path: root/47900-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47900 ***

Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: SHE CROUCHED, WATCHING, BREATHLESS AND UNCERTAIN. (PAGE
109)]




                                _*The*_*
                           SPLENDID OUTCAST*


                                   BY

                              GEORGE GIBBS

          AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET WITNESS," "THE GOLDEN BOUGH,"
                        "THE YELLOW DOVE," ETC.



                             ILLUSTRATED BY
                              GEORGE GIBBS



                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                            NEW YORK LONDON
                                  1920




                          COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

                          Copyright, 1919, by
                        THE RED BOOK CORPORATION




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAPTER

      I. The Convalescent
     II. The Mystery Deepens
    III. The Goose
     IV. Outcast
      V. Piquette
     VI. Youth Triumphant
    VII. Awakening
   VIII. Threats
     IX. Piquette Takes a Hand
      X. The Samaritan
     XI. Confessions
    XII. Quinlevin Speaks
   XIII. Beginning a Journey
    XIV. A Night Attack
     XV. Green Eyes
    XVI. Nora Speaks
   XVII. Jim Makes a Guess
  XVIII. At Bay
    XIX. In the Dark
     XX. Freedom
    XXI. The Petit Bleu
   XXII. Mystery
  XXIII. Escape
   XXIV. The Clue
    XXV. The Conclusion




                            *ILLUSTRATIONS*


She crouched, watching, breathless and uncertain . . . _Frontispiece_

Moira talked gayly

Through Moira’s clear intelligence the epic filtered

The mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale and somber




                         *THE SPLENDID OUTCAST*



                              *CHAPTER I*

                           *THE CONVALESCENT*


Jim Horton awoke in high fever and great pain but the operation upon his
skull had been successful and it was believed that he would recover.
Something as to the facts of the exploit of the wounded man had come to
the hospital and he was an object of especial solicitude by both
surgeons and nurses.  They had worked hard to save him that he might be
alive for the decoration that was sure to come and the night had brought
a distinct improvement in his condition.  The nurse still watched his
breathing eagerly and wrote down the new and favorable record upon the
chart by his bedside.  Miss Newberry was not in the least sentimental
and the war had blunted her sensibilities, but there was no denying the
fact that when the dressing was removed from his head the patient was
extremely good to look at.  He rewarded her on the morrow with a smile.

"How long have I been here?" he murmured hazily.

"Six days," she replied; "but you mustn’t talk."

"Six—?  Wounded——"

"Sh—.  In the head, shoulder and leg, but you’re doing nicely."

"Won’t you tell me——?" he began.

But she soothed him gently.  "Not now—later perhaps.  You must sleep
again.  Drink this—please."

Horton obeyed, for he found himself too weak to oppose her.  It was very
restful here; he wriggled his toes luxuriously against the soft sheets
for a moment.  If things would only stop whirling around....  And the
pain ... but that seemed to cease again and he slept. Indeed his
awakening was only to half-consciousness.  Other days and nights
followed when he lay in a sort of doze, aware of much suffering and a
great confusion of thought. But slowly, as he grew stronger, the facts
of his present position emerged from the dimness and with them a mild
curiosity, scarcely lucid as yet, as to how he had gotten there.  At
last there came a morning when the fog upon his memory seemed to roll
aside and he began to recall one by one the incidents that had preceded
his unconsciousness.

There had been a fight.  Some fight that was.  Huns all over the
place—in a ring around the rocks, up in the branches of the
trees—everywhere.  But he had held on until the Boches had started to
run when the American line advanced.  He remembered that the Engineers
could do other things besides build saps and bridges.  Good old
Engineers!  Something was wrong—somewhere.

Out of his clouded brain, slowly, the facts came to him—things that had
happened before the fight—just before.  Harry—his twin brother Harry,
lying in the ditch just behind Jim’s squad of Engineers, a coward, in a
blue funk—afraid to carry out his Major’s orders to go forward and
investigate.  A coward, of course!  Harry would be.  He had always been
a coward.

Jim Horton sighed, his mind, ambling weakly into vacancy, suddenly
arrested by a query.

_What else?_—What else had happened?  Something to do with the
remarkable likeness between himself and Harry?  The likeness,—so strong
that only their own mother had been able to tell them apart.

Memory came to him with a rush.  He remembered now what had happened in
the darkness, what he had done. Taken Harry’s lieutenant’s uniform,
giving the coward his own corporal’s outfit.  Then he, Jim Horton, had
gone on and carried out the Major’s orders, leaving the coward writhing
in the ditch.

By George!——the fight—he, Jim Horton, had won the victory at Boissière
Wood for the —th Infantry—_for Harry!—as Harry_!

Perhaps, he was really Harry and not Jim Horton at all?  He glanced
around him curiously, as though somewhat amused at the metempyschosis.
And then thoughtfully shook his head.

No.  He was Jim Horton, all right—Jim Horton. There was no mistake about
that.

But Harry!  Imagine meeting Harry in a situation like that after all
these years!  A coward!  Not that that was a very surprising thing.
Harry had always been a quitter. There was nothing that Harry could do
or be that wasn’t utterly despicable in the eyes of his brother Jim, and
after having spent the best part of five years trying to live the memory
of Harry down——

The nurse appeared silently and looked into Jim Horton’s eyes.  He
closed them a moment and then smiled at her.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better—lots better," he answered; "you see, I can really think——"

"I wouldn’t try to do that—not yet."

"Oh, I’m all right."  And the nurse was ready for the first time to
believe that her patient was to remain this side of the border line of
the dim realm into which she had seen so many go, for his eyes were
clear and he spoke with definite assurance.  But the question that he
asked made her dubious again.

"I say, nurse, would you mind telling me what my name is?"

She gazed at him a moment as though a little disappointed and then
replied quietly: "Lieutenant Henry G. Horton, of the —th Infantry."

"Oh," said the patient, "I see."

"I think you’d better sleep a while, then I want the Major to see you."

"Oh, don’t bother; I’m coming through all right, now. I’m sure of it.
But I want to tell you——"

The nurse silenced him gently, then felt his pulse and after another
glance at him moved to the next bed.  It had been a wonderful operation,
but then they couldn’t expect the impossible.

Jim Horton closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep.  With the shadow of
death still hovering over him, he was trying to think charitably of
Harry, of the man who had worked such havoc in the lives of those
nearest him.  The five years that had passed since the death of their
mother—poor, tired soul who until the end believed the whole thing a
mistake—could not have been fruitful in anything but evil in the life of
the reprobate twin-brother who had robbed the family of what had been
left of the estate and then fled away from the small town where they
lived to the gay lights of New York.  And now here he was—an officer of
the United States Army where commissions do not come without merit.
What did it mean?  Harry was always clever enough, too clever by half.
Had he quit drinking?  Was he living straight?  There seemed but one
answer to these questions, or he could not have held his job in the
army.  His job!  His commission wouldn’t last long if his commanding
officer knew what Jim Horton did.

They all thought that the patient in the hospital bed was Harry Horton,
a Lieutenant of the —th Infantry, The corporal had won the lieutenant
some glory, it seemed, instead of the ruin that awaited the discovery of
the cowardice and disobedience of orders.  But the substitution would be
discovered unless Jim Horton could find his brother Harry.  And how was
he going to manage that from his hospital bed?

A gentle perspiration exuded from Jim Horton’s pores. Being surrounded
by Boches in the wood was distinctly less hazardous than this.  And so
when the nurse returned with the Major, he did his best to straighten
out the tangle.  The Major was much pleased at the patient’s progress,
made a suggestion or two about a change in the treatment and was on the
point of turning away when Horton spoke.

"Would you mind, sir—just a word?"

"Of course.  Something bothering you?"

"Yes.  You see——" the patient hesitated again, his lip twisting, "this
whole thing is a mistake."

The doctor eyed the sick man narrowly.

"A mistake?"  And then kindly, "I don’t understand."

Horton frowned at the bed-rail.  "You see, sir, I’m not Henry G. Horton.
I—I’m somebody else."

He saw the nurse and the doctor exchange glances,

"Ah, well," said the medical man with a smile, "I wouldn’t bother about
it."

"But I _do_ bother about it, sir.  I’ve got to tell you. I’m another
man.  I changed uniforms with—with another fellow in the dark," he
finished uneasily.

The same look passed between nurse and surgeon and then he saw Miss
Newberry’s head move slightly from left to right.  The doctor rose.

"Oh, very well.  Don’t let it bother you, my man. We’ll get you all
untangled presently.  Just try not to think; you’re doing nicely."

And the Major moved slowly down the ward.

Jim Horton frowned at the medical officer’s broad back.

"Thinks I’m nutty," he muttered to himself, and then grinned.  The story
_was_ a little wild.

When the Major had left the ward, the nurse came back and smoothed
Horton’s pillow.  "You’re to be very quiet," she said gently, "and sleep
all you can."

"But, nurse," he protested, "I don’t want to sleep any more.  I told him
the truth.  I’ve taken another man’s place."

"You did it very well, from all accounts," she said with a smile; "and
you’ll take another man’s before long, they say."

"What do you mean?"

"Promotion," she laughed; "but you won’t get it if you have a relapse."

"I’m not going to have a relapse.  I’m all right.  Better every day, and
I’d like you to understand that I know exactly what I’m saying.  I took
another man’s job.  He was—was sick and I took his place.  I’m not
Lieutenant Horton, nurse."

"You may be whatever you please, if you’ll only go to sleep."

"Bless your heart!  That isn’t going to change my identity."

His positiveness rather startled her and made her pause and stare at him
soberly.  But in a moment her lips curved into a smile, rather tender
and sympathetic.  It wouldn’t do to let this illusion grow, so gently
she said: "Your authenticity is well vouched for.  The report of your
company Captain—the Sergeant-Major of your battalion. You see, you’ve
become rather a famous person in the —th.  I’ve seen some of your
papers, they’re all quite regular.  Even your identification disk.  It’s
here in the drawer with some other things that were in your pockets, so
please relax and sleep again, won’t you?  I mustn’t talk to you.  It’s
contrary to orders."

"But nurse——"

She patted him gently on the arm, put a warning finger to her lips, and
silently stole away.  His gaze followed her the length of the room until
she disappeared through the door when he sank back on his pillows with a
groan.

"Nutty!" he muttered to himself; "wonder if I am."  He touched the
bandage and realized that his head was beginning to throb again.  "No,
I’m Jim Horton all right, there’s no doubt about that, but how I’m going
to make these seraphic idiots believe it is more than I can see.  That
Sergeant!  And the men....  By George! And the Sergeant-Major.  Probably
looked me over at the dressing station.  Oh, Lord, what a mess!"

Things began whirling around and Jim Horton closed his eyes; he wasn’t
quite as strong as he thought he was, and after a while he slept again.

Downstairs in the Major’s office two surgeons and the nurse in charge
were discussing the case.

"Queer obsession that.  Thinks he’s another man.  There may be some
pressure there yet.  It ought to have cleared up by this."

"It’s shock, sir, I think.  He’ll come out of it.  He’s coming on, Miss
Newberry?"

"Splendidly.  That’s what I can’t understand.  He _looks_ as though he
knew what he was saying."

"Any chance of there being a mistake?"

"None at all, sir.  Doctor Rawson came down with him in the ambulance,
his own company captain was there when the patient was given first aid.
He would have known his own lieutenant, sir.  There can’t be any
mistake, but he has scarcely any fever——"

"Never mind, keep an extra eye on him.  The wound is healing nicely.
He’ll come through all right."

So Nurse Newberry returned to the ward, somewhat gratified to find her
charge again peacefully asleep.

The next day the patient did not revert to his obsession, but lay very
quiet looking out of the window.  His failure to reveal his secret left
him moody and thoughtful. But his temperature was normal and he was
without pain.

"You say there were some things in the pockets of—of my blouse," he
asked of the nurse.

"Yes, would you like to have them?"  The patient nodded and she gave
them to him, the identification disk, a wrist watch, some money, a
note-book and some papers. He looked them over in an abstracted way,
sinking back on his pillow at last, holding the letters in his hand.
Then at last as though coming to a difficult decision, he took one of
the letters out of its envelope and began reading.

It was in a feminine hand and added more heavily to the burden of his
responsibilities.


"Dear Harry" (it ran):

"I’m just back to my room, a wife of three hours with a honeymoon in a
railway station!  It all seems such a mistake—without even an old shoe
to bless myself with.  If I’ve helped you I’m glad of it.  But I’m not
going to lie just to square us two with the Almighty for the mockery
I’ve been through.  I don’t love you, Harry, and you know that. I did
what Dad asked me to do and I’d do it again if he asked me.

"He seems restless to-night, and talks about going back to Paris.  I
suppose I could do something over there for I’ve lost all impulse for my
work.  Perhaps we’ll come and then you could run up and see us.  I’ll
try to be nice to you, Harry, I will really.  You know there’s always
been something lacking in me.  I seem to have given everything to my
painting, so there’s very little left for you, which is the Irish in me
saying I’m a heartless hussy.

"Soon I’ll be sending you the pair of gray socks which I knitted with my
own hands.  They’re bunchy in spots and there’s a knot or two here and
there, but I hope you can wear them—for the Deil’s own time I had making
them.  Good-night. I suppose that I should be feeling proud at my
sacrifice; I don’t, somehow, but I’ll be feeling glad if you have
another bar to your shoulder.  That might make me proud, knowing that
I’d helped.

MOIRA."

"P. S.  Don’t be getting killed or anything; I never wanted to marry
anybody but I don’t want you done away with. Besides, I’ve a horror of
crêpe.

M."


Jim Horton read the letter through furtively with a growing sense of
intrusion.  It was like listening at a confessional or peering through a
keyhole.  And somehow its ingenuous frankness aroused his interest.
Harry had been married to this girl who didn’t love him and she had
consented because her father had wanted her to.  He felt unaccountably
indignant on her account against Harry and the father.  Pretty
name—Moira!  Like something out of a book.  She seemed to breathe both
youth and hope tinged horribly with regret.  He liked her handwriting
which had dashed into her thoughts impulsively, and he also liked the
slight scent of sachet which still clung to the paper.  He liked the
girl better, pitied her the more, because her instinct had been so
unerring.  If she had thrown herself away she had done it with her eyes
wide open.  A girl who could make such a sacrifice from lofty motives,
would hardly condone the thing that Harry had been guilty of.  A
coward....

There was another letter, of a much later date, in a masculine hand.
Jim Horton hesitated for a moment! and then took it out of its envelope.


"Harry boy," he read, "so far as I can see at this writing the whole
thing has gone to the demnition bow-wows. Suddenly, without a
by-your-leave, the money stopped coming. I wrote de V. and cabled, but
the devil of a reply did he give. So I’m coming to Paris with Moira at
once and it looks as though we’d have to put the screws on.  But I’d be
feeling better if the papers were all ship-shape and Bristol fashion.
You’ll have to help.  Maybe the uniform will turn the odd trick.  If it
don’t we’ll find some way.

"I feel guilty as Hell about Moira.  If you ever make her unhappy I’ll
have the blood of your heart.  But I’m hoping that the love will come if
you play the game straight with her.

"Meanwhile we’ll feather the nest if we can.  He’s got to ’come across.’
There’s some agency working against us—and I’ve got to be on the scene
to ferret—_instanter_.  Moira got some portraits to do or we wouldn’t
have had the wherewithal for the passage.  As it is, I’ll be having to
make the move with considerable skill, leaving some obligations behind.
But it can’t be helped, and Moira won’t know.  The world is but a poor
place for the man who doesn’t make it give him a living.  Mine has been
wretched enough, God knows, and the whisky one buys over the bar in New
York is an insult to an Irishman’s intelligence, to say nothing of being
a plague upon his vitals.

"Enough of this.  Come to the Rue de Tavennes, No. 7, in your next
furlough, and we’ll make a move.  By that time I’ll have a plan.  Moira
sends her love.

"Yours very faithfully,
       "BARRY QUINLEVIN.

P. S.  There was a pretty squall brewing over the Stamford affair, but I
reefed sail and weathered it.  So you can sleep in peace.

B. Q."


Jim Horton lay for a while thinking and then read the two letters again.
The masculine correspondent was the girl’s father.  Barry Quinlevin, it
seemed, was a scoundrel of sorts—and the girl adored him.  Many of the
passages in the letter were mystifying.  Who was de V——?  And what was
Harry’s connection with this affair?  It was none of Jim Horton’s
business, but in spite of himself he began feeling an intense sympathy
for the girl Moira, who was wrapped in the coils of what seemed on its
face to be an ugly intrigue, if it wasn’t something worse.

Strange name, Quinlevin.  It was Moira’s name too, Irish.  The phrase
about having Harry’s heart’s blood showed that Barry Quinlevin wasn’t
beyond compunctions about the girl.  But why had he connived at this
loveless marriage?  There must have been a reason for that.

Jim Morton put the letters in the drawer and gave the problem up.  It
wasn’t his business whom Harry had married or why.  The main thing was
to get well and out of the hospital so that he could find his brother
and set the tangle straight.

He couldn’t imagine just how the substitution was to be accomplished,
but if Harry had played the game there was a chance that it might yet be
done.  He didn’t want Harry’s job.  And he silently cursed himself for
the unfortunate impetuous moment that had brought about all the trouble.
But how had he known that he was going to be hit?  If he had only
succeeded in getting back to the spot where Harry was waiting for him,
no one would ever have been the wiser.  No one knew now, but of course
the masquerade couldn’t last forever.  The situation was impossible.

Meanwhile what was Harry doing?  Had he succeeded in playing out the
game during Jim Horton’s sickness, or had he found himself in a tight
place and quit?  It would have been easy enough.  Horton shivered
slightly. Desertion, flight, ignominy, disgrace.  And it wasn’t Harry
Horton’s good name that would be in question, but his own, that of Jim
Horton, Corporal of Engineers. As a name, it didn’t stand for much yet,
even out in Kansas City, but he had never done anything to dishonor it
and he didn’t want the few friends he had to think of him as a quitter.
Nobody had ever accused him of being that.  What a fool he had been to
take such a chance for a man like Harry!

In the midst of these troublesome meditations, he was aware of Nurse
Newberry approaching from the end of the ward.  Following her were two
people who stopped at his bed, a man and a girl.  The man was strong,
with grizzled hair, a bobbed Imperial and a waxed mustache. The girl had
black hair and slate-blue eyes.  And even as Jim Horton stared at them,
he was aware of the man confidently approaching and taking his hand.

"Well, Harry, don’t you know me?" a voice said. "Rather hazy, eh?  I
don’t wonder...."

Who the devil were these people?  There must be a mistake.  Jim Horton
mumbled something.  The visitor’s eyes were very dark brown shot with
tiny streaks of yellow and he looked like an amiable satyr.

"I’ve brought Moira—thought ye’d like to see her."

The patient started—then recovered himself.  He had forgotten the lapse
of time since the letters had been written.

"Moira," he muttered.

The girl advanced slowly as the man made place.  Her expression had been
serious, but as she came forward she smiled softly.

"Harry," she was whispering, as he stared at her loveliness, "don’t you
know me?"

"Moira!" he muttered weakly.  "I’m not——"  But his hands made no
movement toward her and a warm flush spread over the part of his face
that was visible.

"You’ve been very sick, Harry.  But we came as soon as they’d let us.
And you’re going to get well, thank the Holy Virgin, and then——"

"I’m not——" the words stuck in Jim Horton’s throat. And he couldn’t
utter them.

"You’re not what?" she questioned anxiously.

Another pause of uncertainty.

"I—I’m not—very strong yet," he muttered weakly, turning his head to one
side.

And as he said it, he knew that in sheer weakness of fiber, spiritual as
well as physical, he had made a decision.

The Satyr behind her laughed softly.

"Naturally," he said, "but ye’re going to be well very soon."

They were both looking at him and something seemed to be required of
him.  So with an effort,

"How long—how long have you been in France?" he asked.

"Only three weeks," said Quinlevin, "watching the bulletins daily for
news of you.  I found out a week ago, but they wouldn’t let us in until
to-day.  And we can stay only five minutes."

Then Moira spoke again, with a different note in her voice.

"Are you glad that I came?" she asked.  "It was the least I could do."

"Glad!"

The word seemed sufficient.  Jim Horton seemed glad to utter it.  If she
would only recognize the imposture and relieve him of the terrible
moment of confession.  But she didn’t.  She had accepted him as
Quinlevin, as all the others had done, for his face value, without a
sign of doubt.

And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes
snapping benevolence.

"If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she’ll sure be worshiping ye."

Jim Horton’s gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue
eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown
puckered the white forehead.  And when she spoke again, her voice
uttered the truth that was in her heart.

"One cannot deny valor," she said coolly.  "It is the greatest thing in
the world."

She wanted no misunderstandings.  She only wanted Harry Horton to know
that love was not for her or for him.  The fakir under the bed clothes
understood.  She preferred to speak of valor.  Valor!  If she only knew!

Jim Horton gathered courage.  If he wasn’t to tell the truth he would
have to play his part.

"Everybody is brave—out there," he said, with a gesture.

"But not brave enough for mention," said Quinlevin genially.  "It won’t
do, Harry boy.  A hero ye were and a hero ye’ll remain."

Horton felt the girl’s calm gaze upon his face.

"I’m so glad you’ve made good, Harry.  I am.  And I want you to believe
it."

"Thanks," he muttered.

Why did she gaze at him so steadily?  It almost seemed as though she had
read his secret.  He hoped that she had.  It would have simplified
things enormously.  But she turned away with a smile.

"You’re to come to us, of course, as soon as they let you out," she said
quietly.

"Well, rather," laughed Quinlevin.

The nurse had approached and the girl Moira had moved to the foot of the
bed.  Barry Quinlevin paused a moment, putting a slip of paper in
Horton’s hand.

"Well, _au revoir_, old lad.  In a few days again——"

The wounded man’s gaze followed the girl.  She smiled back once at him
and then followed the nurse down the ward.  Jim Horton sank back into
his pillows with a gasp.

"Well—now you’ve done it.  Now you _have_ gone and done it," he
muttered.




                              *CHAPTER II*

                         *THE MYSTERY DEEPENS*


In a courageous moment, a day or so later, the patient requested Nurse
Newberry to try to get what information she could as to the whereabouts
of his cousin, Corporal James Horton, B Company, —th Engineers, and
waited with some impatience and anxiety the result of her inquiries.
She discovered that Corporal James Horton had been last seen in the
fight for Boissière Wood, but was now reported as missing.

Missing!

The blank expression on the face of her patient was rather pitiful.

"It probably means that he’s a prisoner.  He may be all right.  H.Q. is
pretty cold-blooded with its information."

But the patient knew that Corporal Horton wasn’t a prisoner.  If he was
missing, it was because he had gone to the rear—nothing less than a
deserter.  Nevertheless the information, even indefinite as it was,
brought him comfort.  He clung rather greedily to its very
indefiniteness. In the eyes of the army or of the world "missing" meant
"dead" or "prisoner," and until Harry revealed himself, the good name of
the corporal of Engineers was safe.  That was something.

And the information brought the wounded man abruptly to the point of
realizing that he was now definitely committed to play the role he had
unwittingly chosen.  He had done his best to explain, but they hadn’t
listened to him.  And when confronted with the only witnesses whose
opinions seemed to matter (always excepting Harry himself), he had
miserably failed in carrying out his first intentions.  He tried to
think of the whole thing as a joke, but he found himself confronted with
possibilities which were far from amusing.

The slate-blue Irish eyes of Harry’s war-bride haunted him.  They were
eyes meant to be tender and yet were not.  Her fine lips were meant for
the full throated laughter of happiness, and yet had only wreathed in
faint uncertain smiles.

Barry Quinlevin was a less agreeable figure to contemplate.  If Jim
Horton hadn’t read his letter to Harry he would have found it easier to
be beguiled by the man’s genial air of good fellowship and sympathy, but
he couldn’t forget the incautious phrases of that communication, and
having first formed an unfavorable impression, found no desire to
correct it.

To his surprise it was Moira who came the following week to the hospital
at Neuilly on visitors’ day.  Jim Horton had decided on a course of
action, but when she approached his bed, all redolent with the joy of
out of doors, he quite forgot what he meant to say to her.  In Moira,
too, he seemed to feel an effort to do her duty to him with a good
grace, which almost if not quite effaced the impression of her earlier
visit.  She took his thin hand in her own for a moment while she
examined him with a kindly interest, which he repaid with a fraternal
smile.

"Father sent me in his place," she said.  "I’ve put him to bed with a
cold."

"I’m so glad——" said Horton, and then stopped with a short laugh.  "I
mean—I’m glad you’re here.  I’m sorry he’s ill.  Nothing serious?"

"Oh, no.  He’s a bit run down, that’s all.  And you—you’re feeling
better?"

He liked the soft way she slithered over the last syllable.

"Oh, yes—of course."

All the while he felt her level gaze upon him, cool and intensely
serious.

"You are out of danger entirely, they tell me.  I see they’ve taken the
bandage off."

"Yesterday," he said.  "I’m coming along very fast."

"I’m glad."

"They promise before long that I can get out into the air in a
wheel-chair."

