Chapter Twenty Five. Shekels of Judas.

Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valérie’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 Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée 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. Valérie 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.”

Then, turning to her guests, she exclaimed—

“Cease your chatter, please, just for one moment. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you—”

This was greeted with discordant cries—

“Enough! Everybody knows Pierre.”

“Ladies, do please listen to me,” implored Valérie. Continuing, Valérie again endeavoured to make herself heard.

“Gentlemen, I—”

At that moment somebody commenced to strum a waltz upon the piano, and, as if by magic, the twenty persons in the room rose to their feet and commenced to whirl madly round, while Valérie and Pierre stood at the door whispering and regarding the scene of Bacchanalian revelry with perfect satisfaction.

She liked to see her guests enjoy themselves.

“I want a few moments’ private conversation with you,” Pierre said, after they had been standing silent for a minute or two.

She acquiesced at once, and led the way to a small anteroom behind the drawing-room. It was furnished gaudily and cheaply, but quite in keeping with the rest of the house.

As he closed, the door, Pierre said—

“I’ve some good news.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Victor has fallen into the trap.”

“Arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Hurrah!” she cried, almost dancing for joy; “now we are safely rid of him we shall have nothing to fear. But, tell me, how did you manage to carry out the suggestion?”

“It was quite simple. We met in London three weeks ago, and I told him that he was running a great risk in remaining there, because the girl Vivian had discovered that it was he who gave her the little gash in the throat, and that she had placed the matter in the hands of the police. He asked my advice as to where he should go, and, of course, I suggested Paris. We arranged to go over separately, and meet at the old place a week later. He went, and as he stepped from the train at the St. Lazare he fell into the inviting arms of that vulture Chémerault.”

“You had previously given information, I suppose?”

“Exactly.”

“What was the charge?” she asked in a low tone.

“Complicity in the affair of the Englishman.”

“Is he already sentenced?”

“Yes; to-day the Assize Court sent him to penal servitude for ten years. I had a telegram an hour ago. It will be in the papers to-morrow.”

“Do you think that he’ll peach upon us?” Valérie asked seriously.

“No, never fear that. He does not suspect that we put the police upon him; besides, he will live in the hope of escaping, and returning to you and your newly-acquired wealth.”

“Yes, I suppose he will,” she said, laughing. “But you’ve managed the affair very cleverly, and although it is hard to send such a boon companion to prison merely because you and I love one another, yet, after all, I suppose it’s the best course.”

“Undoubtedly, ma chère,” he said. “Now both are safely in prison, we need fear nothing. Our manoeuvres have been successful in obtaining for us a fortune ample for our needs, and by keeping on this house, as well as yours in the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, we can continue to amuse ourselves profitably by getting our guests to stake their louis on the tapis vert. We have had many obstacles to face, but they are now all removed.”

“Where is your wedding-ring—the one he gave you?” he asked.

She drew it from her purse, and handed it to him, wondering why he required it.

“This reminds you of him, I know,” he said, as he turned and threw up the window. “See, I fling it away, for it’s merely a worthless bond,” and he tossed the ring as far as he could out into the road.

Valérie sighed. A tear stood in her eye. Even at that moment she was thinking of Hugh Trethowen. It was unusual for her to be troubled by recurring pangs of conscience, nevertheless his face had haunted her constantly during the past few months, and she could not get rid of the thought that some day a terrible Nemesis might fall and crush her.

“Why look so serious?”

“I was only thinking. It is one of woman’s privileges,” she said, laughing.

“Come, there is no cause for sadness surely. You have a handsome income. What more could you desire?”

Soon afterwards the unsuspecting guests departed, with aching heads and empty pockets. And Valérie was left alone.