"Perhaps," she cried, "you will deny that a celebrated case was recently
investigated by the Assize Court of the Seine, and was popularly known
as the Mystery of the Boulevard Haussmann. Perhaps you will deny that
Valerie Dardignac and Mrs. Trethowen are the same person; that she--"
"What are you saying?"
"The truth. Moreover, I tell you I intend having satisfaction from you
who lured me almost to my death."
"Oh! How?" he asked defiantly.
"By a very simple process. I have merely to place the police in
possession of the true facts regarding the crime which startled Paris
not long ago. You shall not escape me now."
He stood erect, glaring at her, his mouth twitching, his face pale, with
a murderous expression upon it.
"So those are your tactics, miss?" he cried, with rage, springing upon
her, and clutching with both hands at her throat. "You are the only
person who knows our secret."
"Help! police!" she shouted in alarm, noticing his determined manner.
Her cries echoed through the great empty church, but no assistance came.
His fingers tightened their hold upon her throat. He was strangling
her.
The light had died away from above, and the shadows mingled in a
shapeless mass.
"Help! help!" she screamed again; but her voice was fainter, for she was
choking.
"Silence!" he hissed. "It's you--you who would brand me as a murderer,
and send me to the gallows! Do you think I'm going to allow you to do
that! By heaven, you shan't do it!"
She attempted to scream, but he placed his hand over her mouth.
His face was blanched, and his eyes gleamed with murderous hate as he
glanced quickly around. His gaze fell upon the altar. Releasing her,
he bounded towards it, and snatched up a heavy brass vase.
She saw his intention, but was powerless to recede.
"Help!" she shrieked.
Upon her throat she felt a hot hand; she saw the heavy vase uplifted
above her.
"Take that!" he cried, as he brought it down upon her head with a
crushing blow, and she fell senseless upon the stone pavement.
For a second or two he looked at her, wondering if she were dead. Then
tearing off his surplice, he rushed into the vestry, and, putting on his
coat and hat, fled from the church, locking the door after him.
The upturned face of the prostrate girl was calm and deathlike. She lay
motionless upon the cold grey flags. The sun shone out again, and the
coloured light, streaming from the stained-glass window, fell full upon
her handsome features. But its warmth did not rouse her; she gave no
sign of life.
Late in the afternoon, however, she struggled back to consciousness, and
sat for a long time on the pulpit steps trying to calm herself and
decide how to act.
The excruciating pain in her head would not allow her thoughts to shape
sufficiently, so she made a tour of the building to discover some mode
of egress. It was not long before she found that in one of the main
doors the key had been left, and, unlocking it, she stepped out into the
bright, warm afternoon with a feeling that a strange, oppressive weight
had suddenly clouded her brain.
That evening the city clerks, small shopkeepers, with their wives and
relations, who comprise the majority of the congregation of St.
Barnabas, Camberwell, were agog when it transpired that their popular
spiritual guide, the Rev. Hubert Holt, had suddenly thrown up his
curacy. The vicar took the service, and at the conclusion announced
with regret that his assistant had written to him that afternoon
resigning his appointment, stating that a pressing engagement made it
imperative that he should leave England at once. He gave no reason, but
when the vicar sent round to his lodgings to request him to call and
wish him adieu, it was discovered that he had packed a few things
hurriedly, and already departed.
Then a local sensation was produced in the district between Denmark Hill
and Camberwell Gate, and the devout parishioners prayed for the
preservation and well-being of their popular but absent curate.