"That will do you all the good in the world."

In spite of himself, he knew that his eyes were regarding her too
intently, noting the well modeled nose, the short upper lip, firm red
mouth and resolute chin, all tempered with the softness of youth and
exquisite femininity.  He saw her chin lowered slightly as her gaze
dropped and turned aside while the slightest possible compression of her
lips indicated a thought in which he could have no share.

"I have brought you some roses," she said quietly.

"They are very beautiful.  They will remind me of you until you come
again."

The sudden raising of her eyes as she looked at him over the blossoms
was something of a revelation, for they smiled at him with splendid
directness.

"You _are_ improving," she laughed, "or you’ve a Blarney Stone under the
pillow.  I can’t remember when you’ve said anything so nice as that at
all."

He was thoughtful for a moment.

"Perhaps I have a new vision," he said at last.  "The bullet in my head
may have helped.  It has probably affected my optic nerve."

She smiled with him.

"You really do seem different, somehow," she broke in. "I can’t exactly
explain it.  Perhaps it’s the pallor that makes the eyes look dark and
your voice—it’s softer—entirely."

"Really——!" he muttered, uncomfortably, his gaze on the gray blanket.
"Well, you see, I suppose it’s what I’ve been through.  My eyes _would_
seem darker, wouldn’t they, against white, and then my voice—er—it isn’t
very strong yet."

"Yes, that’s it," she replied.

Her eyes daunted him from his purpose a little, and he knew that he
would have to use extreme caution, but he had resolved whatever came to
see the game through. After all, if she discovered his secret, it was
only what he had tried in vain to tell her.

"I’m sure of it," he went on.  "When a fellow comes as near death as
I’ve been, it makes him different.  I seem to think in a new way about a
lot of things—you, for instance."

"Me——?"  He fancied that there was a hard note in her voice, a little
toss, scarcely perceptible, of the rounded chin.

"Yes.  You see, you oughtn’t ever to have married me. You’re too good
for me.  I’m just a plain rotter and you—oh, what’s the use?"

He paused, hoping that she would speak.  She did, after a silence and a
shrug.

"Father wanted it.  It was one way of paying what he owed you.  I don’t
know how much that was, but I’m still thinking I went pretty cheap."
She halted abruptly and then went on coolly, "I didn’t come here to be
thinking unpleasant thoughts—or to be uttering them.  So long as we
understand each other——"

"We do," he put in eagerly, almost appealingly.  "I want you to believe
that I have no claim upon you—that my—my relations with Barry Quinlevin
will have nothing to do with you."

"And if I fell in love with another man—  That never seems to have
occurred to either of you——"

He laughed her soberness aside.  "As far as I’m concerned, divorce or
suicide.  I’ll leave the choice to you."

He gained his purpose, which was to bring the smile to her lips again.

"Your wounds have inoculated you with a sense of humor, at any rate,"
she said, fingering the roses.  "You’ve always been lacking in that, you
know."

"I feel that I can laugh at them now.  But it might have been better for
you if I hadn’t come out of the ether."

"No.  I don’t like your saying that.  I haven’t the slightest intention
of falling in love with any man at all. I shan’t be wanting to
marry—really marry——" she added, coloring a little.  "I’ve begun my
work.  It needed Paris again.  And I’m going to succeed.  You’ll see."

"I haven’t a doubt of it.  You were made for success—and for happiness."

"Sure and I think that I was—now that you mention it," she put in
quaintly.

"I won’t bother you.  You can be certain of that," he finished
positively.  And then cautiously, "Things have not gone
well—financially, I mean?"

"No.  And of course father’s worried about it.  Our income from Ireland
has stopped coming—something about repairs, he says.  But then, I
suppose we will get it again some day.  Dad never did tell me anything,
you know."

Horton thought for a moment.

"He doesn’t want to worry you, of course.  And you oughtn’t to be
worried.  Things will come out all right."

"I intend that they shall.  Father always gave me the best when he had
it.  I’ll see that he doesn’t suffer now."

"But that’s my job, Moira.  We’ll get some money together—some way—when
I get out."

"Thanks.  But I’m hoping to do a lot of painting. I’ve got one portrait
to begin on—and it doesn’t cost much in the Quartier."

Horton sat up in bed and looked out of the window.

"I’ll get money," he said.  "Don’t you worry."

He saw her eyes studying him quietly and he sank back at once in bed out
of the glare of the sunlight.  He wondered if he had gone too far.  But
he had found out one of the things that he had wanted to know.  She knew
nothing of what Barry Quinlevin was doing.

Her next remark was disquieting.

"It’s very strange, the way I’m thinking about you. You’ve grown
different in the army—or is it the sickness? There’s a sweeter look to
your mouth, and a firmer turn to your jaw.  Your gaze is wider and your
heart has grown soft, with the suffering.  It’s like another man, I’m
seeing somehow, Harry, and I’m glad."

"Suffering—yes, perhaps," he muttered.

She leaned forward impulsively and put her hand over his, smiling
brightly at him.

"We’ll be good friends now, alanah.  I’m sure of it."

"You like me a little better——?"

"Sure and I wouldn’t be sitting here holding hands if I didn’t," she
laughed.  Then with a quick glance at her wrist watch she rose.  "And
now I must be going back to father.  Here is the nurse.  Time is up."

"You will come soon again?" he asked slowly.

"Yes—with better news, I hope.  _Au revoir, mon brave_."

And she was gone.

The visit gave him more food for thought.  But he hadn’t learned much.
What he did know now was that the girl Moira trusted Barry Quinlevin
implicitly and that he had managed to keep her in ignorance as to the
real sources of his livelihood.  The Irish rents had failed to reach
them!  Were there any Irish rents?  And if so, what had "de V" to do
with them?  He took Quinlevin’s letter from under the pillow and re-read
it carefully.  Nothing about Irish rents there.  Perhaps other letters
had followed, that Harry had destroyed.  In any case he would have to
play the game carefully with the girl’s father or Quinlevin would find
him out before Horton discovered what he wanted to know.  The quiet eyes
of the girl Moira disturbed him.  Her eyes, her intuitions, were shrewd,
yet he had succeeded so far.  If he could pass muster with the daughter,
why shouldn’t he succeed with the father?  The weakness, the failing
memory of a sick man, could be trusted to bridge difficulties.  If there
had only been a few more letters he would have been better equipped for
the interview with Barry Quinlevin, which must soon follow.  He inquired
of Miss Newberry, but she had given him everything that had been found
in his uniform.  He scrutinized the notebook carefully, which contained
only an expense account, some addresses in Paris, and a few military
notes, and so he discarded it.  It seemed that until Quinlevin came to
the hospital "de V" must remain one of the unsolved mysteries of his
versatile brother.

But Moira’s innocence, while it failed to enlighten him as to the
mystery, made him more certain that her loveless marriage with Harry had
something to do with the suspected intrigue.  Did Harry love the girl?
It seemed scarcely possible that any man who was half a man could be
much with her without loving her.  It wasn’t like Harry to marry any
girl unless he had something to gain by it.  The conversation he had
just had with Moira showed exactly the relationship between them, if he
had needed any further evidence than her letter.

As to his own personal relations with Moira, he found it necessary to
fortify himself against a more than strictly fraternal interest in her
personality.  She was extremely agreeable to look at and he had to admit
that her very presence had cheered up his particular part of the
hospital ward amazingly.  Her quaintness, her quiet directness and her
modest demeanor, were inherent characteristics, but they could not
disguise the overflowing vitality and humor that struggled against the
limitations she had imposed.  Her roses, which Nurse Newberry had
arranged in a bowl by the bedside, were unnecessary reminders of the
giver.  Like them, she was fragrant, pristine and beautiful—altogether a
much-to-be-desired sister-in-law.

The visit of Barry Quinlevin was not long delayed and Jim Horton
received him in his wheel chair by an open window in the convalescent
ward.  He came in with a white silk handkerchief tied about his neck,
but barring a husky voice showed no ill effects of his indisposition. He
was an amiable looking rogue, and if the shade of Whistler will forgive
me, resembled much that illustrious person in all the physical graces.
It would be quite easy to imagine that Barry Quinlevin could be quite as
dangerous an enemy.

"Well, Harry boy, here I am," he announced, throwing open his coat with
something of an air, and loosening his scarf.  "No worse than the devil
made me.  And ye’re well again, they tell me, or so near it that ye’re
no longer interesting."

"Stronger every day," replied Horton cautiously.

"Then we can have a talk, maybe, without danger of it breaking the
spring in yer belfry?"

"Ah, yes,—but I’m a bit hazy at times," added Horton.

"Well, when the fog comes down, say the word and I’ll be going."

"Don’t worry.  I want to hear the news."

Quinlevin frowned at his walking stick.  "It’s little enough, God
knows."  Then glanced toward the invalid at the next window and lowered
his voice a trifle.

"The spalpeen says not a word—or he’s afflicted with pen-paralysis, for
I’ve written him three times—twice since I reached Paris, giving him the
address.  So we’ll have to make a move."

"What will you do?"

"Go to see him—or you can.  At first, ye see, I thought maybe he’d gone
away or died or something.  But I watched the Hôtel de Vautrin in the
Rue de Bac until I saw him with my own eyes.  That’s how I took this
bronchitis—in the night air with devil a drink within a mile of me.  I
saw him, I tell you, as hale and hearty as ye please, and debonair like
a new laid egg, with me, Barry Quinlevin, in the rain, not four paces
from the carriage way."

The visitor paused as though for a comment, and Horton offered it.

"He didn’t see you?"

"Devil a one of me.  For the moment I thought of bracing him then and
there.  But I didn’t—though I was reduced to a small matter of a hundred
francs or so."

"Things are as bad as that——?"

Quinlevin shrugged.  "I bettered myself a bit the next night and I’ll
find a way——"

He broke off with a shrug.

"But I’m not going to be wasting my talents on the little officer-boys
in Guillaume’s.  Besides, ’twould be most unpatriotic.  I’m out for
bigger game, me son, that spells itself in seven figures.  Nothing less
than a _coup d’état_ will satisfy the ambitions of Barry Quinlevin!"

"Well?" asked Horton shrewdly.

"For the present ye’re to stay where ye are, till yer head is as tight
as a drum, giving me the benefit of yer sage advice.  We’ll worry along.
The rent of the apartment and studio is a meager two hundred francs and
the food—well, we will eat enough.  And Moira has some work to do.  But
we can’t be letting the Duc forget I’ve ever existed.  A man with a
reputation in jeopardy and twenty millions of francs, you’ll admit, is
not to be found growing on every mulberry bush."

Horton nodded.  It _was_ blackmail then.  The Duc de Vautrin——

"You wrote that you had a plan," he said.  "What is it?"

Barry Quinlevin waved a careless hand.

"Fair means, as one gentleman uses to another, if he explains his
negligence and remits the small balance due. Otherwise, we’ll have to
squeeze him.  A letter from a good lawyer—if it wasn’t for the testimony
of Nora Burke!"

He was silent in a moment of puzzled retrospection and his glittering
generalities only piqued Jim Horton’s curiosity, so that his eagerness
led him into an error that nearly undid him.

"Nora Burke——" he put in slowly.

"I wrote ye what happened——"

"I couldn’t have received the letter——"

He stopped abruptly, for Quinlevin was staring at him in astonishment.

"Then how the devil could ye have answered it?"

Horton covered the awkward moment by closing his eyes and passing his
fingers across his brow.

"Answered it!  Funny I don’t remember."

The Irishman regarded him a moment soberly, and then smiled in
deprecation.

"Of course—ye’ve slipped a cog——"

Then suddenly he clapped a hand on Horton’s knee.

"Why, man alive,—Nora Burke—the Irish nurse who provides the necessary
testimony—Moira’s nurse, d’ye mind, when she was a baby, who saw the
Duc’s child die—now do ye remember——?"

Horton ran his fingers over his hair thoughtfully and bent his head
again.

"Nora Burke—Moira’s nurse—who saw the Duc’s child die," he repeated
parrot-like, "and the Duc—de Vautrin——" he muttered and paused.

"Thinks his child by this early marriage is still alive——" said
Quinlevin, regarding him dubiously.

"Yes, yes," said Horton eagerly.  "It’s coming back to me now.  And de
Vautrin’s money——"

"He’ll pay through the nose to keep the thing quiet—unless——"

Barry Quinlevin paused.

"Unless—what?"

There was a moment of silence in which the visitor frowned out of the
window.

"I don’t like the look of things, I tell ye, Harry. Ye’re in no fit
shape to help ’til the fog clears up, but I’ve a mind that somebody’s
slipped a finger into the pie. Nora Burke wants more money—five hundred
pounds to tell a straight story and where I’m going to get it—the devil
himself only knows."

"Nora Burke—five hundred pounds!" muttered Horton vaguely, for he was
thinking deeply, "that’s a lot of money."

"Ye’re right—when ye haven’t got it.  And de Vautrin’s shutting down at
the same time.  It looks suspicious, I tell ye."

He broke off and fixed his iridescent gaze on Horton. "Ye’re sure ye
said nothing to any one in Paris before ye went to the front?"

Of this at least Jim Horton was sure.

"Nothing," he replied.

"Not to Piquette Morin?"

Here was dangerous ground again.

"Nothing," he repeated slowly, "nothing."

"And ye wouldn’t be remembering it if ye had," said Quinlevin peevishly
as he rose.  "Oh, well—I’ll have to raise this money some way or go to
Galway to put the gag on Nora Burke until we play the trick——"

"I—I’m sorry I can’t help——" said Horton, "but you see—I’m not——"

"Oh, yes, I see," said Quinlevin more affably.  "I shouldn’t be
bothering ye so soon, but may the devil take me if I know which way to
turn."

"Will you see de Vautrin?"

"Perhaps.  But I may go to Ireland first.  I’ve got to do some
thinking—alone.  Good bye.  Ye’re not up to the mark.  Be careful when
Moira comes, or ye may let the cat out of the bag.  D’ye hear?"

"Don’t worry—I won’t," said Horton soberly.

He watched the tall figure of Quinlevin until it disappeared into the
outer hall and then turned a frowning gaze out of the window.




                             *CHAPTER III*

                              *THE GOOSE*


Jim Horton had had a narrow escape from discovery. But in spite of his
precarious position and the pitfalls that seemed to lay to right and
left, he had become, if anything, more determined than ever to follow
the fate to which he had committed himself.  There now seemed no doubt
that Moira was in all innocence involved in some way in the blackmailing
scheme which had been the main source of livelihood for the Quinlevin
family for many years.  And Moira did not know, for the Duc de Vautrin,
of course, was the source of the Irish rents to which she had alluded.
And now he was refusing to pay.

It was clear that something unpleasant hung in the air, an ill wind for
the Duc de Vautrin and for the plotters, Moira’s father and Jim Horton’s
precious brother. And it seemed quite necessary in the interests of
honesty that he, Jim Horton, should remain for the present in the game
and divert if possible the currents of evil which encompassed his
interesting sister-in-law.

One thing he had learned—that by taking refuge behind the barriers of
his failing memory, it might be possible to keep up the deception, at
least until he was out of the hospital and a crisis of some sort came to
relieve him of his responsibility.  Indeed there was something most
agreeable in the friendly regard of his brother’s loveless wife, and
under other circumstances, the calls of this charming person would have
been the source of unalloyed delight.  For as the days passed, more and
more she threw off the restraint of her earlier visits and they had now
reached a relationship of understanding and good-fellowship, most
delightful and unusual in its informality.

Jim Horton was progressing rapidly and except for occasional lapses of
memory, easily explained and perfectly understood by his visitors,
gained health and strength until it was no longer a question of weeks
but of days when he should be able to leave the hospital and accept the
invitation of his newly discovered relatives to visit the studio
apartment.  He had made further efforts through the hospital authorities
to find some trace of the missing man but without success, and in
default of any definite plan of action chose to follow the line of least
resistance until something should happen.  Barry Quinlevin visited him
twice, but spoke little of the affair of the Duc de Vautrin which it
seemed was being held in abeyance for the moment, preferring to wait
until the brain and body of the injured man could help him to plan and
to execute.  And Jim Horton, finding that safety lay in silence or
fatigue, did little further to encourage his confidences.

Thus it was that after several weeks he impatiently awaited Moira
outside the hospital.  It was a gorgeous afternoon of blue and gold with
the haze of Indian Summer hanging lazily over the peaceful autumn
landscape. An aromatic odor of burning leaves was in the air and about
him aged men and women worked in road and garden as though the alarms of
war had never come to their ears.  The signing of the armistice, which
had taken place while Horton was still in his bed, had been the cause of
much quiet joy throughout the hospital.  But with the return of health,
Jim Horton had begun wondering what effect the peace was to have upon
his strange fortunes—and upon Harry’s.  He knew that for the present he
had been granted a furlough which he was to spend with the Quinlevins in
Paris, but after that, what was to happen?  He was a little dubious too
about his relations with Moira....  But when he saw her coming down the
path to the open air pavilion with Nurse Newberry, all flushed with the
prospect of carrying him off in triumph in the ancient fiacre from which
she had descended, he could not deny a thrill of pleasure that was not
all fraternal.

"Behold, _mon ami_," she cried in greeting, "I’ve come to take you
prisoner."

He laughed gayly as he took her hand.

"And there’s a goose in the pantry, bought at a fabulous price, just
waiting for the pan——"

"Be sure you don’t kill your prisoner with kindness," put in Nurse
Newberry.

"I’ll take that risk," said Horton genially.

"Sure and he must," put in Moira.  "It isn’t every day one brings a
conquering hero home."

"Especially when he’s your husband," said the artless Miss Newberry
wistfully.

Jim Horton had a glimpse of the color that ran like a flame up Moira’s
throat to her brow but he glanced quickly away and busied himself with a
buckle at his belt.

"I want to thank you, Miss Newberry," he said soberly, "for all that
you’ve done for me.  I’ll never forget."

"Nor I, Lieutenant Horton.  But you’re in better hands than mine now.  A
week or so and you’ll be as strong as ever."

"I’ve never felt better in my life," he replied.

They moved toward the conveyance, shook hands with the nurse, and with
Harry’s baggage (which had just been sent down from regimental
headquarters) upon the box beside the rubicund and rotund cocher, they
drove out of the gates and toward the long finger of the Eiffel Tower
which seemed to be beckoning to them across the blue haze above the roof
tops.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.  In the ward, in the convalescent
rooms or even in the grounds of the hospital, Moira had been a visitor
with a mission of charity and cheer.  Here in the _fiacre_ the basis of
their relationship seemed suddenly and quite mysteriously to change.
Whether Moira felt it or not he did not know, for she looked out of her
window at the passing scene and her partly averted profile revealed
nothing of her thoughts.  But the fact that they were for the first time
really alone and driving to Moira’s Paris apartment gave him a qualm of
guilt on account of the impossible situation that he had created.  He
had, he thought, shown her deep gratitude and respect—and had succeeded
in winning the friendship that Harry had perhaps taken too much for
granted.  It had given Jim Horton pleasure to think that Moira now
really liked him for himself alone, and the whole-heartedness of her
good fellowship had given him every token of her spirit of conciliation.
She had had her moods of reserve before, like the one of her present
silence, but the abundance of her vitality and sense of humor had
responded unconsciously to his own and they had drawn closer with the
artless grace of two children thrown upon their own resources.  And now,
here in the ramshackle vehicle, for the first time alone, Jim Horton
would have very much liked to take her by the hand (which lay most
temptingly upon the seat beside him) and tell her the truth.  But that
meant Harry’s disgrace—the anguish of her discovering that such a
friendship as this with her own husband could never be; for in her eyes
Jim Horton had seen her own courage and a contempt for all things that
Harry was or could ever hope to be.  And so, with an effort he folded
his arms resolutely and stared out of his window.

It was then that her voice recalled him.

"Can’t you smell that goose, Harry dear?" she said.

He flashed a quick smile at her.

"Just can’t I!" he laughed.

"And you’re to help me cook it—and vegetables and coffee.  You know"—she
finished, "nothing ever tastes quite so good as when you cook it
yourself."

"And you do all the cooking——?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Sometimes—but more often we go to a café.  Sometimes Madame Toupin
helps, the _concierge_—but father thinks my cooking is the best."

"I don’t doubt it.  I shall, too."  And then, "where is your father
to-day?"

She looked at him, eyes wide as though suddenly reminded.

"I forgot," she gasped.  "He asked me to tell you that he was obliged to
be leaving for Ireland—about the Irish rents.  Isn’t it tiresome?"

"Oh," said Horton quietly.  "I see."

He turned his thoughtful gaze out of the carriage window into the Avenue
de Neuilly.  The situation had its charm, but he had counted on the
presence of Barry Quinlevin.

"How long will he be gone?" he asked.

"I don’t know," she replied, "a week or more perhaps. But I’ll try to
make you comfortable.  I’ve wanted so to have everything nice."

He smiled at her warmth.  "You forget that—that I’ve learned to be a
soldier, Moira.  A blanket on the floor of the studio and I’ll be as
happy as a king——"

"No.  You shall have the best that there is—the very best—_mon ami_——"

"I don’t propose to let you work for me, Moira.  I can get some money.
I can find a _pension_ somewhere near and——"

She turned toward him suddenly, her eyes very close to tears.  "Do you
wish to make me unhappy—when I’ve tried so hard to—to——"

"Moira!"  He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, "I didn’t
mean——"

"I’ve wanted so for you to forget how unkind I had been to you—to make
this seem like a real homecoming after all you’ve been through.  And now
to hear you talking of going to a _pension_——"

"Moira—I thought it might be inconvenient—that it might be more pleasant
for you——"

He broke down miserably.  She released her fingers gently and turned
away.  "Sure Alanah, and I think that I should be the judge of that,"
she said.

"We’ll say no more about it," he muttered.  "But I—I’m very grateful."

Moira’s lips wreathed into an adorable smile.

"I’ve been thinking the war has done something to you, Harry.  And now
I’m sure of it.  You’ve been learning to think of somebody beside
yourself."

"I’d be pretty rotten if I hadn’t learned to do some thinking about
_you_," he said, as he looked into her eyes with more hardihood than
wisdom.

She met his gaze for the fraction of a minute and then raised her chin
and laughed merrily up at the broad back of the cocher.

"Yes, you’ve changed, Harry dear.  God knows how or why—but you’ve
changed.  You’ll be paying me some compliments upon my pulchritude and
heavenly virtues by and by."

"Why shouldn’t I?" he insisted soberly when her laughter subsided.
"Your loveliness is only the outward and visible sign of the inward and
spiritual grace.  I’m so sure of it that I don’t care whether you laugh
or not."

"Am I lovely?  You think so?  Well—it’s nice to hear even if it only
makes conversation.  Also that my nose is not so bad, even if it does
turn piously to Heaven—but there’s a deep dent in my chin which means
that I’ve got a bit of the devil in me—bad cess to him—so that you’d
better do just what I want you to—or we’ll have a falling out.  And that
would be a pity—because of the goose."

He laughed as gayly as she had done.

"I’ve a notion, Moira," he said, "that it’s my goose you’re going to
cook."

"And I’ve a notion," she said poising a slim gloved finger for a second
upon his knee, "I’ve a notion that we’re both going to cook him."

It seemed too much like a prophecy to be quite to his liking.  Her moods
were Protean and her rapid transitions bewildered.  And yet, under them
all, he realized how sane she was, how honest with him and with herself
and how free from any guile.  She trusted him entirely as one good
friend would trust another and the thought of any evil coming to her
through his strange venture into Harry’s shoes made him most unhappy.
But her pretty dream of a husband with whom she could at least be on
terms of friendship must some day come to an end ... And yet ... suppose
the report that Harry was missing meant that he was dead.  A bit of
shrapnel—a bullet—he didn’t wish it—but that chance was within the range
of the possible.

They had passed down the avenue of the Grande Armée, into the place de
l’Étoile, and were now in the magnificent reaches of the Champs Élysées.
Jim Horton had only been in Paris for five hours between trains, little
more than long enough to open an account at a bank, but Moira chattered
on gayly with the point of view of an _intime_, showing him the places
which they must visit together, throwing in a word of history here, an
incident or adventure there, giving the places they passed, the
personality of her point of view, highly tinged with the artist’s
idealism.  From her talk he gathered that she had lived much in Paris
during all her student days and except for the little corner in Ireland
where she had been born and which she had visited from time to time,
loved it better than any place in the world.

"And I shall teach you to speak French, Harry—the real _argot_ of the
_Quartier_—and you shall love it as I do——"

"I do speak it a little already," he ventured.

"Really!  And who was your instructress?"

The dropping intonation was sudden and very direct.

Jim Horton looked out of the window.  He was sure that Harry wouldn’t
have been able to meet her gaze.

"No one," he muttered, "at least no girl.  That’s the truth.  We had
books and things."

"Oh," she finished dryly.

Her attitude in this matter was a revelation.  The incident seemed to
clarify their relations and in a new way, for in a moment she was
conversing again in a manner most unconcerned.  Friendly she might be
with Harry for the sake of the things that he had accomplished,
companionable and kind for the sake of the things he had suffered, but
as for any deeper feeling—-that was another matter.  Moira was no fool.

