“By all means,” replied Holt, with a laugh. “I’m really afraid, however, that we shall be compelled to see you home afterwards.”
“Never fear; I’m safe enough in your hands,” he answered, with a grin. “If there’s one thing I’m more fond of than another, it’s good cognac. See!”
He lifted the flask to his lips, and drained it at one pull.
Scarcely had he done so when he uttered a loud cry of pain, clutching convulsively at his throat.
“Diable! it’s—it’s stronger than I bargained for!” he gasped, with an effort to laugh. “I feel as if everything—why, it’s all going round. Mon dieu! You have—”
He struggled to his feet, but reeled back upon the cushions, and in a few moments was unconscious.
By this time the train had left St. James’s Park, and was travelling at a fair speed midway between that station and Victoria.
When it arrived at the latter place three men only were in the compartment, and they alighted. They did not speak, but hurried along the platform as if unknown to one another. Victor and the curate of St. Barnabas gained the street. The former jumped into a hansom, gave the driver an address, and drove rapidly away, while the latter man walked swiftly across the station yard towards the terminus of the Brighton and South Coast Railway.
Pierre Rouillier, however, acted in a manner that was even more strange. Without emerging into the street, he passed quickly along the subway leading to the Chatham and Dover station. Gaining the platform, he glanced up at the great clock. It was twenty-six minutes past eight. Without hesitation he went to the cloakroom, and, producing a ticket, was handed a large valise, a rug, and a thick long ulster of dark tweed. Divesting himself of the light coat he wore, he donned the garment, then, beckoning a porter to carry his bag, went to the booking-office and purchased a ticket for Brussels.
“Just in time for the Continental train, am I not?” he asked of the man.