grin.
"If there's one thing I'm more fond of than another, it's good cognac.
See!"
He lifted the flask to his lips, and drained it at one pull.
Scarcely had he done so when he uttered a loud cry of pain, clutching
convulsively at his throat.
"_Diable_! it's--it's stronger than I bargained for!" he gasped, with an
effort to laugh. "I feel as if everything--why, it's all going round.
_Mon dieu_! You have--"
He struggled to his feet, but reeled back upon the cushions, and in a
few moments was unconscious.
By this time the train had left St. James's Park, and was travelling at
a fair speed midway between that station and Victoria.
When it arrived at the latter place three men only were in the
compartment, and they alighted. They did not speak, but hurried along
the platform as if unknown to one another. Victor and the curate of St.
Barnabas gained the street. The former jumped into a hansom, gave the
driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked
swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and
South Coast Railway.
Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange.
Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway
leading to the Chatham and Dover station. Gaining the platform, he
glanced up at the great clock. It was twenty-six minutes past eight.
Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket,
was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed.
Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment,
then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office
and purchased a ticket for Brussels.
"Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?" he asked of the man.
"Yes, sir; she leaves at eight-thirty, sharp. This way, please."
They hurried together to where the train stood, and the man, after
depositing the valise under the seat of an empty first-class
compartment, received his tip and withdrew.
Pierre then entered, but before he had time to arrange his belongings
and comfortably ensconce himself the guard slammed the door, and the
train glided away on its journey to the sea.
Another had been added to the long list of London mysteries.