But at least she trusted him now.  She dared to trust him.  Otherwise,
why did she conduct him with such an air of unconcern to the apartment
in the Rue de Tavennes?  But he couldn’t be unaware of the alertness in
her unconcern, an occasional quick and furtive side glance which showed
that, however friendly, she was still on her guard.  Perhaps she wanted
to study this newly-discovered Harry at closer range.  But why had she
chosen the venture?  He had given her her chance.  Why had she refused
to take it?

The answers to these questions were still puzzling him when they drove
up the hill by the Boulevard St. Michel—_Boul’ Miché_ she called
it—reached the Luxembourg Gardens and then turning into a smaller street
were presently deposited at their _porte cochère_.  Her air of gayety
was infectious and she presented him to the good Madame Toupin, who came
out to meet them with the air of one greeting an ambassador.

"Welcome, _Monsieur le Lieutenant_.  Madame Horton has promised us this
visit since a long time."

"_Merci, Madame._"

"Enter, Monsieur—this house is honored.  Thank the _bon Dieu_ for the
Americans."

Jim Horton bowed and followed Moira into the small court and up the
stairway, experiencing a new sense of guilt at having his name coupled
so familiarly with Moira’s.  Harry’s name too—.  And yet the
circumstances of the marriage were so strange, the facts as to her
actual relations with her husband so patent, that he found himself
resenting Moira’s placid acceptance of the appellation. There was
something back of it all that he did not know....  But Moira gave him no
time to think of the matter, conducting him into the large studio and
showing him through the bedroom and kitchen, where she proudly exhibited
her goose (and Jim Horton’s) that she was to cook.  And after he had
deposited his luggage in a room nearby which he was to occupy, she
removed her gloves in a business-like manner, took off her hat and coat,
and invited him into the kitchen.

"_Allons_, Monsieur," she said gayly in French, as she rolled up her
sleeves.

"We shall now cook a goose, in this modern apparatus so kindly furnished
by the _Compagnie de Gaz_.  There’s a large knife in the drawer.  You
will now help me to cut up the potatoes—Julienne,—and the carrots which
we shall stew.  Then some lettuce and a beautiful dessert from the
_pâtisserie_—and a _demi-tasse_.  What more can the soul of man desire?"

"_Rien_," he replied with a triumphant grin of understanding from behind
the dish pan.  "_Absolument rien_."

"Ah, you do understand," she cried in English.  "Was she a
_blonde—cendrée_?  Or dark with sloe-eyes?  Or red-haired?  If she was
red-haired, Harry, I’ll be scratching her eyes out.  No?"

He shook his head and laughed.

"She was black and white and her name was Ollendorff."

"You’ll still persist in that deception?"

"I do."

"You’re almost too proficient."

"You had better not try me too far."

She smiled brightly at him over the fowl which she was getting ready for
the pan, stuffing it with a dressing already prepared.

"I wonder how far I might be trying you, Harry dear," she said
mischievously.

He glanced at her.

"I don’t know," he said quietly "but I think I’ve learned something of
the meaning of patience in the army."

"Then God be praised!" she ejaculated with air of piety, putting the
fowl into the pan.

"Here.  Cut.  Slice to your heart’s content, thin—like jack-straws.  But
spare your fingers."

She sat him in a chair and saw him begin while she prepared the salad.

"Patience is by way of being a virtue," she resumed quizzically, her
pink fingers weaving among the lettuce-leaves. And then, "so they taught
you that in the Army?"

"They did."

"And did you never get tired of being patient, Harry dear?"

He met the issue squarely.  "You may try me as far as you like, Moira,"
he said quietly, "I owe you that."

She hadn’t bargained for such a counter.

"Oh," she muttered, and diligently examined a doubtful lettuce leaf by
the fading light of the small window, while Horton sliced scrupulously
at his potato.  And when the goose was safely over the flame she quickly
disappeared into the studio.

He couldn’t make her out.  It seemed that a devil was in her, a
mischievous, beautiful, tantalizing, little Irish she-devil, bent on
psychological investigation.  Also he had never before seen her with her
hat off and he discovered that he liked her hair.  It had bluish tints
that precisely matched her eyes.  He finished his last potato with
meticulous diligence and then quickly rose and followed her into the
studio where a transformation had already taken place.  A table over
which a white cloth had been thrown, had been drawn out near the big
easel and upon it were plates, glasses, knives and forks and candles
with rose-colored shades, and there was even a bowl of flowers.  In the
hearth fagots were crackling and warmed the cool shadows from the big
north light, already violet with the falling dusk.

"_Voilà_, Monsieur—we are now _chez nous_.  Is it not pleasant?"

It was, and he said so.

"You like my studio?"

"It’s great.  And the portrait—may I see?"

"No—it doesn’t go—_on sent le souffle_—a French dowager who braved the
Fokkers when all her family were _froussards_—fled in terror.  She
deserves immortality."

"And you—were you not afraid of the bombardments?"

"Hardly—not after all the trouble we had getting here—Horrors!" she
broke off suddenly and catching him by the hand dashed for the kitchen
whence came an appetizing odor—"The goose! we’ve forgotten the goose,"
she cried, and proceeded to baste it skillfully.  She commended his
potatoes and bade him stir them in the pan while she made the salad
dressing—much oil, a little vinegar, paprika, salt in a bowl with a
piece of ice at the end of a fork.

He watched her curiously with the eyes of inexperience as she brought
all the various operations neatly to a focus.

"_Allons_!  It is done," she said finally—in French.  "Go thou and sit
at the table and I will serve."

But he wouldn’t do that and helped her to dish the dinner, bringing it
in and placing it on the table.

And at last they were seated _vis-à-vis_, Horton with his back to the
fire, the glow of which played a pretty game of hide and seek with the
shadows of her face.  He let her carve the goose, and she did it
skillfully, while he served the vegetables.  They ate and drank to each
other in _vin ordinaire_ which was all that Moira could afford—after the
prodigal expenditure for the _pièce de résistance_. Moira, her face a
little flushed, talked gayly, while the spurious husband opposite sat
watching her and grinning comfortably.  He couldn’t remember when he had
been quite so happy in his life, or quite so conscience-stricken. And so
he fell silent after a while, every impulse urging confession and yet
not daring it.

[Illustration: MOIRA TALKED GAYLY]

They took their coffee by the embers of the fire.  The light from the
great north window had long since expired and the mellow glow of the
candles flickered softly on polished surfaces.

Suddenly Moira stopped talking and realized that as she did so silence
had fallen.  Her companion had sunk deep into his chair, his gaze on the
gallery above, a frown tangling his forehead.  She glanced at him
quickly and then looked away.  Something was required of him and so,

"Why have you done all this for me?" he asked gently.

She smiled and their glances met.

"Because—because——"

"Because you thought it a duty?"

"No——," easily, "it wasn’t really that.  Duty is such a tiresome word.
To do one’s duty is to do something one does not want to do.  Don’t I
seem to be having a good time?"

"I hope you are.  I’m not likely to forget your charity—your——"

"Charity!  I don’t like that word."

"It _is_ charity, Moira.  I don’t deserve it."

The words were casual but they seemed to illumine the path ahead, for
she broke out impetuously.

"I didn’t think you did—I pitied you—over there—for what you had been
and almost if not quite loathed you, for the hold you seemed to have on
father.  I don’t know what the secret was, or how much he owed you, but
I know that he was miserable.  I think I must have been hating you a
great deal, Harry dear—and yet I married you."

"Why did you?" he muttered.  "I had no right to ask—even a war
marriage."

"God knows," she said with a quick gasp as she bowed her head, "you had
made good at the Camp.  I think it was the regimental band at Yaphank
that brought me around.  And then you seemed so pathetic and wishful, I
got to thinking you might be killed.  Father wanted it. And so——" she
paused and sighed deeply.  "Well—I did it....  It was the most that I
could give—for Liberty...."

She raised her head proudly, and stared into the glowing embers.

"For Liberty—you gave your own freedom——" he murmured.

"It was mad—Quixotic——" she broke in again, "a horrible sacrilege.  I
did not love, could not honor, had no intention of obeying you...."  She
stopped suddenly, and hid her face in her hands.  He thought that she
was in tears but he did not dare to touch her, though he leaned toward
her, his fingers groping.  Presently she took her hands down and threw
them out in a wild gesture.  "It is merciless—what I am saying to
you—but you let loose the floodgates and I had to speak."

He leaned closer and laid his fingers over hers.

"It was a mistake——" he said.  "I would do anything to repair it."

He meant what he said and the deep tones of his voice vibrated close to
her ear.  She did not turn to look at him and kept her gaze on the fire,
but she breathed uneasily and then closed her eyes a moment as though in
deep thought.

"Don’t you believe me, Moira?"

She glanced at him and then leaned forward, away—toward the fire.

"I believe that I do," she replied slowly.  "I don’t know why it is that
I should be thinking so differently about you, but I do.  You see, if I
hadn’t trusted you we’d never have been sitting here this night."

"I gave you your chance to be alone——"

"Yes.  You did that.  But I couldn’t let you be going to a _pension_,
Harry.  I think it was the pity for your pale face against the pillows."

"Nothing else?" he asked quietly.

His hand had taken the fingers on the chair arm and she did not withdraw
them at once.

"Sure and maybe it was the blarney."

"I’ve meant what I’ve said," he whispered in spite of himself, "you’re
the loveliest girl in all the world."

There was a moment of silence in which her hand fluttered uneasily in
his, while a gentle color came into her face.

Then abruptly she withdrew her fingers and sprang up, her face aflame.

"Go along with you!  You’ll be making love to me next."

He sank back into his chair, silent, perturbed, as he realized that this
was just what was in his heart.

"Come," she laughed, "we’ve got all the dishes to wash. And then you’re
to be getting to bed, or your head will be aching in the morning.
_Allons_!"

She brought him to himself with the clear, cool note of _camaraderie_,
and with a short laugh and a shrug which hid a complexity of feeling, he
followed her into the kitchen with the dishes.  But a restraint had
fallen between them.  Moira worked with a business-like air, rather
overdoing it.  And Jim Horton, sure that he was a blackguard of sorts,
wiped the dishes she handed to him and then obediently followed her to
the room off the hall where his baggage had been carried.

She put the candle on the table and gave him her frankest smile.

"Sleep sound, my dear.  For to-morrow I’ll be showing you the sights."

"Good-night, Moira," he said gently.

"_Dormez bien_."

And she was gone.

He stood staring at the closed door, aware of the sharp click of the
latch and the faint firm tap of her high heels diminishing along the
hall—then the closing of the studio door.  For a long while he stood
there, not moving, and then mechanically took out a cigarette, tapping
it against the back of his hand.  Only the urge of a light for his
cigarette from the candle at last made him turn away.  Then he sank upon
the edge of the bed and smoked for awhile, his brows furrowed in
thought. Nothing that Harry had ever done seemed more despicable than
the part that he had chosen to play.  He was winning her friendship, her
esteem, something even finer than these, perhaps—for Harry—_as_ Harry,
borrowing from their tragic marriage the right to this strange intimacy.
If her dislike of him had only continued, if she had tolerated him,
even, or if she had been other than she was, his path would have been
smoother.  But she was making it very difficult for him.

He paced the floor again for awhile, until his cigarette burnt his
fingers, then he walked to the window, opened it and looked out.  It was
early yet—only eleven o’clock. The thought of sleep annoyed him.  So he
took up his cap, blew out the candle and went quietly out into the hall
and down the stairs.

He wanted to be alone with his thoughts away from the associations of
the studio, to assume his true guise as an alien and an enemy to this
girl who had learned to trust him.  The cool air of the court-yard
seemed to clear his thoughts.  In all honor—in all decency, he must
discover some way of finding his brother Harry, expose the ugly intrigue
and then take Harry’s place and go out into the darkness of ignominy and
disgrace.  That would require some courage, he could see, more than it
had taken to go out against the Boche machine gunners in the darkness of
Boissière Wood, but there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, if he
wanted to preserve his own self-respect....

But of what value was self-respect to a man publicly disgraced?  And
unless he could devise some miracle that would enable him to come back
from the dead, a miracle that would stand the test of a rigid army
investigation, the penalty of his action was death—or at the least a
long term of imprisonment in a Federal prison, from which he would
emerge a broken and ruined man of middle age.  This alternative was not
cheering and yet he faced it bravely.  He would have to find Harry.

                     *      *      *      *      *

The feat was not difficult, for as he emerged from the gate of the
_porte cochère_ of the _concierge_ and turned thoughtfully down the
darkened street outside, a man in a battered slouch hat and civilian
clothes approached from the angle of a wall and faced him.

"What the H—— are you doing at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes?" said a voice
gruffly.

Jim Horton started back at the sound, now aware that Fortune had
presented him with his alternative.  For the man in the slouch hat was
his brother, Harry!




                              *CHAPTER IV*

                               *OUTCAST*


When Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers, took his twin brother’s uniform
and moved off into the darkness toward the German lines, Harry Horton
remained as his brother had left him, bewildered, angry, and still very
much afraid.  The idea of taking Jim Horton’s place with his squad
nearby did not appeal to him.  The danger of discovery was too
obvious—and soon perhaps the squad would have to advance into the
dreadful curtain of black that would spout fire and death.  He was fed
up with it.  The baptism of fire in the afternoon had shaken him when
they lay in the field.  It was the grinning head of Levinski of the
fourth squad that had done the business.  He had found it staring at him
in the wheat as the platoon crawled forward.  It wasn’t so much that it
was an isolated head, as that it was the isolated head of Levinski, for
he hadn’t liked Levinski and he knew that the man had hated him. And now
Levinski had had his revenge.  Harry had been deathly ill at the
stomach, and had not gone forward with the platoon.  He had seen the
whites of the eyes of his men as they had glanced aside at him—and spat.

Why the H—— he had ever gone into the thing ... And now ... suppose Jim
didn’t come back!  What should he do?  Why had the Major picked him out
for this duty!  His thoughts wandered wildly from one fancied injury to
another.  And Jim—it was like him to turn up and plunge into this wild
venture that would probably bring them both to court-martial.  And if
Jim was shot, what the devil was he to do?  Go on through the service as
Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers?  He cursed silently while he groveled
in the gully waiting for the shots that were to decide his fate.

For a moment he gathered nerve enough to pick up Jim’s rifle and
accoutrement with the intention of joining the squad of engineers.  But
just at that moment there were sounds of shots within the wood, followed
by others closer at hand, and then bullets ripped viciously through the
foliage just above him.  By a movement just ahead of him he knew that
the line was advancing.  He couldn’t ... his knees refused him ... so he
crawled into the thicket along the gully and lay upon the ground among
the fallen leaves.  More shots.  Cries all about him.  A grunt of pain
after a shrapnel burst nearby ... the rush of feet as the second wave
filtered through ... then the rapid crackle of the engagement in the
wood.  Jim was there—in _his_ uniform.  He’d be taking long chances too.
He had always been a fool....

From his cover he marked the dawn while the fighting raged—then sunrise.
The fire seemed to slacken and then move farther away.  The line was
still advancing and only the wounded were coming in—some of them walking
cases, with bandaged heads and arms.  He eyed them through the bushes
furtively—vengefully.  Why couldn’t he have gotten a wound like that—in
the afternoon in the wheat field—instead of finding the head of Levinski
and the terror that it had brought?  Other wounded were coming on
stretchers now.  The gully near him made an easy path to the plain below
and many of them passed near him ... but he lay very still beneath the
leaves.  What if Jim came back on a stretcher...!  What should he do?

Then suddenly as though in answer to his question two men emerged from
the hollow above and approached, carrying something between them.  There
was a man of Harry’s own platoon and a sergeant of the company. He heard
their voices and at the sound of them he cowered lower.

"Some say he showed yellow yesterday in the wheat field," said the
private.

"Yellow!  They’d better not let _me_ hear ’em sayin’ it——"

They were talking about _him_—Harry Horton.  And the figure, lying
awkwardly, a shapeless mass——?

At the risk of discovery, the coward straightened and peered down into
the white face ... Jim!

Harry Horton didn’t remember anything very distinctly for a while after
that, for his thoughts were much confused.  But out of the chaos emerged
the persistent instinct of self preservation.  There was no use trying
to find Jim’s squad now.  He wouldn’t know them if he saw them.  And how
could he explain his absence with no wound to show?  For a moment the
desperate expedient occurred to him of thrusting himself through the leg
with the bayonet.  He even took Jim’s weapon out of its scabbard.  But
the blue steel gave him a touch of the nausea that had come over him in
the wheat field.... That wouldn’t do.  And what was the use?  They had
Harry Horton lying near death on the stretcher.  What mattered what
happened to the brother?  There was no chance now to exchange
identities.  Perhaps there was never to be a chance.

He sank down again into the thicket, pulling the leaves about him.  He
would find a way.  It could be managed. "Missing"—that was the safest
way out.

That night, limping slightly, he emerged and made his way to the rear.
It was ridiculously easy.  Of the men he met he asked the way to the
billets of the —th Regiment.  But he didn’t go where they told him.  He
followed their instructions until out of sight of them, and then went in
the opposite direction.

He managed at last to get some food at a small farm house and under the
pretext of having been sent to borrow peasant clothing for the
Intelligence department, managed to get a pair of trousers, shirt, coat
and hat.  He had buried his rifle the night before and now when the
opportunity came he dropped the bundle of Jim Horton’s corporal’s
uniform, weighted by a stone, into deep water from a bridge over a
river.  With the splash Corporal James Horton of the Engineers had
ceased to exist.

At the end of two weeks, thanks to some money that he had found in Jim’s
uniform—and a great deal of good luck—he was safe in a quiet pastoral
country far from the battle line.  Here he saw no uniforms—only old men
and women in blouses and sabots, occupying themselves with the harvest,
aware only that the Boches were in retreat and that their own fields
were forever safe from invasion. He represented himself as an American
art student of Paris, driven by poverty from the city, and offered to
work for board and lodging.  They took him, and there he stayed for
awhile.  There was a girl in the family. It was very pleasant.  The
nearest town was St. Florentin, and Paris was a hundred miles away.  But
after a few weeks he wearied of it, and of the girl, and having twenty
francs left in his pockets stole away in the middle of the night.

Paris was the place for him.  There identities were not questioned.  He
knew something of Paris.  Piquette Morin! He could get her help without
telling any unnecessary facts.  As to Barry Quinlevin and Moira—that was
different.  It wouldn’t be pleasant to fall completely in the power of a
man like Barry Quinlevin—even if he was now his father-in-law.  And
Moira ... No.  Moira mustn’t ever know if he could prevent it.  And yet
if Jim Horton in Harry’s uniform had been killed Harry would be
officially dead.  He was already dead, to Moira, if Jim Horton had
revived enough to tell the truth.  It wasn’t a pretty story to be spread
around.  But if Jim were alive ... what then?

There were ways of getting along in Paris.  He would find a way even if
... Moira!  He would have liked to be able to go to Moira.  She was the
one creature in the world whose opinion seemed to matter now.  She would
have been his on the next furlough.  He knew women.  If you couldn’t get
them one way you could another.  Already her letters had been
gentler—more conciliatory.  His wife—the wife of an outcast!  God!  Why
had he ever gone into the service?  How had he known back there that he
wouldn’t have been able to stand up under fire—that he would have found
the grinning head of the hated Levinski in the wheat field?  Waves of
goose flesh went over him and left him cold and weak....  A sullen mood
followed, dull, embittered, and vengeful, against all the world, with
only one hope....  If Jim were alive—and silent!

That opened possibilities—to substitute with his brother and come back
to his own—with all the honors of the fool performance!  It was _his_
name, _his_ job that Jim had taken, and his brother couldn’t keep him
out of them. He could make Jim give them up—he’d _make_ him.  If he
couldn’t come back himself, he would drag Jim down with him—they would
be outcast together.  In the dark that night he would have managed in
some way to carry out the Major’s orders if Jim hadn’t found him just at
the worst moment.  What right had Jim to go butting in and making a fool
of them both!  D—n him!

He found his way into Paris at the end of a dreary day of tramping.  He
had a few francs left but he was tired and very hungry.  With a lie
framed he went straight to the apartment of Piquette Morin.  She had
gone out of town for a few days.

That failure baffled him.  He had a deposit in a bank, but he dared not
draw it out.  So he trudged the weary way up to Montmartre, saving his
sous, and hired a bed into which he dropped more dead than alive.

Thus it was that two nights later, unable yet to bring himself to the
point of begging from passersby, with scant hope indeed of success, his
weary feet brought him at last to the Rue de Tavennes.  Hiding his face
under the shadow of his hat he inquired of the _concierge_ and found
that the apartment of Madame Horton was _au troisième_. He strolled past
the _porte cochère_ and walked on, looking hungrily up at the lighted
windows of the studio.  Moira was there—his wife, Barry Quinlevin
perhaps.  Who else? He heard sounds of laughter from somewhere upstairs.
Laughter!  The bitterness of it!  But it didn’t sound like Moira’s
voice.  He walked to and fro watching the lighted windows and the
entrance of the _concierge_, trying to keep up the circulation of his
blood, for the night was chill and his clothing thin.  He had no
plan—but he was very hungry and his resolution to remain unknown was
weakening.  A man couldn’t let himself slowly starve, and yet to seek
out any one he knew meant discovery and the horrible publicity that must
follow.  The lights of the _troisième étage_ held a fascination for him,
like that of a flame for a moth.  He saw a figure come to a window and
throw open the sash.  He stared, unable to believe his eyes.  It was a
man in the uniform of an officer of the United States Army—his own
uniform and the man who wore it was his brother Jim!  Alive—well,
covered with honors perhaps—here—in Moira’s apartment?  What had
happened to bring his brother here?  And Moira ...

His head whirled with weakness and he stood for a moment leaning against
the wall, but his strength came back to him in a moment, and he peered
up at the window again.  The light had gone out.  Jim masquerading in
his shoes—with Moira—as her husband—alone, perhaps, in the apartment!
And Moira?  The words of conciliation in her last letters which had
seemed to promise so much for the future, had a different significance
here. Fury shook him like a leaf, the fury of desperation, that for the
moment drove from his craven heart all fear of an encounter with his
brother.

There was a sound of a door shutting and in a moment he saw the man in
uniform emerge by the gate of the _concierge_.  He walked toward the
outcast, his head bent in deep meditation.  There was no doubt about its
being Jim.  With clenched fists Harry barred his way, the thought that
was uppermost in his mind finding utterance.

Jim Horton stopped, stepped back a pace and then peered at the man in
civilian clothing from beneath his broad army hat-brim.

"Harry!" he muttered, almost inaudibly.

"What are you doing here—in this house?" raged Harry in a voice thick
with passion.  And then, as no reply came, "Answer me!  Answer me!"

One of Harry’s fists threatened but his brother caught him by the wrist
and with ridiculous ease twisted his arm aside.  He was surprised as
Harry sank back weakly against the wall with a snarl of pain.  "D—n
you," he groaned.

This wouldn’t do.  Any commotion would surely arouse the curiosity of
Madame Toupin, the _concierge_.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Harry," he muttered, "and I’ll talk
to you."

He caught him firmly by the arm, but Harry still leaned against the
wall, muttering vaguely.

"A civil tongue—_me_?  You—you dare ask me?"

"Yes," said Jim gently, "I’ve been trying to find you."

"Where?" leered Harry, "in my wife’s studio?"

Jim Horton turned suddenly furious, but shocked into silence and inertia
by the terrible significance of the suspicion.  But he pulled himself
together with an effort.

"Come," he said quietly.  "Let’s get away from here."

He felt Harry yield to the pressure of his fingers and slowly they moved
into the shadows down the street away from the gas lamps.  A moment
later Harry was twitching at his arm.

"G-get me something to cat.  I—I’m hungry," he gasped.

"Hungry!  How long——?"

"Since yesterday morning—a crust of bread——"

And Jim had been eating goose——!  The new sense of his own guilt
appalled him.

"Since yesterday——!" he muttered in a quick gush of compassion.  "We’ll
find something—a _café_——"

"There’s a place in the Rue Berthe—Javet’s," he said weakly.

Jim Horton caught his brother under an elbow and helped him down the
street, aware for the first time of the cause of his weakness.  He
marked, too, the haggard lines in Harry’s face, and the two weeks’
growth of beard that effectually concealed all evidence of
respectability. There seemed little danger of any one’s discovering the
likeness between the neatly garbed lieutenant and the civilian who
accompanied him.  But it was well to be careful.  They passed a
brilliantly lighted restaurant, but in a nearby street after awhile they
came to a small _café_, not too brightly lighted, and they entered.
There was a polished zinc bar which ran the length of a room with low,
smoke-stained ceilings.  At the bar were two cochers, in shirt sleeves,
their yellow-glazed hats on the backs of their heads, sipping grenadine.
There was a winding stair which led to the living quarters above, but
through a doorway beside it, there was a glimpse of an inner room with
tables unoccupied.  They entered and Jim Horton ordered a substantial
meal which was presently set before the hungry man.  The coffee revived
him and he ate greedily in moody silence while Jim Horton sat, frowning
at the opposite wall.  For the present each was deeply engrossed—Jim in
the definite problem that had suddenly presented itself, and the
possible courses of action open to do what was to be required of him;
Harry in his food, beyond which life at present held no other interest.
But after a while, which seemed interminable to Jim, his brother gave a
gasp of satisfaction, and pushed back his dishes.

