Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valerie's hurried
exit from Paris had baffled the most expert member of the Paris
detective force.
The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards
were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps
flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening
dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the
Rue de Pepin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausee de
Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the
long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz,
where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He
gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.
"Ah!" the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, "it's a good thing you've
come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in
a fine state."
"What! have they had supper, then?"
"Yes; and there are several fresh people--swells."
"Who are they?"
"You'll see."
"Who's there, Nanette?" asked a shrill, musical voice.
"M'sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle," replied the girl.
"Ah, Pierre!" said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in
another direction: "Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived."
Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced
singing the first verse of the _chansonette_, "Pierre, my long-lost
love," as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valerie
was standing at the door, and whispered to him--
"There are some rich men here to-night. We can make a big _coup_ if we
are careful."