“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”
“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”
Chapter Ten.
Deadly Pair.
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose—deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.