"Give me a cigarette," he demanded with something of an air.

Jim obeyed and even furnished a light, not missing the evidences of
Dutch courage Harry had acquired from the stimulation of food and
coffee.

It was curious what little difference the amenities seemed to matter.
They were purely mechanical—nor would it matter what Harry was to say to
him.  The main thing was to try to think clearly, obliterating his own
animus against his brother and the contempt in which he held him.

Harry sank back into his chair for a moment, inhaling luxuriously.

"Well," he said at last, "maybe you’ve got a word to say about how the
devil you got here."

"Yes," said Jim quickly.  "It’s very simple.  I was hit. I took your
identity in the hospital.  There wasn’t anything else to do."

Harry glowered at the ash of his cigarette and then shrugged heavily.

"I see.  They think you’re me.  That was nice of you, Jim," he sneered,
"very decent indeed, very kind and brotherly——"

"You’d better ’can’ the irony," Jim broke in briefly. "They’d have found
us out—both of us.  And I reckon you know what that would have meant."

"H—m.  Maybe I do, maybe I don’t," he said shrewdly. "It was you who
found me—er—sick.  Nobody else did."

"We needn’t speak of that."

"We might as well.  I’d have come around all right, if you hadn’t butted
in."

"Oh, would you?"

"Yes," said Harry sullenly.

Jim Horton carefully lighted a cigarette from the butt of the other, and
then said coolly:

"We’re not getting anywhere, Harry."

"I think we are.  I’m trying to show you that you’re in wrong on this
thing from start to finish.  And it looks as though you might get just
what was coming to you."

"Meaning what?"

"That you’ll take my place again.  This——!" exhibiting with a grin his
worn garments.  "You took mine without a by-your-leave.  Now you’ll give
it back to me."

An ugly look came into Jim Horton’s jaw.

"I’m not so sure about that," he said in a tone dangerously quiet.

"What!  You mean that——"  The bluster trailed off into silence at the
warning fire in his brother’s eyes.  But he raised his head in a moment,
laughing disagreeably. "I see.  The promotion has got into your head.
Some promotion—Lieutenant right off the reel—from Corporal, too.  Living
soft in the hospital and now——"  He paused and swallowed uneasily.  "How
did you get to the Rue de Tavennes?"

"They came to the hospital—Mr. Quinlevin and—and your wife.  I—I fooled
them.  They don’t suspect."

"How—how did you know Moira was my wife?"

"Some letters.  I read them."

"Oh, I see.  You read them," he frowned and then, "Barry Quinlevin’s
too?"

"Yes—his too.  I had to have facts.  I got them—some I wasn’t looking
for——"

"About——?"

"About the Duc de Vautrin," Jim broke in dryly. "That’s one of the
reasons why I’m still Harry Horton and why I’m going to stay Harry
Horton—for the present."

If Jim had needed any assurance as to his brother’s share in this
intrigue he had it now.  For Harry went red and then pale, refusing to
meet his gaze.

"I see," he muttered, "Quinlevin’s been talking."

"Yes," said Jim craftily, "he has.  It’s a pretty plan, but it won’t
come off.  You always were a rotter, Harry. But you’re not going to hurt
Moira, if I can prevent."

It was a half-random shot but it hit the mark.

"Moira," muttered Harry somberly.  "I see.  You haven’t been wasting any
time."

"I’m not wasting time when I can keep her—or even you—from getting mixed
up in dirty blackmail.  That’s my answer.  And that’s why I’m not going
to quit until I’m ready."

Harry Horton frowned at the soiled table cover, his fingers twitching at
his fork, and then reached for the coffee pot and quickly poured himself
another cup.

"Clever, Jim," he said with a cynical laugh.  "I take off my hat to you.
I never would have thought you had it in you.  But you’ll admit that
living in my wife’s apartment and impersonating her husband is going a
bit too far."

The laughter didn’t serve to conceal either his fear or his fury.  But
it stopped short as Jim’s fingers suddenly closed over his wrist and
held it in a grip of iron.

"Don’t bring _her_ into this," he whispered tensely.  "Do you hear?"
And after a moment of struggle with himself as he withdrew his hand,
"You dared to think yourself worthy of her.  _You_!"

"Be careful what you say to me," said Harry, trying bravado.  "She’s my
wife."

"She won’t be your wife long, when I tell her what I know about you,"
finished Jim angrily.

He saw Harry’s face go pale again as he tried to meet his gaze, saw the
fire flicker out of him, as he groped pitiably for Jim’s hand.

"Jim!  You—you wouldn’t do that?" he muttered.

Jim released his hand, shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

"Not if you play straight with me—and with her.  You want me to pay the
penalty of what I did for you—to go out into the world—an outcast in
your place. Perhaps I owe it to you.  I don’t know.  But you owe me
something too—promotion—the _Croix de Guerre_——"

"The _Croix de Guerre_!  Me——?"

"Lieutenant Harry G. Horton to be gazetted captain—me!" put in Jim, with
some pride.  "Not you."

A brief silence in which Harry rubbed his scrawny beard with his long
fingers.

"That might be difficult to prove to my Company captain," he said at
last.

"You forget my wounds," laughed Jim.  "Oh, they’re _my_ wounds all
right."  And then, with a shrug, "You see, Harry, it won’t work.  You’re
helpless.  If I chose to keep on the job, you’d be left out in the
cold."

"You won’t dare——"

"I don’t know what I’d dare.  It depends on you."

"What do you mean?" broke in Harry with some spirit. "I couldn’t be any
worse off than I am now, even if I told the truth."

Jim laughed.  "_I_ tried to tell in the hospital and they thought I was
bug-house.  Try it if you like."

Harry frowned and reached for another cigarette.

And then after awhile, "Well—what do you want me to do?"

His brother examined him steadily for a moment, and then went on.

"I don’t know whether you’ve learned anything in the army or not.  But
it ought to have taught you that you’ve got to live straight with your
buddy or you can’t get on."

"Straight!" sneered Harry, "like _you_.  You call this straight—what
you’re doing?"

"No," Jim admitted.  "It’s not straight.  It’s crooked as hell, but if
it wasn’t, you’d have been drummed out of the Service by now.  I don’t
want you to think I care about _you_.  I didn’t—out there.  It was only
the honor of the service I was thinking about.  I’d do it again if I had
to.  But I do care about this girl you’ve bamboozled into marrying
you—you and Quinlevin.  And whatever the dirty arrangement between you
that made it possible, I want to make it clear to you here and now that
she isn’t going to be mixed up in any of your rotten deals.  She isn’t
your sort and you couldn’t drag her down to your level if you tried.
I’ll know more when Quinlevin gets back and then——"

Jim Horton paused as he realized that he had said too much, for he saw
his brother start and then stare at him.

"Ah, Barry Quinlevin—is away!"

Jim nodded.  "Yes," he said, "in Ireland."

Harry had risen, glowering.

"And you think I’m going to slink off to-night to my kennel and let you
go back to the studio.  You in my uniform—as _me_—to Moira."

Jim Horton thought deeply for a moment and then rose and coolly
straightened his military blouse.

"Very well," he said, "we’ll go back to her together."

He took out some money and carelessly walked toward the bar in the front
room.  But Harry followed quickly and caught him by the arm.

"Jim," he muttered, "you won’t do that!"

"We’ll tell her the truth—I guess you’re right.  She ought to know."

"Wait a minute——"

His hand was trembling on the officer’s sleeve and the dark beard seemed
to make the face look ghastly under its tan.

"Not yet, Jim.  Not to-night.  We—we’ll have to let things be for
awhile.  Just sit down again for a minute. We’ve got to find a way to
straighten this thing out—to get you back into your old job——"

"How?" dryly.

"I—I don’t know just now, but we can work it somehow——"

"It’s too late——"

"You could have been captured by the Boches.  We can find a way, when
you let me have my uniform."

Jim Horton grinned unsympathetically.

"There are two wounds in that too, Harry," he said. "Where are yours?"

And he moved toward the door.

"Listen, Jim.  We’ll let things be as they are for the present.  Barry
Quinlevin mustn’t know—you’ve got to play the part.  I see.  Come and
sit down a minute."

His brother obeyed mechanically.

"Well," he said.

"I’ll do what you say—until—until we can think of something."  He tried
a smile and failed.  "I know it’s a good deal to ask you—to take my
place—to go out into the world and be what I am, but you won’t have to
do it. You won’t have to.  We’ll manage something—some way. You go back
to the studio——" he paused uncertainly, "You’re not——?" he paused.

Jim Horton read his meaning.

"Making love to your wife?  And if I was, it would only be what you
deserve.  She doesn’t love you any too much, as it is."

Harry frowned at the floor, and was silent, but his brother’s answer
satisfied him.

"All right.  You go back—but I’ve got to get some money.  I can’t
starve."

"I don’t want you to," Jim fumbled in his pockets and brought out some
bills.  "Here—take these.  They’re yours anyway.  We’ll arrange for more
later.  I’ve an account at a bank here——"

"And so have I—but I don’t dare——"

"Very good.  What’s your bank?"

"_Hartjes & Cie._"

"All right.  I’ll get some checks to-morrow and you can make one payable
to yourself.  I’ll cash it and give you the money.  And I’ll make one
out at my bank for the same amount, dated back into October, before the
Boissière fight, payable to bearer.  You can get it cashed?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"A woman I know."

Jim shrugged.  "All right.  But be careful.  I’ll meet you here
to-morrow night.  And don’t shave."

Harry nodded and put the bills into his pocket while Jim rose again.

"You play the game straight with me," he said, "and I’ll put this thing
right, even if——"

He paused suddenly in the doorway, his sentence unfinished, for just in
front of him stood a very handsome girl, who had abandoned her companion
and stood, both hands outstretched, in greeting.

"’Arry ’Orton," she was saying joyously in broken English.  "You don
seem to know me.  It is I—Piquette."

The name Quinlevin had spoke in the hospital!

Jim glanced over his shoulder into the shadow where Harry had been, but
his brother had disappeared.




                              *CHAPTER V*

                               *PIQUETTE*


She wore a black velvet toque which bore upon its front two large
crimson wings, poised for flight, and they seemed to typify the girl
herself—alert, on tip-toe, a bird of passage.  She had a nose very
slightly _retroussé_, black eyes, rather small but expressive, with
brows and lids skillfully tinted; her figure was graceful, _svelte_, and
extraordinarily well groomed, from her white gloves to the tips of her
slender shiny boots, and seemed out of place in the shadows of these
murky surroundings. For the rest, she was mischievous, tingling with
vitality and joyous at this unexpected meeting.

Horton glanced past her and saw a figure in a slouch hat go out of the
door, then from the darkness turn and beckon.  But Jim Horton was given
no opportunity to escape and Harry’s warning gesture, if anything,
served to increase his curiosity as to this lovely apparition.

"Monsieur Valcourt—Monsieur ’Orton," she said, indicating her companion
with a wave of the hand.  And then, as he shook hands with her
companion, a handsome man with a well-trimmed grayish mustache,
"Monsieur Valcourt is one day de greatest sculptor in de world—Monsieur
’Orton is de ’ero of Boissière wood."

"You know of the fight in Boissière——?" put in Jim.

"And who does not?  It is all in _le Matin_ to-day—an’ ’ere I find you
trying to ’ide yourself in the obscure _café_ of Monsieur Javet."

She stopped suddenly and before he realized what she was about had
thrown her arms over his shoulders and kissed him squarely upon the
lips.  He felt a good deal of a fool with Monsieur Valcourt and the
villainous-looking Javet grinning at them, but the experience was not
unpleasant and he returned her greeting whole heartedly, wondering what
was to come next.

And when laughing gayly she released him, he turned toward Monsieur
Valcourt, who was regarding her with a dubious smile.

"For all her prosperity, Monsieur ’Orton," Valcourt was saying, in
French, "she is still a _gamine_."

"And who would wonder, _mon vieux_!  To live expensively is very
comfortable, but even comfort is tedious. Does not one wish to laugh
with a full throat, to kick one’s toes or to put one’s heels upon a
table?  _La la_!  I do not intend to grow too respectable, I assure
you."

Jim Horton laughed.  She had spoken partly in English, partly in French,
translating for both, and then, "Let me assure you, Madame," said
Valcourt with a stately bow, "that you are not in the slightest danger
of that."

But she was already turning to Horton again.

"A ’ero.  The world is full of ’eros to-day, but not one like my ’Arry
’Orton.  _Allons_!  I mus’ ’ave a talk with you alone.  Lucien," she
said sharply, turning to Valcourt, "I will come to de studio to-morrow.
Monsieur le Duc t’inks I am gone away, but now I would be a poor
creature not to give my brave soldier a welcome."

"If Monsieur will excuse me——" said Valcourt, offering his hand.

Jim Horton took it, wondering where the adventure was to lead.  She was
a very remarkable person and her _élan_ had already carried him off his
feet.  Taking his hand in hers, with a charming simplicity, she led him
into the room at the rear, now occupied by a number of persons of both
sexes, and bade Monsieur Javet himself serve them. And when they were
seated at a table, her hand still in his, she examined him with a new
interest.

"It is indeed you," she said gayly, "and yet you seem different—more
calm, more silent.  What is it?"

"I’ve had two months in the hospital."

"And you’re quite strong again?"

"Oh yes.  And you have been well—Piquette?"

"Well—but _so_ ennuyée.  It is why I come back here to de _Quartier_ to
get a breath of fresh air.  I’ve been posing for Monsieur Valcourt—_La
Liberté_.  He says my figure is better than ever.  And Valcourt knows."

"I’m sure you are very lovely."

"_La, la, mon vieux_, but you are the _grand serieux_.  Of course I am
lovely.  It is my business.  But you do not _show_ me ’ow lovely I am,
for you are so quiet—so cool——"

Jim Horton laughed and caught her fingers to his lips.

"You are—Piquette.  That is enough."

"_C’est mieux_.  But you are change’.  One does not look deat’ in de
eyes wit’out feeling its col’ touch.  Oh, but I am glad that you are
come back to me.  You s’all be ’ere long?"

"I don’t know—when I shall get my orders."

"But until then—t’ings s’all be as dey were wit’ us two, eh, my little
one?  An’ I s’all ’elp you now in de great affair?  But Monsieur de
Vautrin becomes more onpleasant.  He is a very tiresome ol’ man...."

Jim Horton started unconsciously.  Then remembered that it was in
connection with de Vautrin that Quinlevin had mentioned this very girl
Piquette.  He understood better now the reason for Harry’s gesture from
the outer darkness.  The meeting had been a stroke of Fate. Perhaps she
held the key to the riddle.

"Tiresome, yes," he said slowly, "all old men are tiresome——"

"And _difficile_," she mused, sipping at her glass.  "While I am pretty
he likes to have me nearby.  But I know.  He cares not’ing.  He will
leave me not’ing.  I am not content.  So I say I want to help in de
great affair.  You have planned somet’ing in the hospital—you and
Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"Er—nothing definite."

"Monsieur le Duc still pays?"

Horton meditated for a moment.

"No," he said, "he has stopped paying."

Piquette Morin leaned further over the table, frowning.

"Ah!  Since when?"

"For—er—three months or more."

"Then you t’ink he suspects somet’ing?"

"I don’t know.  It looks so, doesn’t it?"

"Yes, perhaps."  She paused a moment and then, "I make him talk about de
past, as you ask’ me to.  I am no saint and de _bon Dieu_ has taught me
to look out for myself.  I shall continue.  If he tries to get rid of me
de way he did wit’ his wife, he will find me troublesome."

Horton laughed.  "I don’t doubt it."  And then, carefully, "You heard
how he got rid of her?" he questioned.

"It was ’er riches, of course.  ’E spent ’er ’_dot_’ in a few month
gambling at Monte Carlo, and den when ’e came to ’er for more ’e abuse
and beat ’er."  She paused and her dark eyes snapped viciously.  "’E
would not have beaten me," she finished.

"And then?" he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.

"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland——"

"To Ireland——" he muttered eagerly.

"Of course," she said with a glance at him.  "And when ’e got enough
money ’e sail ’round de worl’ enjoying himself.  Even now sometimes ’e
is a beast.  It is den I come back to de _Quartier_ where I am born and
bred—to be merry again."  She sighed and then laughed gayly.  "But
to-night we mus’ not talk of dis tiresome matter.  It is your night,
_mon vieux_, and we s’all make it ’appy."

He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficulty
concealing his curiosity.

"But the child of Monsieur the Duc——" he urged after the moment of
_badinage_.  "He said nothing——?"

He paused as though in doubt.

She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.

"Monsieur is cautious.  ’E spoke not’ing of de child, except to say dat
it died wit’ de mother.  De money came to ’im.  Dat was all ’e cared
about, _mon_ ’Arry."

To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn.  And how to question without
arousing the girl’s suspicions was more that he could plan.  But he
remembered Quinlevin’s uncertainty in the hospital—his thought that
Harry might have talked to this girl.  So he took a chance.

"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"

"No.  I t’ink not.  And yet I remember once ’e ask’ me if I know
Monsieur Quinlevin."

"And what did you reply?"

"Of course, dat I never heard of ’im."

He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frowned
and imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.

"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin.  We’ve got to do something."

"_Parfaitement_," said Piquette carelessly.  "De time ’as come to
produce de girl Moira and de papers."

Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of
bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes.  But she heard him
gasp and turned again toward him.  But by this time the missing pieces
of the puzzle were at his fingers’ ends and he gathered them quickly.
It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead
child who would have inherited.  And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for
years with promises of silence.  Harry had connived at the plot and now
the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures."  And
Piquette knew all.  Blackmail it was—of the blackest.

For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself.
And then only assented safely to her suggestion.

"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."

"It mus’ be manage’ carefully.  You are sure de papers are all correct?"

"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."

"Ah, I see—we mus’ wait until ’e comes back.  But I s’all ’elp you, _mon
ami_.  You will rely upon me, _n’est ce pas_?"

"Yes, I will."

His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent
and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on.  The
charm of the chance encounter was gone.  _Gamine_ she might be, and
irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was
not for him.  He had a standard to measure her by.

"You are so _triste_, ’Arry," she broke in suddenly.  "I do not t’ink I
like you so _triste_.  What s’all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le
Duc an’ ’is money?  To be young an’ in love——"

She caught both of his hands across the table and held them.  "You are
not yet well, ’Arry.  I can see.  It is dat for so long you do not know
comfort an’ ’appiness. _Allons_!  I s’all make you laugh again, until de
_triste_ look come no more into your eyes."

He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy
her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led
into the bar.

"Your frien’ who was wit’ you—’e ’as come back again," she whispered.

"Ah——" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.

"’E wants you to come?  _C’est embêtant_!  Sen’ ’im away."

"I’m afraid I——"  He rose uncertainly and turned. "Wait," he said, "I’ll
see."  And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinately awaited
him.

"I’ve had enough of this," growled his brother.  "You come out of here
with me or I’ll——"

"Don’t be a fool.  You could see that I couldn’t help it."

"You can help it now——"

"All right.  We’ll have this thing out, you and I—to-night.  You meet me
at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes.  I’ll get rid of
her."

And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind made
up.

"I’m sorry," he said to her, "but I’ve some urgent business with this
man.  It can’t be put off.  But I must see you soon——"

She pouted and rose.

"I can’t explain—not now.  You won’t be cross——"

"It is not—anodder woman——?" she asked shrewdly.

"Another——?  How can you ask?  No.  There are no other women in Paris,
Piquette."

"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.

"No.  It is a matter of importance.  Will you let me have your
address——?"

"No 82 Boulevard Clichy—de same place."

"Good.  To-morrow I will write you."

Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, looking
about curiously for her enemy of the evening.  But Harry had
disappeared.  She said nothing and they went out into the street where
Jim Horton found a cab and put her into it.

"Méchant!" she whispered softly.

"It is not my fault, Piquette.  Soon——"

He gave the address to the _cocher_ and she was gone.

Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating
_fiacre_ as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowly
back, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities of
his masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control.
Moira—innocent—the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals!  How
much did she know?  How could Quinlevin have carried the deception out
all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something?  And if, as it
seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told? His own duty seemed
very clear.  Every impulse of honor and decency urged that he find this
Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth.  But there was Moira ... his
first duty was to her.  But telling her meant revealing the secret of
Harry’s disgrace and his own part in it. That would be a difficult thing
to do, but he would have to do it.  He would tell her to-morrow.

As for Harry—he would make short work of _him_.  He went with long
determined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with a
threatening air.

"What the Hell has she been saying?" he muttered.

Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his own
physical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit and
cowardice, built in his own image.  If earlier in the evening he had had
his moments of pity for his brother’s misfortunes, if he had planned to
make restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing,
he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.

As he didn’t reply, his brother continued angrily. "You’ve gone about
your limit, I tell you.  What did she tell you?"

"Everything.  I’ve got the whole story.  And I’d like to tell you before
we go any further that you’re just about the crookedest——"  He broke off
with a shrug.

"What’s the use?  The worst thing I could say would be a compliment.
But you’ve come to the end of your tether.  I don’t know why I hoped
there might be a chance of getting you to go straight—for her—but I did.
The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed the
impression.  The money you took from the estate, your questionable deals
in America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but the
blackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon——"

Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struck
viciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it,
tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall where
he fell and lay motionless.  But he was unhurt—only bewildered by the
result of his own incapacity.

"Get up!" Jim ordered.  "Somebody will be coming along in a moment and
we’ll both be going with the police."

Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, still
trembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued.  The place they
had chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one was
about, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted street
before he resumed his interrupted remarks.

"I don’t want any man’s uniform when it’s been defiled. You ought to
have known that.  I’m going to take it off and give it back to you."

He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry’s face and raised
his hand in warning—"But not yet.  First I’m going to tell your wife the
truth and then I’m going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."

Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of his
venture setting in with the terror of this information.

"Jim!" he whispered, clutching at his arm.  "You wouldn’t do that, Jim.
My God!  It’s ruin to me—and you too."

"I’m prepared for that——"

"Don’t, for God’s sake don’t!  Wait.  I’ve met you half way, haven’t I?
I’ll do anything you say.  I’ll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing.
It was his idea—not mine.  And he wouldn’t have thought of it if the old
man hadn’t shut off the allowance——"

"Tell me the truth," Jim broke in sternly.  "How much money did
Quinlevin owe you?"

"Twenty thousand dollars——"

"And that was Moira’s price——" contemptuously.

"I wanted her.  I loved her.  I swear to God I did.  I love her now.
I’d give anything to be able to go to her to-night——"

"You——!  You forget what I know."

"It’s the truth."

"How much were you to get of this money of the Duc’s?"

Harry halted, mumbling, "That wasn’t settled."

"Well, it’s settled now," said Jim, with an air of finality, turning
aside.

"What are you going to do?"

"Tell her—in the morning."

"You can’t, Jim.  Why, she’d go right to Quinlevin."

"I expect her to—and the Duke."

Harry leaned back against the wall, his fingers working at his trouser
legs, but he was speechless.

"That’s about all, I think," said Jim dryly.  "Good-bye."

"Then you won’t listen—not if I promise——"

"What——?"

"Anything.  Why, you’ve got me, Jim.  I can’t do a thing with you ready
to tell Moira—even if I wanted to. What’s the use?  It only means ruin
for you.  Wait a few days and we’ll have another talk; just wait until
to-morrow night.  Give me a chance to think.  I’ll even—I’ll even get
out of France and go out West somewhere and make a fresh start.  I will.
I mean it.  I did you a dirty trick once, but I’ll try to square myself.
Give me a chance.  Think it over.  Meet me to-morrow.  I’m all in
to-night.  Promise you won’t speak."

"No," said Jim, after a moment of deliberation.  "I’ll promise nothing,
but I’ll meet you to-morrow night at Javet’s—at twelve—with the money."

Harry gasped a sigh of relief and straightened, offering his hand.
"Thanks, Jim.  To-morrow.  And you won’t tell her, I know.  You
couldn’t.  It would be too cruel.  She’ll suffer—my God!  You know her.
Can’t you see how she’d suffer?"

"I—I didn’t start this thing——"

"But you’ll finish it, Jim.  She believes in _him_, even if she doesn’t
believe in me.  It will kill her."

He saw that he had made an impression on his brother. Jim stood silent,
his head bowed.

"Don’t tell her to-morrow, Jim," Harry pleaded.  "Promise."

Jim shrugged and turned.

"All right," he said at last.  "I’ll sleep on it."

He turned away and walked slowly out into the dim light of the street,
moving toward the Rue de Tavennes. He did not even turn his head to see
what became of his brother.  Already he had forgotten him.  The heat of
his passion had suffered a strange reaction.  To resolve to tell Moira
the truth, even to threaten to tell her was one thing, but to tell was
another.  And curiously enough Harry’s picture of the consequences,
drawn even in the stress of fear, was true enough—Jim knew it—was true.
He knew her pride, her spirit.  The revelation would kill them—and
destroy her.

