"Where is Mr. Holt? I must see him at once."
"He's in the vestry, miss, talking to a gentleman. But he'll be
disengaged in a moment," the verger replied.
"Very well. I'll wait."
The girl who had listened with disgust to the Sunday morning sermon
preached by the Rev. Hubert Holt, and who had afterwards gone round to
the vestry of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, was Dolly Vivian.
A few days previously, while walking along Buckingham Palace Road, she
unexpectedly passed the man who called himself Mansell. Attired as he
was in the garb of a clergyman, she was not quite certain as to his
identity with the man who had assisted in her abduction. Yet, with
justifiable curiosity, she turned and set herself to watch him. For
hours she dogged his footsteps, always at a respectable distance. First
he went up Victoria Street, and along the Embankment to the City, then
he crossed London Bridge and continued through the Borough and Walworth
Road, ultimately entering one of a terrace of smoke-begrimed houses in
Boyson Road, Camberwell. Once or twice while following him she
contrived to obtain an uninterrupted view of his features, and each time
felt more convinced that he was the man for whom she was in search.
When he had disappeared she returned, and noticed upon the railing
outside the house was a small, tarnished brass plate bearing the name,
"Rev. Hubert Holt." Carefully noting the number, she proceeded to make
diligent inquiries, and was not long in discovering that Holt and
Mansell was one and the same person, and that he was curate of St.
Barnabas church, which was situated at the end of the road.
At first she was prompted to call upon him at once and denounce him; but
on reflection she saw that such a course might not effect the object she
had in view. She regarded him as a scoundrel, and in consequence
carefully prepared a tableau by which she could obtain the information
she sought, and if possible, compass his ruin. The vindictive nature
latent in every woman was aroused in her when she discovered his
hypocrisy, and she saw that if she met him face to face in the midst of
his holy duties her revenge could be rendered more complete.
As she stood awaiting the interview her cheeks were flushed by
excitement, and she nervously toyed with the buttons of her gloves. Her
lips were compressed, her fair forehead was furrowed by an unbecoming
frown of resolution, for she had resolved to meet him boldly, and show
him no mercy.
"What name shall I tell Mr. Holt, miss?" the verger asked, re-entering
the small, bare anteroom a moment later.
"Never mind," she replied. "He--he doesn't know my name." Then the
verger went out.
While she was uttering these words the curate's visitor--a tall,
military-looking old gentleman--emerged from the vestry, leaving the
door ajar.
Dolly pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door after her.
Holt was still in his surplice, standing beside the small writing-table.
He looked up as the intruder entered. The colour left his face, and he
drew back in dismay when he recognised her.
"You!" he stammered. "I--I did not know you were here!"
"Yes," replied she sternly. "I'm not a welcome visitor, am I?
Nevertheless, now I've found you, we have an account to settle."
He did not reply; but, the subject being distasteful to him, he walked
quickly round the table and opened the door, which led into the church.
She saw that his intention was to escape.
"Shut that door, if you don't wish our conversation to be overheard,"
she said, pale and determined. "Re member, you are in my hands, my
reverend murderer!" Starting at the word "murderer," he closed the door
slowly, and stood with his back against it, and head bowed before her.
"Now," she said, advancing towards him, "first of all, I want to know
what harm I have ever done you that you should drug me, and then attempt
to kill me." The pointed question was asked in a tone that was the
reverse of reassuring.
"I did not."
"To deny it is useless," she declared vehemently. "I have ample proof
of your villainy; moreover, I intend that you shall be justly punished."
"Why, what do you mean to do?" he cried in alarm. He had been cleverly
entrapped, and saw no means of escape from his irate victim.
"What I do depends entirely upon your attitude towards me," answered she
in a calm tone. "Like a foolish girl, I trusted implicitly to your
honour, and you--a clergyman--tried to kill me."
"I did not do it--indeed I did not."
"No; I am well aware that you were too cowardly to draw the knife across
my throat. But you enticed me to dine with you: you put a narcotic into
my wine and conveyed me to that house--for what purpose? Why, so that
your cowardly accomplice might kill me." He was thoroughly alarmed.
