The certificate of death is all we require.
"I have it here."
"Why, how did you obtain it?"
"By a most fortunate circumstance. We saw one day, in the _Independance
Belge_, that an unknown Englishman, apparently a gentleman, had died at
the Hotel du Nord at Antwerp. Pierre at once suggested that he might
identify him as Hugh Trethowen. He went to Antwerp and did so. The man
was buried as my husband, and here is the certificate."
"A very smart stroke of business--very smart. But--er--don't talk quite
so plainly; you--"
"What do you mean? Surely you have no qualm of conscience? The payment
we agreed upon ought to counteract all that."
"Of course. Nevertheless, it is unnecessary to refer to the strategy
too frequently. As long as we have an indisputable death certificate in
the name of Hugh Trethowen, and you have your marriage certificate as
his wife, there will not be the slightest difficulty."
"I know that. To me you appear afraid lest we should be exposed."
"You need not upbraid me for exercising due caution. The success of the
plan you have been so long maturing depends upon it. Supposing we were
unable to prove the will, in what position should we be?"
"In an awkward one--decidedly awkward. But why speak of failure when we
are bound to succeed?"
"Are you quite sure the--er--dead man will never trouble us?"
"Positive. A sentence of fifteen years in New Caledonia means certain
death. He might just as well have been buried at once, poor devil!"
This confidential conversation took place in Mr. Bernard Graham's gloomy
private office in Devereux Court. The old solicitor, with a serious,
intense expression upon his countenance, was sitting at his littered
writing-table with a short legal document, covering only half of the
sheet of foolscap, spread out upon his blotting-pad. Its purport was
that the testator, Hugh Trethowen, left all he possessed to his "dear
wife, Valerie," and the date of the signatures showed that it had been
completed only a few days before they left Coombe for Paris.
In the client's chair, opposite her legal adviser, sat Valerie. Attired
in deep mourning, that became her well, her thin black veil scarcely hid
the anxious expression upon her face. Assuming her part with an
actress's regard to detail, she did not overlook the fact that pallor
was becoming to a widow; therefore, since she had put on the garments of
sorrow, she had refrained from adding those little touches of carmine to
her cheeks which she knew always enhanced her beauty. Neither her face
nor voice betrayed signs of nervousness. With the steady, dogged
perseverance of the inveterate gambler she had been playing for heavy
stakes, and now, at the last throw of the dice, she had determined to
win.
Their interview had been by appointment in order to arrange the final
details. Now that Graham was in possession of the death certificate, he
was to proceed at once to obtain probate on the will, after which the
estate would pass to her. For his services in this matter, and in
various other little affairs to which she was indebted to him, he was to
receive twelve thousand pounds. A munificent fee, indeed, for proving a
will!
There was a silence while the old solicitor took up the certificate she
had handed him, and carefully scrutinised it. The declaration was quite
plain and straightforward. It stated that Hugh Trethowen, English
subject, had died from syncope at the Hotel du Nord, and had been buried
at the cemetery of Stuivenberg.
"If he lived to complete his sentence?" hazarded Mr. Graham in a low
voice, putting down the slip of paper, and removing his pince-nez to
polish them. "Imprisoned persons, you know, have an awkward knack of
turning up at an inopportune moment."
"And supposing he did, what could he prove?" she asked. "Has he not
left a will bequeathing everything to me?--am I not mourning for him as
his widow? Besides, he knows nothing--he can never know."
"I admit your cleverness," he said. "Notwithstanding that, however, we
cannot be too circumspect."
"We've absolutely nothing to fear, I tell you," she exclaimed
impatiently. "Hugh is as safely out of the way as if he were in his
grave."
"And what of the others--Egerton, for instance?"
"He dare not breathe a word. As a matter of fact, he is ignorant of the
whereabouts of his friend."
"Is Holt to be relied upon?"
"Absolutely. He has left the country."
"Oh! Where is he?"
"In America Through some unexplained cause he took a passage to New
York. I expect he is in disgrace."
"Does he share?"
"Of course. He has written me a long letter announcing his intention
not to return to England at present, and giving an address in Chicago
where I am to send the money."
