CHAPTER X.
Besides the consolation of recovering the precious insignia, the spice of romance in the affair appealed to Le Gautier’s natural sentiment. He might, it may be thought, have had something similar made; but it must be remembered that he had no fac-simile in his possession; and he knew, or suspected, that the coin bore private marks known only to the Supreme Three. At all hazards, therefore, the device must be recovered, and perhaps a little pleasant pastime enjoyed in addition.
After long cogitation, Le Gautier decided to keep the appointment, and, in accordance with this determination, walked to Charing Cross the following night. He loitered along the broad stone platform for some time till the clock struck nine, idly speculating upon the people hurrying to and fro, and turning over the books and papers on the bookstall. At a few minutes after the hour he looked up at the clock, and then down again, and his heart beat a shade more quickly, for there, standing by the swinging door leading to the first-class waiting-room, was a long cloaked figure, closely veiled. Walking carelessly in the direction, and approaching, he looked at his watch as he muttered: ‘Past nine—no sign of the Eastern Eagle.’
By way of answer, the mysterious stranger raised her hand to the clasp of her cloak, and there, in the centre of the fastening, was a gold moidore.
Le Gautier’s eyes glistened as he noticed this. ‘You wish to see me?’ he said at length. ‘I must thank you for’——
‘If your name is Le Gautier,’ she interrupted, ‘I do want to say a few words to you.—Am I right, sir?’
Le Gautier bowed, thinking that, if the face matched the voice and figure, he had a treasure here.
‘This is no place to discuss this matter. If you can suggest any place where we can hold a few minutes’ conversation, I shall be obliged.’
Le Gautier mused a moment; he had a good knowledge of London, but hesitated to take a lady to any place so late. The only suggestion he could make was the Embankment; and apparently this suited his companion, for, bowing her head, she took the proffered arm, walked out from the station, down Villiers Street, and so on to the waterside. Le Gautier noticed how the fingers on his arm trembled, attributing this to natural timidity, never dreaming that the emotion might be a warmer one. He began to feel at home now, and his tongue ran on accordingly. ‘Ah! how good of you,’ he exclaimed, pressing the arm lying in his own tenderly—‘how angelic of you to come to my aid! Tell me how you knew I was so rash, so impetuous?’
‘Men who carry their lives in their hands always are,’ Isodore replied. ‘The story does not need much telling. I was in the Kursaal at the time, and had my eyes on you. I saw you detach the insignia from your watchchain; I saw you hand it to a woman to stake; in short, I can put my hand upon it now.’
‘My protector, my guardian angel!’ Le Gautier cried rapturously; and then, with a sudden prosaic touch, added: ‘Have you got it with you?’
Isodore hesitated. If he could only have seen the smile behind the thick dark veil which hid the features so tantalisingly!
‘I have not your insignia with me,’ she said; ‘that I must give you at some future time, not now. Though I am alarmed for you, I cannot but admire your reckless audacity.’
‘I thought perhaps you might,’ Le Gautier observed in a disappointed tone, and glancing at the clasp of his companion’s cloak.
‘That is mine,’ she explained, noting his eager look. ‘I do not part with it so recklessly as you. I, too, am one of you, as you see. Ah, Monsieur le Gautier, how truly fortunate your treasure fell into a woman’s hands!’
‘Indeed, yes,’ he replied gravely, a little puzzled, nevertheless, by the half-serious, half-mocking tone of these last words. ‘And how grateful I am! Pardon me if, in my anxiety, I ask when I may have it?’
‘It may be some days yet. It is not in my hands; but be assured that you shall have it. I always keep my promises—in love or war, gratitude or revenge, I never forget.—And now I must leave you.’
‘But you will at least tell me the name of my benefactor, and when I shall have the great felicity of seeing her again.’
‘If I disclose myself to you, my secret must be respected. Some time, when I know you better, I will tell you more. I live in Ventnor Street, Fitzroy Square. You may come and see me any night at ten. You must inquire for Marie St Jean.’
‘I will come,’ Le Gautier exclaimed, kissing the proffered hand gallantly. ‘Nothing save the sternest duty shall keep me from Fitzroy Square.’
‘And you will respect my secret? I, too, am on the business of the League. You will guard my secret?’
‘On my life!’ was the fervid response.—‘Goodnight, and au revoir.’
‘On his life,’ Isodore murmured as she walked rapidly away in the direction of the Temple Gardens.
It was a beautiful night, the moon hanging behind Westminster, and throwing a glowing track along the swift rushing river, dancing like molten silver as it turned and switched under the arches of Waterloo. It was getting quiet now, save for the echoing footfall from a few hurrying feet or the shout of voices from the Surrey shore. Soft and subdued came the hoarse murmurs of the distant Strand; but Isodore heeded them not. In imagination, she was standing under the shadow of the grape-vines, the sunny Tiber down at her feet, and a man was at her side. And now the grapes were thorns, the winding Tiber the sullen Thames, and the hero standing by her side, a hero no longer, but a man to be despised—and worse. As she walked along, busy among the faded rose-leaves of the past, a hand was laid upon her arm, and Valerie stood before her.
‘I thought you were going to walk over me,’ she said. ‘I knew you would return this way, and came to meet you.—Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, I have seen him; and what I have heard, does not alter my feelings. He is cold and vain, callous and unfeeling as ever. And to think I once loved that man, and trusted him! The poor fool thinks he has made another conquest, another captive to his bow and spear. Under cover of my veil, I have been studying his features. It is well he thinks so; it will help me to my revenge.—Valerie, he is going to call upon me to-morrow night at ten o’clock.’
‘But consider what a rash thing you are doing. Besides, how is this going to benefit you or injure him? He will boast of it; he will talk of it to his friends, and injure you.’
‘Not while I have this,’ Isodore cried triumphantly, touching the clasp of her cloak.—‘Do not you see how he is within my power? Besides, he can give me some information of the utmost value. They hold a Council to-morrow night; the business is pressing, and a special envoy is to go to Rome. The undertaking will be one of extreme danger. They will draw lots, but the choice will fall upon Frederick Maxwell.’
‘How do you know this?’ Valerie asked. ‘I do not understand your mission; but it seems to me that where every man has a stake at issue, it is his own interest to see the matter conducted fairly.’
‘You may think so; but perhaps you will think differently when I tell you that Le Gautier is, for the evening, President of the Council. It does not need a vast amount of discrimination to see how the end will be. Le Gautier is determined to marry this Enid Charteris; and much as she despises him, he will gain his end if he is not crossed.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ Valerie asked, horrified at the infamous plot. ‘You will not allow an innocent man to go to his death like this?’
‘I shall not, as you say, allow a good man to be done to death,’ Isodore replied with the calmness of perfect conviction. ‘The pear is not yet ripe. Le Gautier is not sufficiently hoist with his own petard. This Maxwell will go to Rome; but he will never execute the commission allotted to him; I shall take care of that.—And now, mind you are out of the way, when Le Gautier comes to-morrow night.’
Valerie silently shivered as she turned over the dark plot in her mind. ‘Suppose you fail, Isodore,’ she suggested—‘fail from over-confidence? You speak of the matter as already accomplished, as if you had only to say a thing and it is done. One would think, to hear you, that Frederick Maxwell’s safety, my husband’s life even, was yours.’
‘Yes,’ she answered calmly; ‘his life is mine. I hold it in the hollow of my hand.’