She evidently knew the whole circumstances, and it was useless, he
thought, to conceal the truth.
"If--if I admit all this, may I not ask your pardon--your mercy?"
"Mercy!" she repeated. "What mercy did you show me when I was helpless
in your hands? Only by a mere vagary of Fate I am not now in my grave.
You thought you were safe--that your holy habiliments would prevent you
being recognised as the man with whom I dined. But you made a great
mistake, and I have found you."
"Will you not accept my apology?" he asked in a low voice.
"Upon one condition only."
"What is that?" he inquired eagerly.
"That you tell me the reasons which caused you to drug me, and the name
of the scoundrel who assisted you," she replied calmly.
Their conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the reappearance
of the verger, who inquired whether he would be wanted any more, as he
had locked up the church, and was ready to go to his dinner. Holt
replied in the negative, and the feeble old man departed, swinging his
great bunch of jingling keys as he went.
When they were alone, the artist's model again referred to her
stipulation, and pressed for an answer.
"No," he replied decisively, "I cannot tell you--I cannot."
"For what reason, pray?"
"The reason is best known to myself," he answered, endeavouring to
assume an air of unconcern.
"You flatly refuse?"
"I do."
"In that case, then, I shall call the police, and have you arrested."
"No, my God! not that!" he cried; "anything but that."
"Ah, I can quite understand that police inquiries would be distasteful
to you."
She paused, reflecting whether she should hazard a statement which she
had overheard among other things in the conversation of her janitors at
the lonely house near Twickenham.
At length she resolved to make an assertion, and watch its effect.
"If I'm not mistaken," she continued, regarding him closely, "the police
are very desirous of interviewing you. They might like to hear some of
your glib remarks about spiritual welfare, like those you made in the
pulpit this morning."
"I don't understand you."
"If I speak plainer possibly you will. Some months ago a man was found
dead on the railway. The affair is being investigated by the police,
and--"
"God! You know of that!" he cried hoarsely, as he rushed towards her,
and gripped her white throat with his hands in a frenzy of madness.
"Speak lower--whisper--or--"
"No," urged Dolly, as coolly as she was able. "It would only add
another crime to your list. Besides, if you comply with my
stipulations, your secret will still be safe."
Her words had the desired effect. He released his hold, and, grasping
her hand, pleaded forgiveness.
Flinging himself upon his knees before her, he pleaded for mercy,
declaring that the injury he had done her was under sheer compulsion.
He admitted he was a base, heartless villain, undeserving of pity or
leniency; still he implored forgiveness on the ground that he had been
sufficiently punished by a remorseful conscience.
But Dolly was inexorable to his appeals, and turned a deaf ear to his
expressions of regret. She had come there for a fixed purpose, which
she meant to accomplish at all hazards. It was evident he had some
connection with the crime which she had heard discussed by the man and
woman who had kept her prisoner, and it was likewise apparent that he
was in deadly fear of the police. The effect of her remark about the
murder had been almost magical, and she was at a loss how to account for
it.
"Your entreaty is useless," she said coldly, after a few moments'
reflection, stretching forth her hand and assisting him to his feet.
She despised the cringing coward. "Before you need hope for leniency, I
desire to know where Hugh Trethowen is to be found."
"I don't know him. How should I know?" he stammered confusedly.
By his agitation she was convinced he was not telling the truth.
"Oh, perhaps you will tell me next that you are unacquainted with Mr.
Egerton, the artist," she observed, with a curious smile.
"I've met him once, I think," replied the curate, with feigned
reflection.
"And you declare solemnly that you know nothing of Hugh Trethowen?" she
asked incredulously.
He shook his head.
"Then you are speaking falsely," she said angrily; "and the sooner we
understand each other the better. You believe me to be a weak girl,
easily cajoled, but you'll discover your mistake, sir, when it's too
late--when you have fallen into the clutches of the police and your
crime has been exposed."
"Do you think I'm going to allow you to give information!" he cried
fiercely, shaking his fist threateningly before her face.