She was so dependent on him.  She didn’t know how greatly.  And he had
been until the present moment so dependent upon her.  He realized what
her visits had meant to him, how deep had been the joy of their evening
alone in the studio.  He did not dare to think of her now as he had been
thinking of her then—for during the weeks of his convalescence and the
culmination of their friendship to-night Harry had seemed far off, vague
and impalpable.  But their meeting had changed all this and he was
thankful that he had had enough manhood to keep his wits when he had
been alone with her.  Moira—the pity of it—had given him signs (that he
might read and run) that the mockery of the marriage was a mockery no
longer.  And it was her very confession of indifference and pity for
Harry as she had known him, that seemed to give Jim the right to care
for and protect her.  He _did_ care for her, he was now willing to
confess in a way far from fraternal.  He had always been too busy to
think about women, but Moira had crept into his life when he was ill and
unnerved, needing the touch of a friendly hand, and their peculiar
relationship had given him no chance of escape—nor her.  She had
captured his imagination and he had succeeded where Harry had not in
winning her affection.

It was a dangerous situation and yet it fascinated him. The knowledge
that he must cause her suffering had weakened his resolve for a moment,
but as he walked into the Rue de Tavennes he saw it for the fool’s
paradise that it was.  He would spend to-morrow with her—just
to-morrow—that could do no harm and then—she should know everything.

He found his way into the court and up the stairs. The studio door was
closed, implacable as the destiny that barred him from her.

He went into his room, closed the door and slowly undressed.  Then lay
on the bed, staring for a long while at the reflection of the
street-lamp upon the ceiling: Moira ... happiness ... reputation—and
dishonor. Or ... outcast ... but honorable.




                              *CHAPTER VI*

                           *YOUTH TRIUMPHANT*


But weariness and anxiety had to pay tribute at last and he slept.  It
was broad daylight when he awoke to the sound of a loud hammering upon
the door and a high, clear, humorous voice calling his name.

"Lazy bones!  Get up!  Will you be lying abed all day?"

"A—all right——"

He opened his eyes with an effort and glanced at his wrist watch——
Eight o’clock.

"Coffee in the studio, Harry dear, in ten minutes."

"Oh!  All right——"

The hammering stopped, foot-steps retreated and Jim Horton tumbled out,
rubbing his eyes and gazing at the golden lozenges of light upon the
wall.  It was a most inspiriting _reveille_, arresting as the shrill
clarion of camp on a frosty morning; but sweeter far, joyous with
promise of the new day.  It was only during the progress of his hasty
toilet that the douche of cold water over his head and face recalled to
him with unpleasant suddenness and distinctness the events of the night
before, and he emerged from vigorous rubbing exhilarated but sober.
There was a lot of thinking to be done and a difficult resolution to
make, and with Moira at his elbow it wasn’t going to be easy.  But by
the time he knocked at the door of the studio, the pleasure of the
immediate prospect made ready his good cheer for the morning greeting.
He heard her voice calling and entered.  A new fire blazed on the
hearth, and an odor of coffee filled the air.  She emerged from the door
of the small kitchen, a coffee-pot and a heaping plateful of _brioches_
in her hands.

"Good morning!  I’ve been waiting for you an hour or more.  You’ve been
developing amazing bad habits in the hospital."

"Why didn’t you call me before?"

"Sure and I believed you might be thinking I was anxious to see you."

"And aren’t you?"

"And do you think I’d be telling—even if I was?"

"You might."

"And I won’t.  Will you have your coffee with cream and sugar?"

"If you please."

It was real cream and real sugar—some magic of Madame Toupin’s, she
explained, and the _brioches_ were unsurpassed.  And so they sat and
ate, Moira chattering gayly of plans for the day, while the ancient
dowager upon the easel who had braved the Fokkers and the long-range
cannon looked down upon them benignly and with a little touch of pity,
too, as though she knew how much of their courage was to be required of
them.

Horton ate silently, putting in a word here and there, content to listen
to her plans, to watch the deft motions of her fingers and the changing
expressions upon her face. Once or twice he caught her looking at him
with a puzzled line at her brows, but he let his glance pass and spoke
of casual things, the location of the bank where he must get his money,
the excellence of the coffee, the kindness of Nurse Newberry, aware that
these topics were not the ones uppermost in his mind, or in hers.

"You’re a bit subdued this morning, Harry dear," she said at last,
whimsically.  "Maybe that goose was too much for you."

"Subdued!" he laughed.

"You have all the air of a man with something on his conscience.  You
used to wear that look in America, and I let you be.  But somehow things
seemed different with us two.  Would you be willing to tell me?"

"There isn’t a thing—except—except your kindness. I don’t deserve that,
you know."

She looked at him seriously and then broke into laughter.

"Would it make you feel more comfortable if I laid you over the
shoulders with a mahl stick?"

"I think it would," he grinned.

"Sure and that is one of the few pleasant prerogatives of matrimony—in
Ireland."

"And elsewhere——" added Horton.

"But I do want to know if anything’s troubling you. Are you still
worried——" she took a _brioche_ and smiled at it amiably, "because we’re
not appropriately chaperoned?"

"No—not so much.  I see you’re quite able to look out for yourself."

"And you derive some comfort from the fact?" she asked.

He looked at her, their eyes met and they both burst into laughter.

"Moira—you witch!  But you’d better not tempt me too far."

"Sure and I’m not afraid of you, alanah," she said, sedate again and
very cool, "or of any man," and then, mischievously, "But your doubts
needn’t have kept you from kissing me a good morning."

"It’s not too late now," said Horton, abruptly rising and spilling his
coffee.  He passed the small table toward her but she held him off with
a hand.

"No.  The essence is gone.  You’ll please pick up your coffee-cup and
pass the butter.  Thanks.  It’s very nice butter, isn’t it?"

"Excellent," he said gloomily.

"And now you’re vexed.  Is there no pleasing a man?"

"If you’d only stop pleasing—you’d make it easier for me to see a way——"

She was all attention at once, listening.  But he paused and set his
coffee-cup down with an air of finality.

"Stop pleasing!  Sure and you must not ask the impossible," she said,
her mouth full.

But he wouldn’t smile and only glowered into the fire. "I want you to
let me try to pay you what I owe you—to earn your respect and
affection——"

"Well, I’m letting you," she smiled over her coffee-cup.

"I—I’ve gotten you under false pretenses—under the spell of a—a
temporary emotion—a sense of duty," he rambled, saying partly what Harry
might say and partly what was in his own heart.  "I want to win the
right to you, to show you that—that I’m not as rotten as you used to
think me——"  He didn’t know how far the thought was leading and in fear
of it, rose and walked away, suddenly silent.

"Well," he heard her saying, "I don’t think you are."

Was she laughing at him?  He turned toward her again but the back of her
dark head was very demure.  He approached quite close, near enough to
touch her, but she held the coffee-cup to her lips, and then when she
had drunk, sprang up and away.

"What’s the use of thinking about the past or the future, alanah, when
we have the present—with a gorgeous morning and happy Paris just at our
elbows. _Allons_!  You shall wash the coffee-cups and the pot while I
put on my hat, for there’s nothing like sticking something into a man’s
hands to keep them out of mischief. And then we’ll be wandering forth,
you and I, into the realms of delight."

He was glad at the thought of going out into the air, away from the
studio, for here within four walls she was too close to him, their
seclusion too intimate.  If he only were Harry!  He would have taken her
tantalizing moods as a husband might and conquered her by strength and
tenderness.  But as it was, all he could feel beside tenderness was pity
for her innocence and helplessness, and contempt and not a little pity
for himself.

But the air of out-of-doors was to restore him to sanity.  It was one of
those late November days of sunshine, warm and hazy, when outer wraps
are superfluous, and arm in arm, like two good comrades, and as the
custom was in the _Quartier_, they sauntered forth, in the direction she
indicated.  There were to be no vehicles for them, she insisted, for
_fiacres_ cost much and money was scarce. Life seemed to be coursing
very strongly through her veins, and the more he felt the contagion of
her youth and joy, the more trying became the task he had set himself.
But sober though he was, within, he could not resist the spell of her
enthusiasms and he put the evil hour from him.  This day at least should
be hers as nearly as he could make it, without a flaw.  They turned down
the Boul’ Miche’ and into the Boulevard St. Germain, past the Beaux Arts
which she wished to show him, then over the Pont des Arts to the Right
Bank.  They stopped on the quai for a moment to gaze down toward the
towers of Notre Dame, while Moira painted for him the glories that were
France.  He had lived a busy life and had had little time for the
romances of great nations, but he remembered what he had read and,
through Moira’s clear intelligence, the epic filtered, tinctured with
its color and idealism.

[Illustration: THROUGH MOIRA’S CLEAR INTELLIGENCE THE EPIC FILTERED]

Then under the arches of the Louvre to the Avenue de l’Opera, and toward
the banking district.  All Paris smiled.  The blue and brown mingled
fraternally and the streets were crowded.  Except for the uniforms,
which were seen everywhere, it was difficult to believe that hardly a
month ago the most terrible war in history had been fought, almost at
the city’s gates.

When he reached his bank, which was in the Boulevard des Italiens, near
the _Opera_, Jim Horton had to move with caution.  But Moira fortunately
had some shopping to do and in her absence he contrived to get some
checks, and going into the Grand Hotel drew a check signed with his own
name, and payable to Henry G. Horton, and this he presented for payment.
There was some delay and a few questions, for the amount was large—three
thousand francs—but he showed the letters from Moira and Quinlevin.  It
was with a sigh of relief that he went out and met Moira near the
_Opera_.  With a grin he caught her by the arm, exhibiting a large
packet of bank-notes, and led the way down the avenue by which they had
come.

"And where now, Harry dear?"

"I’m hungry.  To the most expensive restaurant in Paris for _déjeuner_.
If I’m not mistaken we passed it just here."

"But you must not—I won’t permit——"

He only grinned and led her inside.

"For to-day at least, Moira, we shall live."

"But to see Paris, _en Anglais_, that is not to live——"

"We shall see."

The tempting meal that he ordered with her assistance, did much to
mollify her prudence and frugality and they breakfasted in state on the
best that the market provided.

Afternoon found them back in the Boulevard St. Germain again, after an
eventful interim which Jim Horton had filled, above her protests, in a
drive through the _Bois_ and a visit, much less expensive, to a _cinema_
show, during which she held his hand.  And now a little weary of all the
world, but happy in each other, they drifted like the flotsam of all
lovers of the _Rive Gauche_ toward the Gardens of the Luxembourg.  They
sat side by side on the balustrade overlooking the esplanade and lawn in
front of the Palace, watching the passers-by, always paired, _piou-piou_
and milliner, workman and _bonne_, _flaneur_ and _grisette_, for the
warm weather had brought them out.  There was no military band playing,
but they needed no music in their hearts, which were already beating in
time to the most exquisite of interludes.  Twilight was falling, the
Paris dusk, full of mystery and elusive charm; lights beyond the trees
flickered into being, and the roar of the city beyond their
breathing-spot diminished into a low murmur.  For a while their
conversation had relapsed into short sentences and monosyllables, as
though the gayety of their talk was no longer sufficient to conceal
their thoughts, which, throwing off subterfuge, spoke in the silences.
At last Moira shivered slightly and rose.

"Come," she said gently, "we must be going," and led the way toward the
exit from the Gardens on the Boulevard St. Michel.  Horton followed
silently—heavily, for the end of his perfect day was drawing near and
with it the duty which was to bring disillusionment and distress to
Moira and ostracism and hell to him.

But when they reached the studio Moira set with alacrity at putting
things to rights and preparing the evening meal.

"We shall be having cold goose and a bit of salad, you extravagant
person," she said.  "I feel as though I had no right to be eating again
for a week."

And so they dined upon the remains of their feast, but warmed by the
cheerful blaze, both conscious of the imminent hour of seclusion and
affinity.  Moira had little to say and in the silences Jim caught her
gaze upon him once or twice as though in inquiry or incomprehension, and
wondered whether in their long day together, he had said or done
anything which might have led her to suspect the truth.  But he had been
cautious, following her leads in conversation, and playing his
discreditable role with rather creditable skill.  The end was near.  He
would see Harry to-night at Javet’s and to-morrow he would tell her, but
it was like the thought of death to him—after to-day—and he failed to
hide from her the traces of his misery.

"I wish that you would tell me what worries you," she said gently, after
a long silence.

He started forward in his chair by the fire.  "Er—nothing," he
stammered, "there’s nothing."

"Yes, there is," she said, evenly.  "I know.  I’ve felt it all day—even
when you seemed most happy."  And then quickly, "Is it me that you’re
worrying about?"

"About you?" he asked to gain time, and then, grasping at the straw she
threw him, "about—you—yes—Moira," he said quietly.

It was the first definite return to the topic of the morning, which they
had both banished as though by an understanding.  But Moira was
persistent.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because—because I don’t deserve—all this—from you."

She smiled softly from her chair nearby.

"Don’t you think I’m the best judge of that?"

"No," he said miserably.  "No."

"You can’t deny a woman the faith of her intuitions."

"And if I proved your intuitions false——"

"Sure and I’d never speak to you again," she put in quaintly.

"It might be better if you didn’t," he muttered, half aloud.

She heard him, or seemed to, for she turned quickly and laid her hand
over his.

"Don’t be spoiling our day, dear," she said earnestly. "God has been
good in bringing you back to me. Whatever happens I won’t be regretting
it."

His fingers caught and pressed hers and then quickly relinquished them
as he rose, struggling for his composure.

"You _will_ regret it," he said fiercely.  "I tell you you can’t thank
God for me, because I’m not what you want to think me.  I’m what the
Harry you knew in America was, only worse—a liar, a cheat——"

He paused as she rose, saving himself the revelation on the tip of his
tongue by the sight of her face in the firelight as she turned.  It was
transfigured by her new faith in him, and in her joy in the possession.
She came to him quickly, and put her soft fingers over his lips, while
the other arm went around his shoulders.

"Hush, alanah," she said.

"No—you mustn’t, Moira," he muttered, taking her hands down and clasping
them both in his.  "You mustn’t."  And then, at the look of
disappointment that came into her eyes, caught both her hands to his
lips and covered them with kisses.  Against the sweet allure of her he
struggled, sure that never mortal man had been so tried before, but
surer still that the love he bore for her was greater than all
temptation.

She looked at him, flushed at the warmth of this formal caress, which
left no doubt of him, but marveling at his renunciation of her lips,
which had been so near.

"I can’t be listening when you call yourself such names."

"You don’t understand—and I can’t tell you—anything more just now.  I
haven’t—the will."

He noted the look of alarm which was a token of the suffering he must
cause her and he led her to his chair and made her sit.

"I can’t make you unhappy—not to-night.  I—I’m sorry you read my
thoughts.  I shouldn’t have let you see."

He had turned to the fire and leaned against the chimney piece.  And
after a moment, clear and very tender, he heard her voice.

"You must tell me everything, alanah.  I’ve got the right to it now."

He shook his head in silent misery.

"But you must."

"No.  I can’t."

"Yes.  You see, things are different with us two. You’ve made me know
to-day how different.  Last night I called to your mind the mockery we’d
been through, calling it marriage.  But it _was_ a marriage, and the
dear God has willed that my heart should beat for you as gently as that
of any mother for its babe.  It softened in the hospital, dear, when I
saw you lying there so pale and weak against the pillows, and I knew
that if God spared you for me I would make amends——"

"_You_—make amends——" he gasped.

"By giving you all that I had of faith, hope and charity.  Whatever you
were, whatever you are, dear, you’re mine, for better or for worse, and
I believe in you.  And your troubles, whatever they are—I’ll take my
half of them."

"You can’t——" he groaned.

"Not if they concern me," she continued simply, "for they’re mine
already."

He took a pace or two away from her.

"You mustn’t speak to me like this."

"And why not?  You’re mine to speak to as I please. Is it that you don’t
love me enough, alanah?"

He knew that she wouldn’t have asked that question, if she hadn’t
already seen the answer in his eyes.

"Love you——?" he began, his eyes shining like stars. And then suddenly,
as though their very glow had burned them out, they turned away, dull
and lusterless.  She watched him anxiously for a moment and then rose
and faced him.

"Well——" she said softly, "I’m waiting for your answer."

"I—I can’t give you an answer," he said in a colorless voice.

"Then I’ll be giving the answer for you, my dear, for I’m not without
eyes in my head.  I know you love me and I’ve been knowing it for many
days.  And it’s the kind of love that a woman wants, the love that gives
and asks nothing."  She paused, breathing with difficulty, the warm
color rising to her temples, and then went on gently, proudly, as though
in joy of her confession. "And I—it is the same with me.  I’ve tried to
make you understand....  It is not for you to give only...."  She halted
in her speech a moment and then came close to him, her clear gaze
seeking his.  "I love you, not for what you have suffered, dear——" she
whispered, "but for what you are to me—not because you are my husband,
but because you are _you_—the only one in all the world for me."

"Moira," he whispered, tensely, as his arms went about her.  "God
forgive me—I worship you."

"God will forgive you that, alanah," he heard her say happily, "since I
do."

He touched his lips to her brow tenderly ... then her lips.

"You love me," he muttered.  "_Me_?  You’re sure that it’s _me_ that you
love?"

Her eyes opened, startled at his tone.

"If it isn’t you that I love, then I’m sure that I can’t be loving any
one at all."

"And you’ll believe in me—whatever happens?"

"I will——" she repeated proudly.  "Whatever happens—since _this_ has
happened to us both."

"Some day—you’ll know," he muttered painfully, "that I—I’m not what I
seem to be.  And then I want you to remember this hour, this moment,
Moira, as it is to me.... I want you to remember how you came into my
arms when I hadn’t the strength to repel you, remember the touch of my
lips in tenderness—and in reverence—Moira ... that love was too strong
for me ... for it has made me false to myself ... false to you...."

She drew away from him a little, deeply perturbed. "You frighten me,
alanah."

"I—I don’t want to.  To-morrow——" he paused, searching for strength to
speak.  But it did not come.

"To-morrow.  What do you mean?"

The repetition of the word seemed like a confirmation of his resolution
and shocked him into action.  Quietly he took her hands down from his
shoulders, kissed them in farewell, and turned away.

"What do you mean?" she repeated.

"That—that to-morrow—you shall judge me."

The tense expression of her anxiety relaxed and she smiled.

"You needn’t fear what that will be."

He did not reply but stood staring fixedly into the fire.  She came
around to him and laid her fingers over his.  "Why should we bother
about to-morrow, dear? To-day was yesterday’s to-morrow and see what’s
happened to us."

"But it shouldn’t have happened," he groaned, "it shouldn’t have
happened."

"Then why should I thank God for it——?"

"Don’t——"

"Yes.  Everything will be right.  A woman knows of these things."

He smiled at her tenderly, but he didn’t attempt to take her in his
arms.

"Come," she said, "let us sit down by the fire near the blaze, and we
will not speak of to-morrow—just of to-day and yesterday and the day
before, when you and I were learning this wonderful thing."

But he did not dare.

"Moira, I—I’ve got to go out for awhile—a matter of duty——"

"Now?" she faltered.

"I must.  An engagement.  I’m in honor bound——"

Now really alarmed, she caught him by the elbows and looked into his
eyes.

"An engagement—to-night!  And to-morrow——?"

His meaning seemed to come to her with a rush.

"Harry——!  This engagement to-night has something to do with us—with me.
To-morrow——!  What is it, Harry?  Speak!"

"I can’t.  I’ve promised."

"I won’t let you go, Harry.  It is something that has come between us——"

"It has always been—between us——" he muttered.

She clung to him and held him as he moved toward the door.

"Nothing—nothing shall come between us.  Nothing can.  I don’t care what
it is.  ’Until death us do part’—Don’t you understand what that means,
Harry?"

The repetition of his brother’s name, the phrase from the marriage
service, gave him resolution to avert his face from the piteous pleading
in her eyes.

"It is because I understand what it means that I have—the courage to
go—now—before you despise me."

"I have said that nothing makes any difference.  I swear it.  I love
you, dear.  There’s some mistake.  You’ll never be different in my eyes,
whatever happens—whatever has happened."

"Good-bye, Moira," he whispered, his hands clasping her arms.

"No, no.  Not now—not to-night.  I knew that to-day was too beautiful to
last.  You—you’ve frightened me. Don’t go—_please_ don’t go."

"Yes," he said firmly.  "I must."

But she was strong, and greater than her strength was her tenderness.

"Look me in the eyes, dear, while I’m pleading with you.  If your love
were as great a thing as mine——"

To look in her eyes, he knew, was fatal.  One brief struggle and then he
caught her in his arms and held her close for a long moment, while he
whispered in broken sentences.

"My love! ... if you hadn’t said that!  You’ve _got_ to know what my
love means ... sacrifice....  This moment ... is mine....  Remember it,
dear—as it is ... its terrible sweetness—its sanctity—remember that, too
... because that’s the essence of it ... sanctity. God bless you,
Moira—whatever happens——"

"Whatever happens?"

As in a daze he straightened and looked around.  Then almost roughly
broke away from her and rushed to the door, taking up his cap and
overcoat on the way.

"Harry——!"

"Good-bye," he called hoarsely as he opened the door and went out.

She rushed after him but he was already running furiously down the
stairs into the dark.

"Harry," she called, "Harry—come back!"

But the name of his brother made him rush on the more blindly, the
echoes following him down into the court and past the open gate of
Madame Toupin.  He hadn’t any definite idea of what he was going to do.
The only thing that he was sure of was that he must get
away—anywhere—away from Moira ... from the reproach of her innocent
eyes, of her confessions, of her tributes of submission and surrender.
On he plunged blindly down the street toward the Luxembourg Gardens,
into the outer darkness where he must lose himself away from
her—to-night, to-morrow,—for all time.

He had failed.  He had trusted himself too far—trusted her too far.
Fool that he was not to have seen that love, begun by trivial
happenings, had been gathering strength and momentum and like an
avalanche had swept down and engulfed them both.  In a moment of
reaction, of guilty triumph, he rejoiced, defiant of the conscience that
drove him forth, that it was him that she loved—not Harry; his lips that
had taken tribute—his ears that had received her confessions, meant for
them alone.

But reason returned after awhile ... and with it the sense of his
dishonor.  The thing was over, definitely. There would be scorn enough
in her eyes for him to-morrow, when he told her all the truth.  He
comforted himself with that thought and yet it brought him a pang too,
for he knew that it was Moira who was to suffer most.

He seemed to be the only person in the gardens, for the night was chill
and a thin mist of rain was falling. From time to time there were
footsteps here and there, and the murmur of voices, and through the
turmoil of his thoughts he was conscious of them vaguely.  But they
meant nothing to him.  He went on into the darkness, his head bowed, in
the conflict of his happiness and his remorse, reaching a dimly lighted
spot near the Rue d’Assas, when he heard quick footsteps behind him.  He
turned just in time to dodge the blow of a stick aimed at his head,
which fell heavily on his shoulder.  He struck out but another man
caught him around the waist, bearing him to the ground.  He struggled to
one knee, striking viciously, but they were too many for him.  He got a
glimpse of an automatic pistol which flashed before his eyes and then
something heavy struck him on the head. The last thing he noted before
losing consciousness was the pale face of the man with the automatic.
It was his brother—Harry.




                             *CHAPTER VII*

                              *AWAKENING*


Moira moved about in a daze, attempting in the commonplaces of the daily
routine to forget the thought of the revelation which she knew could not
be long delayed.  She had lain all night on the divan in the studio,
listening and waiting for the return of the soldier, and at last, toward
daylight, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body, had fallen asleep.
When she awoke, her first impulse was to go to the room in the hallway
and knock.  She opened the door.  The bed had not been occupied.

Slowly, thoughtfully, she went back to the studio and the business of
preparing the coffee—for herself—and for Harry—when he should arrive.
Her mind was filled with strange doubts,—not of him, because she had
learned to have a complete, a perfect faith in this soldier that she had
married, who had left New York under a cloud of uncertainties and
suspicions and had come back to her spiritually reborn.  The doubts in
her mind were those that he had purposely created in it, and fragments
of phrases that he had uttered in their moments of tenderness came back
to alarm and disturb her, because if he hadn’t thought it necessary to
alarm and disturb her, he would have remained silent and permitted
himself to enjoy with her the hours that had been theirs together. Yes
... there was something that had come to thrust itself between them—some
impediment to their union.  She smiled softly at the memory of the
restraint in his caresses, the purity of his smile and the gentleness of
his abnegation....  He had underestimated the quality of her new faith
in him.

Was this shadow out of the past?  Perhaps.  But it wouldn’t matter.
Together they would exorcise it.  Only the future mattered now—their
future together.

She stopped for a moment in her work of putting the studio to rights and
listened.  She thought that she heard a step upon the stair.  She waited
a while and then went to the door and peered out.  No one.  It _was_ a
little cruel that he had not sent her a message—a note, a _petit bleu_
even, telling when she must expect him, whatever his appearance might
bring.  For this, she realized, was the "to-morrow" of which he had
spoken yesterday ... the day of revelations....

