“No, no,” cried Bert with a shiver, “not that, not that! Besides,” he added weakly, “there is only one flower box on the balcony.”
“It is true,” mused the Frenchwoman, “that there is no room there for another burial. And you still refuse to dig a grave? Perhaps to-morrow night you will have more courage?” she suggested hopefully.
But of this Bert held out no hope. “It would take too long,” he said. “I might screw myself up to commence the job, but I simply couldn’t stick to it for an hour, no more than I could fly. I’ll do what I can, Madame Querterot; I don’t want to be hung for your beastly murders, and if I can’t keep my neck out of a noose any other way I suppose I’ve got to do what you say—within reason, that is. It’s the girl’s life or mine right enough, I believe, and I can’t be blamed for thinking of myself first in such a case,” said Bert, nearly crying; “though as a matter of fact it’s not so much myself I’m thinking of, in a manner of speaking, as it’s Joolie. A nice thing for her it would be, to have it said that her mother was hung! A fair treat, that ’ud be!”
“It’s very considerate of you, I’m sure, Bert, to take that view,” said Madame Querterot, with bitter sarcasm, “but it’s no good talking like that if you refuse to do anything to prevent such a scandal, which I agree with you in thinking is one to be avoided if possible. Here is another idea, though I think I am too patient with you, and shall not waste much more time in trying to assist you out of a danger you have yourself brought upon us. Suppose you take the girl out to a place where there is some deep water—there is a canal near the Zoological Gardens, is there not?—and push her in when she is walking beside it. She will go with you willingly, if you let her think you are helping her to escape, and you can find a pretext for attaching something heavy to her first, so that she will not trouble us by rising again to the surface. It should be easy to do on a dark night, and there is no moon now, as you know.”
Bert had plenty of objections to raise to this plan, and they discussed others with no better result. In the end he was obliged to admit that drowning offered the best and easiest solution to the difficulty, and she wrung from him a promise that he would get rid of the unfortunate young lady by this means on the following night.
In vain Madame Querterot urged the danger of delay, and the perils which would attend on their keeping Barbara in the house for the next twenty-four hours. Bert was obstinately determined not to venture forth with her at this hour, for it wanted but a short time to sunrise and any delay would mean that the culminating act must be performed after the full darkness of the night had been diluted by the coming dawn. Even Madame Querterot was obliged to admit that there was something in his argument, and it was finally decided that he should wait till another day had passed.
In the meantime the Frenchwoman, as had previously been arranged, would lose no time in leaving England, carrying with her the jewels, which, she assured Bert, would be very easy for her to dispose of in her own country without detection, as she had old friends there who were “in that business.” She promised faithfully to send him one-half of the proceeds as soon as she received the money.
“And then, mon cher,” said she, “you and Julie will set up your little ménage. I think you will find my daughter less capricious when I am gone. She will be lonely, the poor little one, without her mother.” Madame Querterot’s voice quavered with emotion at the thought, and she lifted her handkerchief to her face to wipe away a tear—or was it to conceal a smile?
In spite of all assurances, she was unable to impart to Bert her confidence in their safety from suspicion.
“You’ll see, something will give the whole show away,” he kept saying, half for the comfort of hearing himself contradicted. “Murder will out; that’s well known.”