“Is everything ready?”
“Yes; but remember, we must keep very cool. A false step means ruin.”
The man addressed laid his finger significantly upon his lips and replied—
“Of course. I quite understand.”
This whispered conversation took place in the upper room at Bateman’s Buildings, on the same evening that Hugh had visited Valérie, and the two men who stood aside talking in almost inaudible tones were Victor Bérard and the Rev. Hubert Holt. In every particular they were dissimilar. The former was well-dressed and wore several flash-looking rings, while the latter was in clerical attire of the most unassuming and orthodox cut. Both appeared earnest and anxious, glancing uneasily toward Pierre Rouillier and a companion, who were sitting at the table facing each other.
“Come,” exclaimed Pierre, addressing the other in French, “fill your glass. Good stuff like this never hurts one.”
His compatriot, who was evidently more than half intoxicated, raised his head, and stammered—
“You’re—you’re right, mon ami. Such cognac warms the blood this weather. Let’s have another glass before we go.”
He, like the others, was dressed in well-cut clothes, but it was curious that when the dim lamplight fell upon his face it disclosed features strangely resembling those of the man with whom he was drinking.
Adolphe Chavoix was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and dark, with closely-cropped jet black hair, and a sallow, rather sullen-looking face. The brandy had given an unnatural fire to his eyes, his cheeks were flushed, and as he grasped his glass his lean bony hand had the appearance of the talons of a bird of prey.