She tried to sing at her work but the effort was a failure.  A morbid
fear of the thing that was to happen, if it hadn’t already happened,
obsessed and held her. Nine—ten o’clock—eleven....  With a courage born
of desperation she went into her room and put on her hat.  It was
insupportable, the suspense.  There were some things to buy.  She must
order them.  And leaving word with Madame Toupin that she would return
within the hour, she walked briskly forth, breasting the keen air and
trying to smile.  But even her walk was a failure, and in a short while
she was back, eagerly questioning Madame Toupin.  No, Monsieur le
Lieutenant had not arrived. No doubt he was busy about the ceremony of
the presentation of the medals.  Moira inquired and Madame Toupin showed
her an article in the paper about the honors to be given both French and
American officers next week in the Place de la Concord.  There was his
name, "Henry G. Horton—Croix de Guerre."  Madame Toupin let her have the
paper and she ran up to the studio, where she read it eagerly, thrilling
with pride.

Of course he had his reasons for not coming to her and telling her
everything.  She must be patient—her faith in him unwavering.  He would
come to her to-night again—and whatever he told her was to make no
difference in her love and faith in him—whatever he told her—she swore
it.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Late that night he came.  She had built a fire of fagots against the
chill of the night and was sitting in the big armchair by the hearth
when she heard a knock at the studio door.  With a cry of welcome she
rose and rushed to greet him, throwing herself impulsively into his
arms.

"Harry," she gasped happily, "at last!"

She couldn’t help noting the slight movement of recoil before her
tenderness.  Then, bending his head,

"Hello, Moira," he muttered.

She helped him off with his overcoat and led him over to the fire,
making him sit in the big arm-chair.  He obeyed awkwardly, as one in a
daze, his brows frowning. The light was uncertain, but what she saw
alarmed her.

"Harry!  What has happened to you?" she cried, catching him by the hands
and holding them.  "You’re ill—your fingers are cold—you look as
though——  What has happened?"

"Nothing," he murmured with an attempt at a smile. "Nothing at all."
But even the smile was different, as though the muscles acted in
obedience to an effort.

She had struck a match to make a light.

"What—what are you doing?" he asked.

"I’m going to see what’s the matter with you.  You look sick.  You need
medicine."

"No," he protested.  "I’m just tired.  A drink of whisky if you’ve got
one——"

She went into Barry Quinlevin’s room and brought forth a bottle, a glass
and a pitcher of water.  With a hand that trembled a little, he poured
himself a drink and took it at a draught, and then gave a gasp of
relief.  She had sat down near him and was regarding him with an
expression of intentness and eagerness, though the pucker at her brows
indicated a doubt and a fear.  The gas light was at his back and she
could not clearly see his face, but there was something strange about
him that she had missed at his first entrance, a brooding sullenness,
remote, self-centered, that even the smile could not temper with
sweetness.  And even while she watched he poured out another glass of
whisky.

"What is it, Harry?" she asked.  "Tell me."

"It’s nothing," he said.  "I’m all in, I’ve had some worries.  I’ll be
all right.’

"Have you had something to eat?"

"Yes.  I’m not hungry."

His voice too ... thin, weary, somber.

Now greatly alarmed, she caught his hand in both of hers.

"You must tell me everything, Harry.  I don’t care what it is—I—I’ve got
to know.  You told me that you’d tell me to-day—to-night, and now you
must keep your promise.  I’ve tried so hard not to worry and—and when
you didn’t come back to me last night, I—I was really frightened——"

"Were you?" he said, with a frown.  "I was all right."

"I’m glad.  But it was cruel of you not to send me a message."

"I couldn’t.  But I’m here now, Moira.  So there’s no need worrying any
more."

He put his hand over hers and leaned toward her.  His words, which last
night would have given her happiness, seemed somehow to mean nothing to
her to-night.  For his very presence in this condition was a threat
against her peace of mind.  And his fingers might have been wax for all
that their touch meant to her.

"You—you’re trying to make things seem better than they are," she said
steadily, wondering at her own words. "I—I’m not easily deceived.  Last
night I knew that something had come between us.  I know now that it’s
still between us, Harry, whatever you say."

He turned away toward the glass at his elbow,

"No," he murmured, "that difficulty—has been removed."

He couldn’t repress the smile of triumph as he took his drink, and she
saw it.  It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

"Come," he went on more easily, "aren’t you glad to see me?"

"I—God knows whether I am or not.  Something has happened to you—to
me....  You’ve been through something terrible—since yesterday—something
that has burnt the soul of you.  What is it?  What is it?  The touch of
your fingers—your voice, they come from a distance-like, with nothing of
you in them.  Am I ill that I should be thinking of you so?  Take me in
your arms, Harry, and shield me from this terror that you’re not
yourself, but some one else."

He obeyed, putting his arms around her and holding her close to him.
But at the touch of his lips to hers, she struggled free and faced him
by the hearth, pale as death.  The look of bewilderment at her brows had
intensified into a steady gaze, almost of terror at the thought that had
suddenly mastered her.  And yet she did not dare give utterance to it.
It was so outlandish, so mad and incomprehensible.

She saw the frown of anger, quickly masked in a smile of patience as she
broke away from him, and that confirmed her in her madness.  She was
reading him keenly now from top to toe, missing nothing.  And the
thought that dominated her was that the man with whom she had mated
during the past weeks, the man who had passed through the shadow of
death, reborn in body and spirit, the Harry that she had recently
learned to love—was dead; and that this man who had come to take his
place—this man—was what he might have been if God’s grace had not fallen
on him.  Madness?  Perhaps.  And yet how otherwise would the touch of
his lips, which last night she had sought in tenderness, have been so
repellent to her?  Harry—her husband—unregenerate—the same Harry
that....

She kept her gaze fixed upon him and she saw his look flicker and fade.

If this reality was Harry, her husband, then were all the weeks that had
passed since she found him in the hospital merely a dream, was yesterday
a dream—last night?

"I—I don’t know—what is the matter," she said at last, passing a hand
across her brows.  "I—I am not well, perhaps.  But you—you’re not
the—not the same.  I know it.  The thoughts that I have of you frighten
me."

He forced a laugh and sank into his chair again, lighting a cigarette
with an assumption of ease.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly.

She only stood staring at him, her deep blue eyes never wavering from
his face, which was still averted from the light.  He met that gaze
once—a second time, and then looked away, but still they stared at him,
wide like a child’s, but full of a dawning wisdom.

"You—you are Harry Horton—my—my husband?" she whispered in a kind of
daze.

"Well, rather."

She paused another long moment as though on the verge of a difficult
decision and then spoke searchingly.

"If you are Harry—my husband—then who—_who is the other_?"

Harry Horton started.  "The other——?"

"The other—who was here with me yesterday, who was ill in the hospital
at Neuilly, wounded—the hero of Boissière wood?"

"Moira," he said, rising, "this is serious.  There has been no other
here."

"Yes," she repeated doggedly, "the other has been here—your twin——"  The
word seemed born of her necessity.  "Your twin," she repeated.

He winced at the word and she saw the change in his expression.

"Tell me the truth of this thing," she went on quickly, "_he_ said
yesterday that something was to come between us.  It was _you_."  And
then, as he made no reply, "For God’s sake, speak——"

He turned away from the light.

"I’m your husband," he muttered hoarsely.

"Show me your wounds," she gasped suddenly, reasoning with singular
directness.

He glanced at her once, then bent forward.  There upon the left side of
his head in a shaved spot was a cross of adhesive tape.  She touched it
aimlessly with her fingers and then suddenly, before he could rise, with
a quick deft movement tore it away from his skull.  And quickly as he
straightened she had seen enough.

There was no wound.

"What’s this deviltry?" he muttered, his face an angry red.

But the look that he met in her eyes pierced all subterfuge.

"You have not been wounded," she gasped.

He leaned forward in his fury as though to strike her, but she stood up
to him resolutely until the color faded from his face and he
straightened slowly.

"Well," he muttered with a shrug, "I haven’t."  And then, folding his
arms he found her gaze.  "What of it?" he asked shortly.

She glanced down at the slips of adhesive tape and then let them fall
through her fingers.

"I’m glad," she said coolly, "that you’ve decided not to carry on the
lie——"

He laughed again.  "Well, it looks as though it were hardly worth
while."

Already all her thoughts were beyond him.

"Who—who is the other?" she asked at last, with a cold precision that
might have come from a disembodied spirit.

He waited a moment before replying and then his tone matched her own.

"I can hardly wonder at your interest after the warmth of your greeting
when I came in."

The shot told and she colored painfully.

"Who—who is he?" she repeated with an effort.

He smiled.  "There’s no harm in your knowing, since you’ve guessed the
rest.  He’s my twin brother, Jim Horton."

"Jim," she gasped below her breath.

"We met in the confusion on the battlefield," he went on.  "I had been
shell-shocked and he put on my uniform to lead my men——"

"Shell—shock——"

"Yes.  He took my uniform.  It was a fool proceeding. When I came to,
everything was in confusion.  He would have been courtmartialed and shot
if I had turned up, so I went back to the lines and came to Paris——"

"While he won you the Croix de Guerre.  And you’re going to step into
his shoes——"

"They’re _my_ shoes.  It’s not my fault——"

"And he—what’s to become of him?"

"That’s his lookout.  He merely disappears from the scene."

She leaned heavily against the mantel shelf, breathing fast.  But she
had no reply, and so he went on unpleasantly.

"Now, perhaps you would like to explain."

"I have nothing to explain."

"Not the joy in your eyes when I came in?  The kisses you gave me that
you thought were for him?"

"I ask no forgiveness," she said in a hollow tone.

"Of course you thought he was your husband.  And he let you think so."

"Yes.  He let me think so," she repeated, parrot-like.

And all the while her horror of her situation increased—her anger at
"the other" who had dared to place her in this false position.

She saw her husband’s bony fingers clasp the chair arm.

"You were easily deceived," he went on.  "It’s hardly flattering to me.
I would like to know——"

He stopped suddenly, his question in abeyance before the challenge in
her eyes, aroused by the tone of his voice. She read his thought and
answered him.

"He came here from the hospital night before last.  He wanted to go to a
_pension_ but I would not permit it——"

"That was kind of you.  But I’m not blind.  And your kisses for him were
warm on your lips when you greeted me."

She paled and drooped in her shame.

"What have you to say about that?" he went on tensely.  "Do you think
that I’m the kind to stand by idly and see a man take my wife’s kisses?"

"No.  You’re not," she answered slowly.  "You’ve already answered me."
And then, with a painful effort, "What have you done with him?"

He sank into the armchair with a laugh.  "With _him_? Nothing.  He has
gone.  That’s all."

"I don’t believe you."

"That’s your privilege.  He has gone.  He thought he had gone about far
enough.  And I’m almost ready to believe that you agree with him."

"No," she stammered, pleading against her own will, against her outraged
pride.  "There was a reason for what he did—an honorable reason.  There
must have been."

"The marks of it are not very clear to me.  If you can see anything
honorable in trying to steal the love of one’s brother’s wife——"

He paused, for he saw the danger signals flying in her eyes, and tried
to shrug his anger off.  "What’s the use? I’m no fool.  Whether he tried
to win you or not, it’s clear that neither of you was over-scrupulous
about me."

She didn’t reply at once and when she did speak her words came slowly
and with dignity.

"I don’t know why it is that he should have kept silent about you.  He
has done me a hurt—irreparable.  When I visited him in the hospital, it
was _you_ that I visited, _you_ that I went to cheer, to take my place
by your side. I thanked God when I saw you that you had grown to be—what
you were, what I had wanted you to be.  And I loved you for what you had
suffered."

He started up from his chair.

"Moira——"

"Wait a moment," she insisted, still struggling to give her thoughts
expression.  "I want you to understand.  I thought that it was you who
had come back to me—as I wished you to come back—in honor and pride of
your service of your country.  And instead of you I find—another—with
your wounds, your honors—if it was your brother—in spite of the false
position he’s placed me in—I honor him for those wounds as I would have
honored you—and I honor him still more—because he has thought enough of
his honor and of mine—to give up everything that he has won and gone out
into the darkness—alone."

At this, Harry Horton’s fury relaxed in a laugh.  He poured himself out
another drink.

"You can spare him these new honors."

She glanced at him keenly but he was too angry to notice.

"He went—away—because he had to," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"What I say.  It was getting too hot for him."

The meaning under his words came to her slowly.  She watched him for a
moment curiously, leaning toward him, studying the ugly lines at lip and
brow that he no longer took pains to conceal.  And then she guessed at
the truth.

"What have you done with him?" she whispered.

"N—nothing."

"You lie."  She knew no fear of him now, and leaned forward, clutching
at his shoulder.  "You’ve dealt unfairly with him—you’ve——"  She halted
in terror of her thoughts.

"He got what he deserved," he muttered sullenly.

"What have you done?" she repeated.

"Put him where he won’t mess in _my_ affairs again.  See here, Moira,"
he caught her wrists and held her, "I’m just about fed up with this.
I’ve been patient about long enough.  You’re my wife.  And I’m going to
keep you. Do you think after all I’ve suffered I’m going to stand for
this kind of treatment now?"

"Let go my wrists—you’re hurting me——"

"No——"  Instead, he drew her closer to him.  "I don’t care about this
foolishness with Jim.  I think you can see that you’ve made a fool of
yourself and of me. But I’m willing to forget it, if you’ll do the
square thing. I’m back here and I’m back to stay—and I’m going to make
you love me whether you want to or not."

"Let me go, Harry."

"Kiss me."

"No."  She struggled in his arms, but he only held her the more closely.
"Moira.  I want you.  You’re mine. You belong to me by every law——"

"No—no."

But he mastered her, pressing her throat back and kissing her upon the
lips.  She lay quiet in his arms, weak from the struggle.  He took her
immobility for acquiescence and caught her more tightly in his arms.

"Let me go," she gasped.  "Do you hear?"

A saner man would have caught the warning note.  But Harry Horton was
beyond warnings.  She fought with renewed strength and then, all else
failing, struck him full in the face with her clenched fist.

His arms relaxed in astonishment and she sprang away, putting a small
table between them.

Breathing rapidly, she saw him put his fingers to his cheek and then
look at them in a bewildered way.

"I see," she heard him muttering to himself, "so that’s the way of it——"

The blow brought him to his senses, and he stared at her for a moment as
though at a person he had never seen before.  Her eyes burned like a
blue flame in the pallor of her face and the hand that clutched the
table trembled violently.  And yet it was not the fear of him that made
her tremble, but the fear of herself and of the sudden dreadful
awakening at the edge of the chasm that yawned between them.




                             *CHAPTER VIII*

                               *THREATS*


The silence seemed endless and yet she dared not trust herself to speak.
Her throat closed and it seemed that the blood from her heart was
drowning her.  And yet she watched him tensely, aware of the crisis,
aware too of the revelations that seemed to have laid her heart bare to
all the world.

Her husband reached the large table and poured out what remained of the
whisky.  Then she heard his laugh again, and saw him leering at her over
his glass.

"Lucky dog, I am.  Pretty little devil to come home to. Love tap!"  He
shrugged and raised his glass.  "To our better acquaintance!"

She made no sound, but while her eyes watched, her mind was working
rapidly.  His air was braggart, but she could see that he wasn’t any too
sure of himself.  He had thought to come here and by the ruse of the
adhesive plaster merge his identity into that of his brother Jim. The
lapse of time since she had seen him and the illness had deceived her in
the hospital.  And so he had figured on the remarkable resemblance to
his brother to help him carry off this situation with a careless hand.
But he hadn’t reckoned with the alertness of her woman’s intuitions,
or—God help her—the tenderness of yesterday, which held the image of the
brother so close to her heart. Something of what was passing in her mind
seemed to come to him.

"So you’ve fallen in love with my pretty brother?" he muttered.

"No."

"Complaisant husband—_mari complaisant_.  You wanted Jim to take you in
his arms—and you only had _me_.  You don’t care for my kisses.  Why not?
We’re just alike—as like as two peas in a pod.  What’s the difference?
Come now.  Tell me.  I’ll be a good sport."

"We—we’ve got to come to an understanding——" she gasped at last
desperately.

"Exactly—an understanding.  That’s what I’m getting at——" he laughed and
sank into a chair by the lay figure.  "Oh, don’t be disturbed.  I’m not
going to try to kiss you again.  It’s too dangerous."

She watched him intently while he took out a package of cigarettes and
lighted one.  And then, with a wave of the hand, "An understanding—by
all means.  Fire away."

"It isn’t necessary to go into the past, except to say what you know
already—that our marriage was a horrible mistake.  But we did have an
understanding then—that you were to wait—that you were to—to make
good—and that I was to try to—to care for you."

"Quite so.  And we’ve both failed?"

"Thanks.  We—we have both failed," she repeated. "I can’t say I ever
really believed we should succeed until——"

"Until you went to the hospital."

She bent her head.  "The main thing is," she went on more evenly as she
gathered courage, "that whatever my hopes were for you, now at least
you’ve forfeited all claim to consideration."

"Why?  Because I take a fancy to my own uniform—my own personality?"

"Because you——" she paused to catch her breath, "because you’ve stooped
to something—something unworthy—something vile and terrible, perhaps—God
knows, to get rid of a man—your own brother,—who did you a service; and
because you’ll dare to receive honors that don’t belong to you."  And
then, as he started up, "One moment.  I don’t know what happened on the
battlefield.  If you were injured, it was a glorious—foolish thing Jim
Horton did for you.  But whatever he did and whatever his motive, it
deserves something of you—something different from what you’ve
confessed.  Tell me what you have done with him and I’ll try to believe
you."

"He’s quit, I told you," he protested.  "There wasn’t anything else for
him——"

"Where is he?"

"What does it matter?  He’s out of your life—out of mine."

"No—not out of your life——" she paused.

"What do you mean?"

"Merely that the truth of this thing must be told."

"Impossible.  It would ruin us both."

She gave a little gasp of relief.

"Tell me where he is."

"He’s safe——"

She deliberated a moment.

"You’ve got to prove it to me.  He said he was coming back to the studio
to-day.  Instead, you came—in the uniform he wore.  He didn’t give it to
you willingly——"

"Yes," he lied sullenly.  "He gave it to me.  There wasn’t anything else
to do when I turned up.  He realized he couldn’t stay here—with you."
And then, "Oh, he was square enough about it."

There was a long pause.  He didn’t ring true.  She had almost forgotten,
as he had, what he had said in the fury of his jealousy.  She was aware
that he had risen unsteadily from his chair and was approaching her.

"So here, Moira," he said in an ingratiating tone.  "I’m not a bad
sort—really I’m not.  I—I was out of my head awhile ago—the way you came
up to me, thinking I was him.  I guess I wanted to hurt you—the way you
had hurt me.  I’m sorry.  I won’t touch your fingers even, if you don’t
want me to.  I was a rotter to try to kiss you.  I ought to have known
you didn’t want me to—when I—I had had one or two too many.  I’ve been
worried too—devilish worried about the whole thing.  Let’s forget it and
talk the thing over sensibly.  There may be a way out.  I don’t want any
honors that don’t belong to me, but I don’t want to be dismissed from
the service, either, or shot—on Jim’s account.  But we’ve got to keep
this thing quiet."

She understood his drift.  The facts in her possession made her
dangerous.

"It can’t be kept quiet, so long as Jim Horton is in danger."

"Who said he was in danger?  I said he’d quit——"

"But you lied.  He hasn’t quit.  He isn’t the quitting kind.  He was to
have come to me to-day, and told me the truth—I didn’t know what it all
meant then.  But I do now.  He has got to have his chance."

She saw him glare at her somberly.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Take me to him—to-night."

"That’s impossible.  I couldn’t find him."

"Yes.  You can find him.  Or he would have found me."

He smeared out the ash of his cigarette in a receiver and rose, his face
livid.

"You seem very sure of him—and of yourself.  And if I don’t find him for
you, what are you going to do?"

"I shall tell what I know to the proper authorities."

He stood for a moment balked and then before she knew what he was about
he stumbled to the studio door and turning the key in the lock put it in
his pocket.  She was frightened by the significance of the action, and
ran quickly toward the door of her own room.  He turned and moved to
intercept her but awkwardly and she slammed the door in his face,
catching the bolt on the inside.

She was frightened now, desperately frightened, but resolved to escape
and tell what she knew.  The brother—Jim—was in danger—a prisoner
somewhere—otherwise he would have come to her.  Much as his silence had
injured her, deeply as her pride was hurt at the position in which he
had placed her, she knew now that he had intended to tell the truth from
his own lips and warn her of Harry’s return before he left her and went
away alone. He loved her....  It was his love that had sought to spare
her the humiliation of this very knowledge that had come to her.
Shell-shock!  There was another reason for the substitution.  What?  But
whatever it was, there seemed little difficulty in choosing between
them.  The other—Jim—the man she loved ... she acknowledged it in every
impulse ... would have come to her.  She had to find him.  Just what she
meant to do she didn’t know, except to get away from Harry.  He was
hammering on the door now—pleading with her.  But she didn’t answer.
Catching up her hat and a heavy coat, she went quietly to her own door
into the hall, and, while he still hammered and pleaded, fled quickly
down the stairs and into the lodge of the _concierge_.

Madame Toupin, aroused suddenly from her doze, started up in amazement.

"Madame Horton, what is it?" she asked in French.

"It is a game we play, Madame Toupin.  You shall hide me in your closet.
And when Monsieur le Lieutenant comes you shall say that I have run out
into the street.  You understand?"

"_Parfaitement, Madame.  Ah, les jeux d’amour. Entrez vite_."  And she
opened the door of the closet which Moira entered quickly.

Then Madame Toupin with a smile of wisdom composed herself to read her
paper.  And in a moment a clatter of boots upon the stairway and the
sound of footsteps upon the paving of the courtyard announced the
approach of the officer.  Through a crack in the door Moira listened to
the conversation which Madame conducted with her amiable smile, and
presently Harry Horton withdrew frowning and went out hurriedly into the
Rue de Tavennes.

But while she stood upright in the closet listening, Moira had
formulated a plan.  It was clear from the tone of Harry’s voice and his
haste to go that her escape had frightened him.  For his judgment was
not amiss when he decided that Moira was fully capable of carrying out
her threat to tell the whole story to the military authorities.  But
instead of clinging to her original intention, a new idea had come to
her.

If she followed him, she could perhaps get a clue to the mystery of Jim
Horton’s disappearance.  She couldn’t understand yet—couldn’t make
herself believe that this man that she had married could be capable of a
thing so vile.  But the evidence—his own words stammered in his fury,
were damning.  The familiar formulas seemed to have no bearing now.  The
war had made men demi-gods or devils and Harry....  It did not seem very
difficult to decide to-night what Harry was.

She slipped on her heavy coat and the hat she had brought and with a
word of explanation and caution to Madame Toupin, she went out into the
street.  Far down upon the opposite sidewalk she saw a tall figure
striding away into the darkness.  She followed, keeping at a distance,
her coat collar turned up and her broad-brimmed hat pushed well down
over her eyes.  She hurried along, keeping in the shadow of the opposite
side of the street, trembling with the excitement of her venture and
wondering what was to be its outcome, but sure from his gait that the
situation she had created had developed in Harry Horton’s hazy brain
some definite plan of action.  She noticed too that he no longer swayed
or stumbled and that he glanced furtively to left and right at the
street corners, peering back toward her from time to time.  But she
matched her wits to his, crouching into corners as he turned and then
running forward breathlessly in the dark places, keeping him in sight.
He turned into the narrow reaches of the _Rue de Monsieur le Prince_,
past the _Lycée_ and the _École de Médicine_, and crossed the Boulevard
St. Germain into the network of small streets in the direction of the
river, twisting and turning in a way which confirmed her belief in the
dishonesty of his purposes.  It was now long after midnight, and the
streets into which they moved were quiet and almost deserted.  From the
direction of the _Boule’ Miche’_ came a rumble of vehicles, the glare of
lights, the distant grunt of an automobile-horn, the clatter of a cab
horse down an echoing street.  The neighborhood was unfamiliar to her, a
part of old Paris near the _Isle de la Cité_, where the houses, relics
of antiquity, were huddled into ghostly groups, clinging to one another,
illumined fitfully by murky bracket-lamps which only served to make
their grim façades more somber and fantastic.  Dark shapes emerged from
darker shadows and leered at her—evil figures, bent and bedraggled, or
painted and bedizened, the foul night-creatures of the city, the
scavengers, the female birds of prey, the nighthawks, the lepers.  Twice
she was accosted, once by a vile hag that clutched at her arm with
skinny talons, and again by a man who tried to bar her way, but with a
strength born of her desperation she thrust him aside and ran on, her
gaze seeking the tall figure that she followed.

More than once she lost sight of him as he plunged deeper and deeper
into the maze and she paused trembling in the shadows, not knowing which
way to turn, but gathering courage again hurried on to catch the glint
of a street light on his brown overcoat in the distance.

Above the roofs, almost hanging over her, she caught a glimpse of the
grim towers of Notre Dame, the sentinels of a thousand years of time,
and the sight of them gave her courage in this region of despair.  With
an effort she threw off her terror of the evil that seemed to hang in
every shadow, trying to remember that this was Paris, her Paris, with
familiar places close at hand; and that this man whom she followed was
no creature of the middle ages, but Harry, her husband; that this was
the Twentieth Century, and that here was the very heart of the
civilization of the world.  But the facts that had come to her were
amazing, and Harry’s confessions damnable.  It was clear that his
position was desperate and his intentions none less so.  Here somewhere,
hidden, she believed, Jim Horton lay, helpless and injured, if not by
his brother’s hand by that of some one in his employ.  It was the only
answer to the riddle of his failure to come back to her.  She must find
him—before they took him away—before they ... Her thoughts terrified her
again.  Harry wouldn’t dare.  He was a coward at heart.  She knew it
now.  Besides, there must be some spark of decency and manhood left to
restrain him from so desperate, so terrible an expedient to save
himself.

She crept cautiously to the corner of a small street into which Harry
Horton had turned.  It was scarcely more than an alley-way—a vestige of
the old city, hedged in by squat stone houses with peaked roofs,
deserted it seemed and unoccupied.  Beyond she could see the _Quai_, the
loom of the Hôtel Dieu and Notre Dame.  The house at which he had
stopped was but a few yards from the river front.  She stole into the
blackness of an angle of wall and watched.  He was knocking upon the
door—three quick taps followed by two slower ones.  For awhile he waited
impatiently and then, as no one answered the summons, he tried the
window and then started up a small passage at the side not twenty feet
from where she crouched.

Her pulses were throbbing violently, but the terror of her surroundings
had passed.  And she tried to convince herself that she did not fear
Harry....  And yet she hesitated to confront him, fascinated by her
discovery.... The brother—Jim—was here—she was as sure of it as though
she had seen him.  She knew that she must intercede in some way, but she
was very helpless.  How many were there in this house?  And if she
revealed herself, would not the warning give them time to carry out
whatever plan they had in mind?  And so she crouched watching,
breathless and uncertain.

She saw him go back to the door and repeat the knock more loudly,
cursing under his breath and, calling a name at the key-hole.

"Tricot!" he called.  "Tricot!  Tricot!"

And in a moment she heard a sound at the door, which was opened a few
inches.

"_C’est moi, Tricot_," she heard Harry say, and then the door was opened
wide, giving her a glimpse of a short man with tousled hair and a
diabolic face, holding a lantern.

"_Oh, Monsieur_——" growled the man with the lantern, stepping aside as
Harry Horton entered.  And just as Moira sprang up, her husband’s name
on her lips, the door was closed and bolted.  She ran to it and then
paused in uncertainty, trying to plan what it was best to do. She felt
very small, very helpless, for the sight of the villainous looking man
with the lantern frightened her terribly.  He seemed to typify all the
evil in all the world—to explain in a glimpse all that was sinister and
terrifying in the disappearance of Jim Horton.  An ugly creature of the
world of underground, an _apache_!  There were others like him here.
And Harry....

There was no time to be lost.  Her thoughts seemed to clear, her courage
to return as she cautiously returned by the way that she had come—out
into the wider street, up which she hurried, turning in the direction of
the _Boule’ Miche’_.  Her one idea now was to find a policeman,—any one
with a vestige of authority.  Men she met but she shrank away from them
as she saw what they were and what they thought she was.  Ten—fifteen
minutes of rapid searching without result and she turned toward the Quai
and, failing there, over the _Petit Pont_ to the Island and the
Prefecture de Police.  It was curious that she had not thought of it
before.  The buildings were dark but she found at last a man in uniform
to whom excitedly she told her story.  He listened with maddening
politeness and at last took her to an office where several other men in
uniform were sitting around a stove. More alarmed than ever at the
passage of time, she told her story again.  Here she seemed to make some
impression at last, for an older man, who sat at a desk, finally aroused
himself and gave some orders.  And in a few moments with two of the
policemen she was leading the way back to the _Quai St. Michel_.  She
was almost running now in her eagerness so that the men had to take
their longest strides to keep up with her, but more than ten minutes had
already passed, it seemed an eternity to Moira, and there was still some
distance to go.

"What was the name this man spoke at the door?" asked one of the
policemen.

She told him.

"Ah, Tricot!  _Parbleu_!  I think perhaps, Mademoiselle, that there may
be some reason in your anxiety."

"You know——?"

"An _apache_ of the old régime, Mademoiselle.  We would do well to find
him."

And so, explaining her fears, but not yet revealing all the reasons for
them, she led the way down the streets by which she had come and to the
house which Harry Horton had entered.

The older man knocked loudly upon the door.  There was no response.
Again.  Silence.  The other man went up the alley way on the side and
called to them.  There was a shutter and a window open.  Without
hesitation, he drew a weapon and crawled over the sill, the other man
following, leaving Moira alone.  She listened, as they moved about
inside, saw the glint of an electric torch and then heard the bolts of
the door shot back and the police officer calling to her.

"Enter, Mademoiselle," he said, when she had come around.  "You are sure
that this is the house?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"There is no one here.  The house is deserted.  It is a street of
deserted houses."

"That is impossible——" she stammered.  "With my own eyes, less than an
hour ago, this Tricot met the other at the door."

"_Allons_!  We will search a little further, then."

She followed them up the rickety stairway and then they found evidences
of recent occupation—two pallets of straw—some food—a bottle containing
absinthe.

"Mademoiselle, you are right.  This bottle is not yet empty.  There’s
something suspicious here."

And now moving with more rapidity they explored the house thoroughly,
descending at last into the cellar, with, weapons drawn, Moira,
half-hoping, half-fearing, following just behind them, her gaze
searching the shadows.  The place smelled of the earth and the walls
were damp to the touch, but a quick examination with the torch showed
the marks of many foot-prints in the earthen floor.  The astonishing
feature of the cellar was its size, for it seemed to extend under two
houses, and its vaulted ceiling of rough stone of great antiquity was
upheld by huge piers, that might at one time have supported the walls of
a great edifice.  At first they could make out nothing but a litter of
papers, bottles and packing cases, but as the torch of the police
officer searched the shadows in a distant corner, they heard his
exclamation of astonishment.  There was another pallet of straw here
covered with rags and quite distinctly there came to their nostrils the
odor of chloroform.  Moira peering over the shoulders of the man with
the light saw him bend over and pick up a rag and examine it carefully.
There were dark stains upon it.  And then with another exclamation he
picked up some pieces of rope.

"Some one lay here but a short while ago," he muttered positively, "tied
hand and foot.  The bed is still warm."

"They can’t have gone far then——"

"But the door was bolted on the inside——"

"The window——"

"There would hardly have been time, is it not so, Mademoiselle?"

"I don’t know," whispered Moira in dismay.  "Is there no outlet to this
place?  There must be.  The light, Monsieur—yonder, in the corners
beyond the stone-work——"

The man with the torch, his professional instincts now thoroughly alive,
obeyed.  They sounded the walls, first one side and then on the other,
coming at last, in the further corner, toward the river, upon a stone
arch over some steps leading into a dark opening.  The man who held the
light suddenly extinguished it and a warning sound came from his lips.

"Listen," he whispered.

Scarcely able to breathe, Moira obeyed.  From the passage-way at a
distance, there came the sounds of voices.

"Come, follow me, Dupuy!  Mademoiselle had better remain."

And with that, turning his light into the dark hole, he descended, the
other following.  But the thought of remaining alone in this terrible
house frightened her and she clutched at the hand of the second
policeman.

"I dare not stay here, Monsieur.  I must go with you."

"_Bien_.  But I warn you it may be dangerous."

And yet what could be more dangerous than remaining in the cellar of the
_apache_, Tricot?  With shaking limbs she followed down the passage,
stumbling and clinging to the shoulder of the gallant policeman.  The
man who led them disappeared beyond a turn in the passage, but they
reached it and as they turned the corner felt the chill of the night air
beating in their faces.  And in a moment they came out on the shore of
the river near a boat landing.

"_Tonnerre de Dieu!_" shouted the man with the light, and started
running toward the steps that led to the Quai above.  The other had
reached the boat landing and stared for a moment down into the dark
mists above the river. Then he ran up the steps after his companion.

Frightened and mystified, Moira followed up the steps where after a
moment the two men joined her.

"We have missed them.  We were too late——"

"But the captive—the prisoner," pleaded Moira, in an agony of
apprehension.

"That’s the point—the prisoner," said the younger man.  "Wait a moment,
Mademoiselle."

And he ran down the steps to the boat landing again, peering eagerly
down the stream.  Already far away, merely a blotch in the shadows
beyond the Pont Neuf, there was a boat at the Quai du Louvre.

"_Vite_, Dupuy.  There may be yet time."

And the two of them started running toward the distant bridge, leaving
Moira to follow as fast as she could.

When Moira reached them on the opposite side of the river, breathless
and almost dead of apprehension, they were questioning a man on the Quai
du Louvre.  He reported that a man had attempted suicide by drowning and
that a woman had saved him just as he was about to leap into the water.
She herself had asked his assistance and together they had hailed a
passing _fiacre_ in which the woman had driven away.

"Did you notice anything extraordinary about the rescued man?"
questioned Dupuy.

"Nothing, except that he was very pale.  Also that there was an odor of
chloroform on his clothing."

"Chloroform!  Are you sure?"

The man shrugged.  "You may smell for yourself."

And he extended a hand and arm upon which the odor was unmistakable.

She heard the officer take the address of the witness and then turn to
her.

"Mademoiselle is no doubt weary.  There is nothing more that can be done
to-night.  If you will permit me to conduct you home."

A woman?  Who?

Moira nodded in a bewildered way.

"A _fiacre_, Monsieur, if you please," she stammered. "I—I am very
tired."




                              *CHAPTER IX*

                        *PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND*


As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was a
_gamine_.  She liked the warm nest in the Boulevard Clichy, with which
the Duc de Vautrin had provided her, because it satisfied a craving for
the creature comforts which she had been so long denied, and because it
filled the hearts of other young women of her acquaintance with envy.
But she was not happy.  After all was she not young and had she not her
life to live?

It was enough indeed to have grown in a few short years from a seller of
flowers and a model for the figure into a lady of fashion, but her heart
was still in the _Rive Gauche_ and there she went when she pleased,
searching out her old haunts, and the companions of her days of want,
with whom she could throw off the restraint of her gilded cage and laugh
with an open throat at the ancient jests and dance her way again into
happiness. Life she loved, all shades of it, from the somber in which
she had been born to the brilliant artificial high lights of café and
restaurant.  All sorts of people she knew—cochers, bandits, dancers,
poet-singers, satirists, artists, journalists, and she rejoiced in them
for what they taught her of the _grande vie_.

Quite unhampered by morals of any sort, trusting entirely to her
impulses, which were often good, the creature of her birth and
surroundings, she was a pupil in the school of the world, speaking,
after a fashion, three languages.  She discovered that she had a brain,
and the war had made her think.  Without the help of the Americans,
France must fall, and so when they came she rejoiced in their splendid
soldierly appearance and the promise they gave of rescue and help for
France.  She met Harry Horton in the Taverne du Pantheon.  He was quite
drunk and didn’t seem to have any Hôtel, so she took him to the
Boulevard Clichy in a _fiacre_ and put him to bed.  According to her own
lights, it was the only natural, the only decent thing for her to do.

Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, on
excellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom Barry
Quinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman’s income.  In
a reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin’s secret. And
as the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing her
the money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned against
her patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemed
to promise much.  That she repented of her disloyalty the next day when
Monsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, who
saw a way in which she could be useful to him.  Also, Harry Horton was
sure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make a
confidante of a weathervane.

When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged her
pretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory.  He had been
her _bel ami_, but ... _enfin_, even in the _Quartier_, one got drunk
like a gentleman.

The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment.
The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, for
reasons of his own, had reduced her allowance.  The familiar figure in
brown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of Monsieur
Valcourt.  He represented a part of life that she could not taste—and
this very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero of
Boissière wood.  And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, in
spite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake.  A
hero.  _Saperlotte_!  Of course she was glad to see him.

But the reserve in his manner had mystified her.  He was like another
man.  He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong.  A
little _triste_, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touched
with the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose.  But
Piquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years for
nothing.  A few months of warfare would not change a man’s soul.  What
was this strangeness?  What had come over him?  He had packed her home
in a _fiacre_, just when she was becoming most interested in this
extraordinary transformation.  She had never before suffered from pique,
and it annoyed her that he shouldn’t have been more eager to resume
their ancient fellowship.  Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouch
hat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? His
figure too had a familiar look.  His manner had been urgent—threatening
even, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to the
outer darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.

And he had not written her or telephoned.  All day she waited in,
expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest and
her disappointment.  Also, meditation gave her a perspective.  They were
curious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a striking
difference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk in
the Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during the
few moments they had been together at Javet’s, came to her now with
startling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of the
hands, their touch on hers—and _parbleu_!

She started upright as a thought came to her like a _coup de foudre_.
The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon.  It
had bothered him only a few days and it had never been set.  She
remembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wine
glass at Javet’s, remarking how strong they were. _The little finger was
straight_!

It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with such
significance.  It was also curious that she hadn’t noticed it at the
time.  Could she be mistaken?  When night came and she had not heard
from Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving word
where she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight to
the café of Gabriel Pochard.

She and Gabriel were friends of long standing.  Many years ago, when she
was but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around the
studios with long hair, for prophets and saints.  But he had married
some money and opened the _café_ which bore his name.

It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons
not of the _vrai type_, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcasts
of all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relished
a particular kind of seclusion.  For here no questions were asked.  It
was at Gabriel Pochard’s that Harry Horton spent much time, for he had
come with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had known
Pochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerôme.  It was
here that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and information
which would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that had
come rising to her mind.  She had the French passion for the mysterious,
the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant to
leave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of the
problem.

She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and the
café was blue with tobacco smoke.

"All, _mon vieux_," she said in the argot.  "You wear a worried look.
Has Leon Javet been stealing away your customers?"

"Ah, _c’est toi, petite_!  What brings you here alone?"

"_Ma foi_, my legs, if you would know the truth—and a woman’s
curiosity."

"_Tiens_!  That is nothing new.  How can I help you?"

"I want you tell me what you know of ’Arry ’Orton."

Gabriel frowned and glanced about him cautiously.

"Sh——," he said warningly.  And then, in a whisper, "Who told you that
Monsieur ’Orton was here?"

She laughed.  "Did I not see him myself with my own eyes last night?"

"Where?"

"At Javet’s."  And then, in a meaning tone, as she looked him in the
eyes, "Him—or another."

He glanced at her, his face, which still showed traces of great beauty,
twisted unpleasantly, and then beckoned her to follow him through a door
nearby into his office. And when they were seated, "What did you mean,
Piquette?"

"What I said," put in Piquette, lighting a cigarette. "Him—or another."
And then, as Gabriel’s frown deepened, she shot straight at her mark.
"There are two ’Arry ’Ortons, Gabriel Pochard," she said coolly.

The effect of her words on Gabriel was not lost on her. He looked around
him furtively and caught her by the wrist.

"Who told you this?"

"It’s true, then?" asked Piquette.

"Who told you?"

"My own eyes.  The visitor at Javet’s had no twisted little finger."

"And no one else has noticed?"

"Not so far as I am aware."

Gabriel Pochard gave a great gasp of relief.

"_Ma foi_, child, but you have sharp eyes!"

"If they weren’t sharp, _mon vieux_, I would still be selling flowers
outside the Café Soufflet.  Tell me the truth of this thing, Gabriel,"
she said, settling herself in her chair with the air of one who has come
to stay, "it is what I came here to find out."

He glanced at her, then frowned at the floor and shook his head.

"Oh, yes, _mon vieux_, you will tell me that it is none of my business,"
she said firmly.  "_Eh, bien_, it is my business—my right to know."  And
then, as he remained silent, "You are aware that I am not one to be
refused."

Gabriel rose from the chair at the desk and paced up and down the narrow
apartment, but still he did not speak. And then at last, "What devil put
it into your head to come here inquiring of this matter?"

"The devil himself—I——," she said with a gesture. And then, with a
little shrug and a sober mien, "You may trust me, Gabriel."

He stopped and sat in his chair again.

"_Eh, bien_!  As you have said.  It is your right.  But it is no matter
to be breathed outside this room."

"It will not be the first time I have kept your secrets."

"I should not tell you."

"Speak——"

Gabriel Pochard shrugged.  "Last night, late, a man came in here to see
me, a man wearing old clothing and a three weeks’ growth of beard.  It
was Monsieur ’Orton. He was very much excited and told me a remarkable
story that rivals the tales of Monsieur Hugo."

"Yes, I understand.  Go on."

"He said he was wounded upon the battlefield at night, when out of the
darkness appeared just beside him the very image of himself.  It was his
twin brother, whom he had not seen for five years, a brother with whom
he did not speak."

"Ah—it was what I thought——"

"The brother took from Monsieur ’Orton his uniform and went on, leading
his men to victory.  It was the fight of Boissière Wood.  You have
heard?"

Piquette nodded.

"This interloper took Monsieur ’Orton’s uniform, his rank and identity,
and now comes back to Paris—to Monsieur ’Orton’s own apartment, and
Monsieur ’Orton’s wife——"

Piquette had started to her feet, her fingers grasping the shoulder of
Gabriel.

"His _wife_!" she broke in.

"_Parfaitement_, his wife," repeated Pochard.  "You did not know?"

"He never told me," she stammered.  "Who——?"

"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," said
Pochard with a shrug.

"You’re sure?"

"As certain as I sit here, _ma petite_."

Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.

"Go on," she muttered.

"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur ’Orton
demanded of his brother to relinquish his identity.  He refused.
Monsieur ’Orton came to me.  It was an act of injustice.  Monsieur
’Orton was outcast. Something had to be done.  I helped him.  _Voilà
tout_."

Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while.  As
Pochard finished, she searched his face keenly—her frown deepening.

"There’s something at the back of this, Pochard.  Tell me the rest."

Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder.  "I do
not like it, you understand.  It has worried me all day—an American—a
soldier.  One cannot tell what would happen if the police——"

Piquette understood at once.  Her fingers closed again over the arm of
Pochard.

"What have you done with him?"

Pochard bent forward, whispering.  "He lies in the house in the Rue
Charron by the river.  A knock on the head—_c’est tout_—and chloroform."

Piquette was silent, staring at the wall.  Then she fixed her wide gaze
on the conspirator.

"Bah!  You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch you
sure.  How much?"

"Two thousand francs."

"And you get half," contemptuously.  "Who did it?"

"Tricot and _Le Singe Anglais_."

"Tricot!"

Piquette got up and paced the length of the room, turning quickly.

"You are an idiot, Pochard," she stormed at him furiously.  "An
American!  Don’t you know what you have done?  It is the hero of
Boissière Wood that you have struck down.  An American—who has risked
his life for you and me——"

"But Monsieur ’Orton——"

"He has lied to you.  I do not believe——"  She broke off, caught Pochard
by the arm again and shook him. "When did this happen?"

"L-late last right——"

"And ’Arry ’Orton?"

"Was here—this afternoon——"

"Drunk——?"

Pochard shrugged.  "No—not bad.  He was in uniform."

"Where is he now?"

"I think he has gone to find his wife."

"His wife!"

Piquette sank into her chair, took out a cigarette and smoked rapidly
for a moment.  And then,

"What were you going to do with this—this twin brother?"

"I?"  Pochard gave a gesture of abnegation.  "Nothing. I am through.
That is the affair of Monsieur ’Orton."

"All, _mon ami_, but you can’t wriggle out so easily. You’ve received
money—blood money——"

Pochard put his hands deep in his pockets and extended his long legs,
frowning at the floor.

"I am sorry now.  It is a bad business——"

"The man is safe?"

"So far, yes——"

"But Tricot?"

"He waits for orders."

Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with an
air of decision.

"This American must be liberated at once!"

Pochard rose and faced her.  "It’s too late," he growled,

"No.  It’s not too late.  I know the sort that Tricot is—with the river
just there—at his elbow."

"I can do nothing.  That’s what worries me.  Tricot and _Le Singe_ will
look after their own skins now."

"You mean," she paused significantly.  "The Seine——"

He nodded somberly.

"It is the solution of many problems."

She caught him by the shoulders and shook him.

"But not of _this_ problem.  You understand.  It will not do.  I will
not have it."

"You," he laughed.  "What can you do?"

"You shall go with me now—and liberate him——"

He took her hands from his arms roughly and turned away.  "No," he
growled, "not I.  Have I not told you that I am through?"

"Yes.  You will be through, when the police come to find out what you
know about the matter."

"They will not find out."

"Don’t be too sure.  ’Arry ’Orton is a fool when he drinks.  He will
betray you——"

Pochard scowled.  "And betray himself——?"

"You can’t be too sure."

"I can’t.  But I must trust to luck."

Piquette stamped her foot.

"I’ve no patience with you."  And then, "You will not liberate him?"

"No.  I refuse to have anything more to do with the matter."

"You will regret it."

"Perhaps.  That will be my own lookout."

She stared at him in a moment of indecision, and then with a shrug,
turned toward the door into the café.

"You are an idiot, Gabriel."

Pochard grunted as he followed her.

"You will say nothing?"

"_Naturellement_," scornfully.  "I am not an informer. But I should like
to knock you on the head too."

She put her hand on the knob of the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the Rue Charron."

He caught her hand away from the knob and held her.

"You——!  Why should you intrude in this affair?"

"It amuses me."

"I warn you that you will run into danger."

"They will not harm me."

"You must not go."

"Yes.  I shall save you from the results of your cupidity—since you will
not save yourself."

"I will not permit it——"

"You have nothing to say in the matter—since you’ve washed your hands of
it."

She threw his hand off and opened the door.

"Piquette!" he called, but she went rapidly into the other room before
he could intercept her, ran quickly out into the street and disappeared
in the darkness.

She was throbbing now, deep with purpose.  It was only in moments like
these that life ran swiftly in her veins.  The excitement of the venture
was like a tonic, and she went on rapidly toward the _Boule’ Miche’_.

As she walked she went over in detail the conversation she had had last
night in the Café Javet.  It was not surprising that she had not guessed
the truth last night, for the new Harry Horton’s information as to his
brother’s affairs had blinded her to the physical differences such as
there were, between them.  Perhaps it was the glamor that his heroism
had thrown about him, perhaps it was his gravity, or perhaps the depth
of his voice or the penetrating quality of his steady gaze, but she had
not been able to deny all day a new and extraordinary appreciation of
the newcomer, whose virtues, half guessed at, seemed to bring Harry
Horton’s deficiencies into higher relief.  And the mystery of his sudden
appearance and the strange tale of Gabriel Pochard provided the added
touches to stimulate her interest in him.  As she had told Gabriel,
there was something back of this mystery of dual identity, and she meant
to discover the truth.  As to one thing she was resolved, the beautiful
young soldier of the Café Javet should not die, if there was anything
that she could do to prevent it.

Tricot was a bad one.  So was _Le Singe Anglais_.  Either of them was
capable of anything.  She was acquainted with them both, but she did not
fear them, for she knew the freemasonry of their evil calling and had
even been in the little room of Gabriel Pochard when they had discussed
their business affairs.  But this matter concerned a human being in whom
she was interested.  No harm should come to him.  It could not be.  She
wanted him for herself.

And so at last, having decided that she must move with caution and leave
the rest to chance and opportunity, she went toward the house in the Rue
Charron.  She had been there before some years ago with Gabriel Pochard,
when the boat-load of champagne from up the river had been smuggled in.
Thus it was that she knew the secret of the old passage to the river
bank, hidden from the opposite shore by a barricade of old timber.  So
instead of approaching the house by way of the Rue Charron she went down
toward the river and turned in to the Quai des Augustins.  There were a
few people about but she watched her opportunity and when she reached
the steps descended to the boat landing, where she found herself alone
and unobserved, hidden from the lights above by the shadow of the
retaining wall.  Here she paused a moment to think and plan.  According
to all the rules of the underworld the prisoner would be in the cellar
of the house in the Rue Charron.  But if Tricot or _Le Singe_ were
taking turns guarding him there, her problem would be difficult.
Because it meant a scene in which her persuasions and promises of
immunity might fail, and Tricot could be ugly.  Money?  Yes, perhaps, if
everything else failed.  But she had a sense of pride in the belief that
with luck favoring her she could accomplish this rescue alone.

At any rate she meant to make the attempt—and so, she found the end of
the tunnel and with some difficulty and damage to her gloves and
clothing, wrenched at the boarding.  The timbers were old and rotten, as
she knew, and it was not difficult to make a passage.  It was so easy in
fact that she began to believe that Tricot had more wisely kept his
prisoner upstairs, but as she moved forward cautiously, one hand
steadying her progress over the rough masonry, she caught the first dull
glimmer of yellow light.  As she came to a turn in the passage she
paused a moment and then stole forward quietly, to the foot of the
steps, peering up into the cellar.

