“Humph,” he murmured to himself, “they seem well-matched stones. I shall ask old Vlieger two hundred and fifty for it, and he’ll send it over to Amsterdam and get it out of the way in case any inquiries are made. You’ve had a very profitable evening, Percy, my boy—very profitable.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
Truth in Masquerade.
Before Valérie had resided at Coombe six weeks she grew weary of the monotony of country life. In her discontented mood her surroundings were dull and uninteresting, while the local people she met lacked polish and chic, which, to her eyes, were the two necessary qualifications in acquaintances. Nothing was extraordinary in this, however. Women of the world meet in their life so many men and women—young, middle aged, and old—who commit all sorts of absurdities for or around them, that they end by entertaining a sovereign contempt for the whole human race, placing all persons in the same category. In each woman they see only an individual to impose upon and outvie in the matter of dress, and each fresh specimen of the genus man which is brought before them they regard only as a lamb destined for the sacrifice after being sufficiently shorn.
It was in consequence of an earnest wish she expressed that they had left Cornwall and travelled to Paris, taking up their abode at the Hôtel Continental.
Lounging in a capacious chair in the smoking-room, Hugh was scanning some letters he had just received. A few days had elapsed since their arrival, and this morning Valérie had gone out alone in order to visit her milliner in the Rue de la Paix. Left to his own resources, her husband had taken the letters that Jacob had forwarded to him, and, repairing to the smoking-room, endeavoured to amuse himself with their contents.
One which he had read and still held in his hand caused him to twirl his moustache thoughtfully and knit his brows.
Upon a half sheet of notepaper one sentence only was written, in a fine angular hand, and read: