A brilliant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has not the slightest intention of doing as she asks, but it will be just as well, he thinks, to lead her to believe that he will. And meantime she may be useful in assisting his escape.
“Well, Victoire,” he says in a more conciliatory voice, “you’re a good girl and a faithful one. Look here, here’s five pounds, and I’ll send you more soon. Stay here as long as you can, and keep the bloodhounds at bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink them. When you change your address put it in the Times. And now, my girl, give us a kiss. I must be off. Every moment makes it more risky.”
He has finished burning his compromising papers, has taken up his hat, stick, and gloves, thrown his coat over one arm, and picked up the business bag. He is quite ready to go.
She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, degraded, wicked as is Victoire Hester, yet she loves this vile, scheming, and contemptible wretch, for whose sake she has steeped her soul in the inky dye of sin, and turned from the path of honour and of truth.
“There now, there now, that’s enough, old girl,” he says hastily, and as she unclasps her hands from about his neck, he steps quickly towards the door and opens it.
“Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers,” he says significantly, and then he passes out from her presence, and is gone.
She hears the front door open and shut again, and springs to the window. She can just catch sight of him as he passes along the Crescent. It is her last glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the contrary, she feels that it is. But Victoire Hester for the moment forgets herself. In the presence of the danger which threatens the man she loves, she becomes calm. All trace of his hasty departure must be quickly obliterated. She feels that this is imperatively necessary. Quickly she sets to work, tidies up his table, sets the room neat, and with her own hands collects the burnt paper and carries it off. Then she opens the windows to let out the smell which the burning paper has emitted, heaps more coals on the fire, and moves into Mr. Trackem’s bedroom to arrange his things. In less than an hour all is ship-shape and tidy as usual. There is not a sign of hasty departure.
A few hours later there comes a ring at the front door. Victoire has given instructions that she will see any one that calls. She has often before undertaken this duty in Mr. Trackem’s absence, and the servant sees nothing strange in the order. He therefore admits the new-comers, and shows them into Mr. Trackem’s business room. These two new-comers are men. They are dressed in dark clothes, and they both seat themselves to await his coming.
“Run him in pretty sharp, eh?” observes one of them with a smile, as the door closes on the servant.
“Haven’t got him yet, Bush,” retorts the other quietly. Inspector Truffle is not of so sanguine a temperament as is Inspector Bush.