"Very good," Graham said approvingly. "As long as we can safely rely
upon the secret being preserved, we need apprehend nothing."
"It will be preserved, never fear," declared Valerie flippantly. "They
know how essential is secrecy for the safety of their own necks."
"Don't be so unsentimental," urged the old man smiling. "You talk a
little too plainly."
"Merely the truth," declared she laughing. "But never mind--you prove
the will, and the twelve thousand pounds are yours."
"Agreed. I shall take preliminary steps to-morrow."
"The sooner the better, you know."
"Shan't you live at Coombe?"
"Oh, what an idea!" she exclaimed in ridicule. "How could I live there
among all those country busy-bodies and old fogies? I should cut a nice
figure as a widow, shouldn't I? No. When I get the money I shall set
up a good house here in London, mourn for a little time, then cast off
my sackcloth and ashes."
"Remember," he said, "I am to receive twelve thousand pounds. But,
really, you make a most charming widow."
"And you bestow a little flattery upon me as a sort of recognition," she
observed, a trifle piqued at the point of his remark. Then, laughing
again, she said lightly, "Well, if I really am so charming as some
people tell me, I suppose I ought to be able to keep my head above water
in the social vortex. At all events I mean to try."
"You cannot fail. Your beauty is always fatal to those who oppose you,"
he remarked pleasantly.
"We shall see!" she exclaimed, with a merry little peal of laughter.
Rising and stretching forth her hand, she added, "I must be going. I
consign the certificate to your care, and if you want me you know my
address. I shall remain in London till the matter is settled."
The old man rose, and grasped the hand offered to him. Bidding her
adieu, he again assured her that he would give his prompt attention to
the business on hand, and, as his clerk entered at that moment, he
ceremoniously bowed her out.
During the time Valerie had been in conversation with Mr. Graham, a
woman had been standing on the opposite side of the Strand, against the
railings of the Law Courts, intently watching the persons emerging from
Devereux Court. She was young and not bad-looking, but her wan face
betrayed the pinch of poverty, and her dress, although rather shabby,
was nevertheless fashionable. Her dark features were refined, and her
bright eyes had an earnest, intense look in them as she stood in
watchful expectancy.
After she had kept the narrow passage under observation for nearly an
hour, the object of her diligent investigation suddenly came into view.
It was Valerie, who, when she gained the thoroughfare, hesitated for a
moment whether she should walk or take a cab to the Prince of Wales'
Club. Deciding upon the former course, as she wanted to call at a shop
on the way, she turned and walked along the Strand in the direction of
Charing Cross.
When the woman who had been waiting caught sight of her she gave vent to
an imprecation, the fingers of her gloveless hands twitched nervously,
and her sharp nails buried themselves in the flesh of her palms.
As she started to walk in the same direction she muttered aloud to
herself, in mixed French and English--
"Then I was not mistaken. To think I have waited for so long, and I
find you here! You little dream that I am here! Ah, you fancy you have
been clever; that your secret is safe; that the police here in London
will not know Valerie Dedieu! You have yet to discover your mistake.
Ha, ha! what a tableau that will be when you and I are quits! _Bien_,
for the present I will wait and ascertain what is going on."
Throughout the whole length of the Strand the strange woman walked on
the opposite pavement, always keeping Valerie in sight--a difficult task
sometimes, owing to the crowded state of the thoroughfare. At a
jeweller's near Charing Cross, Mrs. Trethowen stopped for a few minutes,
then, resuming her walk, crossed Trafalgar Square, and went up the
Haymarket to the Prince of Wales' Club, calmly unconscious of the woman
who was following and taking such intense interest in her movements.
Muttering to herself sentences in French, interspersed by many epithets
and imprecations, she waited for Valerie's reappearance, and then
continued to follow her down the Haymarket and through St. James's Park
to her flat in Victoria Street.
She saw her enter the building, and, after allowing her a few moments to
ascend the stairs, returned and ascertained the number of the suite.
Then she turned away and walked in the direction of Westminster Bridge,
smiling and evidently on very good terms with herself. Indeed, she had
made a discovery which meant almost more to her than she could realise.