‘Your hate is horrible,’ Valerie exclaimed with an involuntary shudder. ‘I should not like to cross your path.’
‘My friends find me true,’ Isodore answered sadly; ‘it is only my enemies that feel the weight of my arm.—But enough of this; we need stout hearts and ready brains, for we have much work before us.’
Three days later, and the women drove through the roar and turmoil of London streets. They were bent upon duty and revenge. One man in that vast city of four or five million souls was their quarry.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr Varley, Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ valet and factotum, and majordomo in the baronet’s town residence, Grosvenor Square, was by no means devoid of courage; but the contents of the note he was reading in the hall one fine morning early in May were sufficient to put to flight for the moment any vengeful schemes he was harbouring against the wily gentleman who has just quitted the house, and that gentleman no less a person than our old friend Le Gautier.
Timothy Varley was an Irishman, and had been in his youth what is termed a patriot. In his hot blood he had even joined a League for the ‘removal of tyrants;’ but the League, in spite of its solemn form and binding oaths, had died a natural death. At times, however, the recollection of it troubled Mr Varley’s conscience sorely. It was destined to be brought to his mind now in a startling manner.
‘G. S. I. You will be at the corner of Chapel Place to-night at nine. A girl will meet you, and show you the way. You are wanted; your turn has come. Do not fail.—Number XI.’
Never did Bob Acres, in that celebrated comedy, The Rivals, feel the courage oozing from his finger-tips as did Timothy Varley now. He turned the missive over in his fingers; but no consolation was to be derived from that; and bitterly did he revile the juvenile folly that had placed him in such a position at this time of life.
‘It is no sham,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God save Ireland—that is the old countersign; and to think of it turning up now! I had forgotten the thing years ago. This comes of joining secret societies—a nice thing to bring a respectable family man to! Now, by the powers! who was Number Eleven? That used to be Pat Mahoney; and a mighty masterful man he was, always ready with his hands if anything crossed him. O dear, O dear! this is a pretty thing. Maybe they want to mix me up with dynamite; but if they do, I won’t do it, and that’s flat. I suppose I shall have to go.’
Giving vent to these words in a doleful tone of voice, he betook himself to his private sanctum. His spirits were remarked to be the reverse of cheerful, and he declined a glass of sherry at lunch, a thing which roused much speculation below stairs.