At first she could see nothing but a litter of boxes, bottles and waste
paper, and then coming up one step at a time, she searched the recesses
of the cavern one by one. A smoke-stained lantern burned dimly near the
foot of the flight of steps, leading to the floor above, but there was
no sign of any one watching.  And so she emerged cautiously from the
dark hole and stood up.  In a moment she found what she was looking for.
Huddled in the corner to her right, she made out the contours of a human
figure.  With another quick glance toward the steps and a moment to
listen for any sound above, she approached noiselessly.  He was trussed
with a rope from head to foot, his hands tied behind him.  But he was
the man she sought.  She bent over him, noticing his heavy breathing and
the odor of the drug.  At the touch of her hand he stirred slightly and
she saw the blood upon his face.

"Monsieur!" she whispered quickly, "it is I—Piquette—and I have come to
help you."

He stirred again and tried to move, but the drug was heavy in his blood.
So she shook him furiously, trying to arouse him.

"It is Piquette," she whispered again.

His lips moved and his eyelids fluttered open.  "Piquette——!" he
muttered, and then breathed stertorously.

This was encouraging.  She shook him again and again, fighting the
lethargy.  He moved and groaned.  It seemed almost certain that his
guardians must hear him.

"Sh——," she whispered, "Silence!"

Meanwhile she was struggling with the knots of the cord that bound his
wrists.  At last she managed to get his arms free and moved them
backward and forward with all her strength, trying to restore his
circulation.  Then she unfastened the cords at his feet and pulled his
knees up, thumping him from time to time and whispering at his ear.

"Wake up, Monsieur!  You mus’ get out of dis wit’ me——"

His lips moved again.  "Who——"

"It’s Piquette, Monsieur," she repeated, prodding at him and shaking his
shoulders.

This time his eyelids opened wider, and he looked at her vaguely.  But
his lips muttered her name.

"You mus’ rouse yourself—you mus’!  We are going out of here—at once."

With an effort he struggled up to a sitting posture while she supported
him, pinching his shoulders and arms. Then she saw for the first time an
earthen pitcher on a stool nearby.  There was still some water in it,
and she threw it in his face.  He sputtered and choked, but she silenced
him.

"Quiet—for your life!  Dey’re upstairs, aren’t dey?"

"Yes—upstairs.  I—I’m weak as a cat."

"Naturally, but you’ve got to ’elp yourself.  I can’t carry you."

"Carry me—no——"  He toppled sideways and would have fallen, but she
caught him and held him, shaking and pinching him again.

"No.  You’ve _got_ to wake up.  Do you hear?" she whispered desperately.
"They may come down ’ere at any moment."

A dim notion of what she was talking about seemed to come to him, for
with an effort he threw off the heaviness that was coming over him
again.

"You—Piquette—How did you——?"

"By an old passage from dis cellar to de river.  You mus’ go out dat
way.  Do you on’erstand me?"

He nodded feebly.  "River——" he muttered.

There was another struggle against the drug and another, but at last she
got him to understand.  He was very weak, but managed to support himself
with an effort, sitting upright, while Piquette ran over toward the foot
of the steps and listened intently, for if Tricot and the Englishman
were listening, they must surely have heard something of the commotion
she had made.  But there was no sound.

She went back to the injured man.  Would he be able to walk?  She shook
him again and pointed to the way by which she had come.

"It is dere—in de corner—the way of escape.  You mus’ make de effort."

She helped him struggle to his knees, one of his arms around her
shoulders, but when she attempted to get him to his feet, his knees gave
out and he fell, dragging her down with him.

It was at this moment of failure, that a sudden clamor of knocking at
the street door upstairs came, with terrifying clearness, to her ears.
And the sound of a masculine voice calling the name of Tricot.  There
was no time to be lost, yet what was she to do?  She was strong, but she
could not lift the American bodily and he had collapsed again upon the
floor.  For an agonized moment she listened. A long silence and then the
knocking was renewed, followed by the sound of another voice upstairs
and the tread of heavy feet going toward the door.  Desperate now, and
aware that only the American’s own efforts could save him, she lifted
him again by sheer strength to his knees.

"Dey’ll be down ’ere in a moment," she stammered in his ear.  "You’ve
got to help yourself.  You’ve got to. Crawl—on your knees—toward de
corner beyond de pillar.  I will ’elp you."

He seemed to understand and struggled a few feet, paused in weakness,
then struggled on again.  And all the while Piquette was listening to
the sounds upstairs, the voices which now seemed to be near the head of
the stairway, coming to her ears distinctly.

"We’ve got to get him away from here—out into the country somewhere—and
lose him."  Harry Horton’s voice.

"Why?" growled a voice in English.

"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."

An oath from Tricot as the other translated.

"Who told her?"

"No one.  She guessed it."

"Parbleu!  We shall take no chances then."

"You must take him away—a cab—out into the country," said Harry’s voice
again.

"And leave him to recover and set the police on us? Not much.  He’ll
have to go the long road."

"My God!  No.  Not that!" cried Harry.

"The river!" growled Tricot.

And then the other voice.

"You started this thing.  And it’s got to be finished. Did you bring the
money?"

"To-morrow.  But—I can’t——"

There was the beginning of a violent discussion in which Tricot’s advice
seemed to prevail.  Harry’s opinions wouldn’t matter much to these
precious villains.

But Piquette had heard enough.  It seemed that they were about to
descend the stairs to the prisoner, and glancing backward she labored
with the injured man until they reached the shadows of the pillar into
which she pushed and dragged him until they were both hidden from the
light of the lantern.  But the steps into the passage were still ten
feet away.  Already there were footsteps on the stair, where one of the
men stood, still arguing with Harry Horton.  With a final effort, she
urged the drugged man toward the opening and then tumbled him down into
the darkness.

She heard the steps coming down the stairs, heard them pause and a voice
again raised in argument.  But she listened no more.  The situation was
desperate, for in a few seconds at the least, the escape of the prisoner
would be discovered, so forgetting caution, she pinched and shook him,
by main strength of her strong young arms, urging him forward.
Something of the imminence of his danger seemed to come to him, for he
crawled to the corner and then stumbled in some fashion to his feet,
clinging to her.  The air beyond the turn in the passage seemed to
revive him and in a moment, swaying and struggling against his weakness,
he stood outside the opening upon the river-bank, leaning against the
wall, while Piquette thrust the boards across the opening.

She heard a cry now from beyond the passage and with the injured man’s
arm around her shoulders, led the way down the bank to the landing.  He
caught her intention.  There was a boat there and she got him into it
and pushed off from the shore into the stream.  She was almost exhausted
by this time, but managed to get out the oars and make some progress
down the river before the timbers fell from before the opening in the
wall and three men appeared—Tricot, Harry and the Englishman. She saw
their shapes dimly in the shadow of the wall.

But a strange thing happened then.  For the three figures went flying up
the steps to the Quai and then ran as though for their lives in the
direction of the Pont St. Michel.

But she managed at last to reach the Quai du Louvre, where with the help
of a belated passer-by, she managed to get the man she had rescued into
a _fiacre_ and so to the Boulevard Clichy.




                              *CHAPTER X*

                            *THE SAMARITAN*


When Jim Horton came to his senses after his rescue, he found himself in
a small room overlooking a pleasant façade of gray stone, tinted softly
by the pale morning sunlight.  It was some moments before he managed to
gather his scattered wits together and out of the haze and darkness in
which he had been groping for two nights and a day, recall the incidents
of his escape.  Piquette!  He remembered....  But what was this room?
There had been a cab-drive late in the night—he had been carried up a
flight of stairs ... As he turned in the bed he was aware of a figure
which rose from the corner of the room and approached him.  It was an
oldish woman in the neat uniform of a maid.

She smiled.  "Monsieur is awake?" And then, moving toward the door,
"Madame shall come at once."


But when Piquette entered the small room, attired in a gorgeous pink
lounging robe of silk and lace and wearing a boudoir-cap embroidered
with silken flowers and golden thread, she dazzled him for a moment with
her splendor, and he did not recognize her.  She came forward to him
quickly and laid her cool hand on his brow.

"Ah, _mon petit, c’est mieux_."  And then, in English, "’Ow do you
feel?"

"Better.  But everything doesn’t seem—very clear to me yet."

"_Naturellement_.  You mus’ ’ave some food and de doctor will be ’ere
soon."

Jim Horton glanced about the small room.

"Would you mind telling me where I am?" he asked.

"Dis room is in de hallway adjoining my apartment——"

"You brought me here——?"

"Las’ night," she said, with a smile, "an’ a beautiful time we had
getting you up de stair——"

"I—I remember—a man with a lantern—and then a struggle—with you
helping—through a passage—to the river—a boat——"

"A _voiture_ an’ den—here," she added as he paused.

He put out his hand and fingered the lace of her sleeve.

"Why—why did you do this for me, Piquette?"

She caught his hand, pressed it in hers, and then rose abruptly.

"What does it matter?  You s’all talk no more until after de doctor ’as
seen you.  Sh——"

Later in the day after Jim Horton had slept again, Piquette visited him,
dressed for the street.  In a few words she told him how she had guessed
at the double identity—then confirmed it, and then how she had
discovered the means Harry Horton had employed to get his brother out of
the way.  She dwelt lightly on his rescue from the house in the Rue
Charron and explained quite frankly her own relations with the
criminals.

"_C’est la grande vie, Monsieur l’Americain_," she said with an
expressive gesture.  "You remember perhaps what Monsieur Valcourt ’as
said.  I am still de _vrai gamine_. I know dat _vilain_ Pochard since I
am so high."

"But why have you done this for me, Piquette?  When you found out that I
was not my brother——"

"Oh, la, la!  Who can tell?  Perhaps I like’ you a little de night in
Javet’s.  De thought of de adventure—perhaps, but more dat Tricot and
_Le Singe Anglais_—dey would ’ave t’rown you in de river, Monsieur."

"You saved my life——"

"Yes.  You see, Monsieur—Monsieur," she paused in search of a name.

"My name is Jim Horton."

"Jeem!  _C’est bon ça_.  Jeem ’Orton, dere wasn’ anyt’ing else for me to
do.  You were a good Americain—who ’ad fought at La Boissière for France
and for me. An’ _he_ had not.  It could not be dat you should die.  But
dere are many t’ings I do not yet on’erstand.  If you would tell me——?"

Jim Horton was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

"You were a friend of my brother’s."

He put it more in the form of a statement than a question.

"Yes, Jeem ’Orton," she said, "before ’e went to de front.  Dat does not
matter now, I can assure you.  What ’appen’ at Boissière Wood, _mon
ami_?  Pochard tol’ me what ’Arry ’Orton said——"  And she related it as
nearly as possible in Pochard’s own words.

Jim Horton listened, smiling slightly, until she had finished.  And
then,

"I had intended to keep silent about this thing, Piquette. But I’m not
going to keep silent now.  I’m going to tell the truth, whatever happens
to Harry or to me.  He would have killed me——"

"No," she broke in.  "I t’ink ’Arry was frighten’ at what he ’ad done——"

"He wasn’t too frightened to get those chaps to knock me in the head,"
he put in dryly, then broke off with a sudden sense of the situation.
"I hope, Madame, that you do not care for him."

She had been watching him intently and now put her hand over his.

"No—no, Jeem ’Orton," she said carelessly.  "But tell me de truth——"

He looked at her for a long moment.

"No one has a better right to know it than you."

And then, without ornamentation, he related the facts from the
unfortunate moment that night when he had put on Harry’s uniform and
gone into the fight until he had met his brother in the Rue de Tavennes.
She heard him through to the end.

"You ’ave not told me everyt’ing, Jeem ’Orton," And then, significantly,
"About Madame—Madame ’Orton?"

He frowned and then went on with an assumption of carelessness.

"The situation was impossible, as you will see.  I would have gone
away——" he shrugged, "if Harry hadn’t saved me the need of it.  But
now——"

He paused and clenched a fist.  "He has much to answer to me for."

She was silent for a while, watching him.

"A coward!  I might ’ave known," she murmured after a moment.

In the conversation that followed many things were revealed to Jim
Horton, many things to Piquette.  He learned from her own lips every
detail of the story of Quinlevin’s plot against the Duc and what was to
be Moira’s share in it, and he listened in anger and amazement.  As to
her relations with de Vautrin, she spoke with the utmost frankness.  He
was not a pleasant person, and to her mind, for all his money and
position, possessed fewer virtues even than the outrageous Pochard and
his crew, who at least were good-natured villains and made no pretenses.
The Duc was stingy—cruel, self-obsessed and degenerate.  _Que ça
m’embête ça_!  Why she had not cut loose from him and gone back to live
in the _Quartier_ she did not know, except that it was comfortable in
the Boulevard Clichy and she was tired of working hard.

He found himself regarding Piquette with interest. The type was new to
him, but he liked her immensely. She might betray her Duc, but in her
own mind she would have perfectly adequate reasons for doing so.

As to Moira, little enough was said.  If she suspected anything of his
tenderness in that quarter she gave not a sign of it.  But he could see
that the facts as to his brother’s marriage had come as a surprise to
her.


"An’ now, Jeem ’Orton," said Piquette the next morning, when he had
strength enough to sit in a chair by the window, "what are you going to
do about it?"

He thought for a moment.

"You have given me my life.  I should dislike to do anything that would
give you unhappiness."

"As to that, _mon petit_," she said carelessly, "you s’all do what you
t’ink bes’.  You know perhaps dat to-morrow in de Place de la Concorde,
your brother ’Arry is to receive de Croix de Guerre?"

He had forgotten, but the announcement had no effect upon him.

"It does not matter," he muttered.  What he had been thinking in his
moments of wakefulness was of Harry going to the studio in the Rue de
Tavennes.  Moira was his wife.  Would she, like Piquette, learn at once
of the deception?  Or would she accept him...?

"You do not care for de honors you have won?" asked Piquette, breaking
on his thought.

"They weren’t my honors——"

"But you bear de wounds——"

"Yes, and they’re proofs my brother will find it hard to answer.  But
tell me, Piquette, what you have heard. Do they suspect you of having
carried me off?"

Piquette laughed.  "No.  I saw Émile Pochard las’ night.  ’E does not
dare speak.  Tricot, ’Arry, _Le Singe_—I saw dem at Pochard’s. Dey t’ink
you are a devil.  It is de police worries dem mos’."

"The police?"

"Some one followed ’Arry ’Orton to de house in de Rue Charron and tol’
de police.  Dey came jus’ as we escape’. Your brother was lucky to get
away."

"Who could this have been?"

"I don’ know.  But what does it matter since you are safe?"  And then,
after a long pause, "No harm ’as been done except to your poor head.  We
mus’ let de matter drop, Jeem ’Orton.  It is better so."

"If that is your wish, Piquette——"

"Yes.  It will be safer for us both, for you because you mus’ keep in
hiding—for me—because I ’ave a reputation at stake."

His eager look inquired her meaning.

"Émile Pochard would never trus’ me again."

He laughed.  "And you value the friendship of Monsieur Tricot?"

"No.  But I know de law of de _apache_.  It would not be pleasant to
’ave one’s t’roat cut an’ be t’rown in de Seine."

The true meaning of the danger that she had run for him gave Jim Horton
a new and lively sense of his obligations and responsibilities to this
strange creature.  He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it warmly.

"How can I ever repay you?" he blurted out.

Her face flushed gently and she regarded him with eyes almost maternal.

"What a boy you are!" she laughed.

"But a stranger to you.  To have run such risks—to have made such a
struggle just because you knew I was helpless."

"It amuse’ me, Jeem ’Orton.  Sometimes I t’ink it is fear dat is de
_grande passion_—when one has tasted everyt’ing else in life.  Fear.  To
succeed in an adventure like this—_Et nous voilà_!  Quite safe and
comfortable—an’ each of us ’as made a friend.  Is not dees wort’ all de
trouble?"

"Piquette!" he said, "you’re a wonder!  I’ll never forget——"

"Ah, yes, you will, _mon petit_," she broke in with a shrug, "you are
different from ’Arry.  You are always _le grand serieux_.  It was what I
noticed at Javet’s.  You will love much, but you will never lie jus’ to
make a woman ’appy.  And me—you will forget, Jeem ’Orton."

"Never," he said stoutly, "never, Piquette.  You’re the bravest,
squarest woman in the world."

She laughed again.  "_Allons_!  For dat—I shall kees you, _mon ami_."

And she did, with a friendly frankness, upon the mouth.

It was a very pleasant sanctuary, this, into which fortune had thrown
him, but deep in his heart Jim Horton knew that Piquette had read him
truly.  He was no panderer to women’s caprices, and he could not forget
the tragedy of the woman he loved, which might almost be laid at his
door.

"You do not mind my keesing you, _mon petit_?" she asked.

"No.  I like it," said Horton with a laugh.

But Piquette knew.  Life in the streets of Paris had given her a sense
of the fourth dimension.  And curiously enough her prescience only
quieted her, made her a little graver, matching her mind—her mood to
his.  He provided a new sensation, this outcast hero who owed her his
life and yet was to pay her only in gratitude.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Jim Horton was penniless, for with an irony not lost on him, the money
he had gotten from the bank had gone to pay Tricot and _Le Singe_ their
price for his knock on the head.  The clothing he found himself in had
been none too good when Harry had worn it, and the incarceration in the
filthy cellar had done nothing to improve it. Outcast he might be, but
he meant while he had money in bank at least to look presentable.  So
Piquette got him a blank check from the bank which he made out and
Piquette cashed, and the next day when he was able to go out, he bought
himself a suit.  He came back in the afternoon and with much pride
exhibited his purchase.

She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.

"An’ now, _mon_ Jeem, you will be going away, _n’est ce pas_?"

"Is it not better, Piquette?  I have not the honor of Monsieur de
Vautrin’s acquaintance."

"Oh, _ça_!" she said with a quick gesture.  "_Il est bête_. He would
never know."

Jim Horton put his hands on her shoulders and made her look in his eyes.

"That’s not the way, Piquette.  You are too fine not to see.  I can’t be
an object of your charity any longer—because it’s _his_ charity.  I owe
you my life.  I want to pay—but not like this.  I want you to see my
gratitude in my eyes, the depth of my friendship, I want you to know
that what you’ve done for me has given a new meaning to courage and
unselfishness."

She turned her head away as he paused, and then gently took his hands
from her shoulders.

"I can pay, Piquette," he insisted quietly.  "You do not love the Duc de
Vautrin.  Come away from here with me.  I have a little money.  I can
get more from America. We will find you a place in the _Quartier_ where
you will be happy until you have the home you deserve——"

"And you——," she faltered.

"What I do doesn’t matter.  An outcast——"

She started.

"You will leave Paris?"

"I do not know."

She released her fingers quickly and went to the window, looking over
the rooftops in a long significant moment of silence.

"And de oder woman——"

She spoke the words distinctly, and yet he thought he must have
misunderstood.

"Piquette, I——"

"What ’appens between you an’ your brother’s wife?" she asked quietly.

He had no reply and while he hesitated she turned slowly and faced him.

"I know, _mon petit_," she said with a smile.  "I ’ave known it from de
firs’.  You love ’er.  _C’est dommage_. It is a pity.  She is ver’
beautiful, dey say."

"I am a fool, Piquette."

"You are not de firs’ in de worl’——"

He sank on the edge of the bed, wondering at his own confession.

"I was sorry for her—for her innocence, married to a man like that.  She
was kind to me.  I played the part and kept silence.  They were going to
use her—palm her off as de Vautrin’s child——"

He paused and looked up at Piquette, aware that the topic that he had
not dared to broach now suddenly loomed between them.

Piquette faced him gravely.

"Yes, _mon ami_," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.

"I do not know what you wish to do, Piquette, and it is not for me to
say.  But before I was hurt, I had planned to find out all the facts of
this conspiracy and tell both Harry’s wife and the Duc de Vautrin.  You
have given me the facts.  Do you want me to use them?"

Piquette was silent a moment, regarding him with a smile.

"Well, _mon ami_, ’as anyt’ing ’appen’ to make you change your mind?"

He looked up at her in wonder.

"Piquette, I thought——" he began.  But she broke in lightly.

"You s’all do what you wish, but it is a difficult game you play an’
_dangereux_.  You do not know Monsieur Quinlevin.  If Tricot is de wolf
an’ Émile Pochard de fox, it is Barry Quinlevin who is de tiger.  ’Arry
’Orton knows.  ’E is afraid—what you call—eat out of his ’and."

"I’ve got to beat him, Piquette."

"Eh, bien!  But remember, ’e is not a man to be easily vanquished.  ’E
is ver’ quiet, ver’ cool, _le vrai gentilhomme_, but ’e ’as sharp claws,
Jeem ’Orton."

"A thief——"

"And de Vautrin?" she broke in.  "Monsieur le Duc is no better dan he.
He did not care ’ow ’e got de money."

Horton paced the room slowly, in deep abstraction, but in a moment
stopped before her and caught her hands in his.

"Piquette," he said gravely, "you were in this thing—I don’t know why or
how, because a woman with a soul as big as yours oughtn’t to be stooping
to this kind of rottenness."

For a long while she made no reply, but she turned her head away and
looked out of the window.

"I can’t change de way I was born, Jeem ’Orton," she said quietly.

He was silent, aware of the false situation, and thinking deeply.

"I’ve got to tell her the truth, Piquette," he said at last.

Another moment of silence and then Piquette turned toward him, both arms
outstretched.

"You are right, _mon petit_ Jeem.  You s’all go to ’er and tell ’er——"

"Piquette——!"

"_Je ne me fiche pas_.  Go.  It’s nothing to me."

Jim Horton had risen and put his arms around her, turning her face up to
his and kissing her gently.  She made no resistance, but she did not
return his caress.

"You are too good for him, Piquette."

She stirred uneasily in his arms and then released herself.

"Go, Jeem——", she said.  "Go."

"Will you meet me to-night at Javet’s?"

"Yes.  _Au revoir, mon brave_."

She watched him go down the stair and then turned in at the door of her
own apartment.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Jim Horton was no squire of dames, but he couldn’t be unaware of the
attractions of this lovely pagan.  Like her he was an outcast and their
ways perhaps lay along the same paths to oblivion, but before he started
down that road he had a duty still to perform, a wrong to set right, and
he meant to do it without delay.  If Harry had succeeded in ingratiating
himself with Moira he knew that she must despise him for his betrayal of
her credulity. But he meant to seek her out just the same and tell her
the truth about Barry Quinlevin as he knew it.  He wanted to see her
again—just this once, in order to try and justify himself in her eyes
for his imposture, and then he would go—he didn’t much care where.

But he realized as he crossed the river that it was not going to be an
easy matter to reach her unobserved.  He knew that Harry must be passing
some uneasy moments and it was better that Harry didn’t see him just
yet. But there was the watchful Madame Toupin to pass and it was still
half an hour until dusk when he hoped to slip through the gate and up
the stairs.  Meanwhile he found himself a lodging in an obscure street
and then with his hat-brim pulled down walked into the Rue de Tavennes
and boldly approached the familiar gate.

"Madame Horton?" he asked.

"_Oui, Monsieur_.  She is in.  Do you know the way?"

Nothing could have been more simple.  Madame Toupin had pulled the latch
without even looking up at him.




                              *CHAPTER XI*

                             *CONFESSIONS*


It all seemed like a horrible dream to Moira—the revelation of Harry’s
vileness—the prison by the river, the police, the escape of Jim Horton
with the unknown woman, the homeward ride with the police officer, and
the night in the studio-apartment with locked doors, waiting—listening
for Harry’s return, until at last through sheer exhaustion of mind and
body she had fallen asleep.  And then, the visit the next day of the
police officer, the questions that she had to answer.  But he got
nothing from her beyond the mere skeleton of the tale which she had
given the night before.  She wouldn’t tell how she got to the Rue
Charron, some instinct still sealing her lips as to her husband’s share
in the adventure, and inventing a tale that seemed to satisfy the
requirements of the interview.  No crime had been actually committed
though all the circumstances were suspicious.  The officer told her that
a search would be made for the man named Tricot and that Madame Horton
should hold herself in readiness to appear against him, if necessary, at
some future time.

The return of Harry Horton, her husband, the next afternoon, contrite
and humility itself, was unpleasant, but they reached an understanding,
pending the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland.  She kept the secret
of her visit to the house in the Rue Charron and her knowledge of the
escape of the prisoner.  She saw that her husband was worried and
furtive and she had no difficulty in exacting from him a promise not to
molest her.  In return she promised silence, and he departed with every
protestation of friendship and good will, somewhat reassured as to her
intentions.

As to Jim Horton, the twin brother who had worked such havoc in her
life, Moira was very much troubled and disturbed.  The hurt to her pride
was grievous but the joy she had in the very thought of him seemed to
assuage all wounds.  She knew now that if he had died in the house in
the Rue Charron that night she would have worshiped him all her life as
a martyr to their unfortunate affection. And the memories of Jim
Horton’s tenderness on the day of their parting, the gentleness of his
abnegation, his struggle against the temptation of her nearness—all
these thoughts of him obliterating the horrors that had followed,
returned and engulfed her with pity.  Their love had seemed so perfect a
thing!  But now—a mockery!

She felt very friendless in the big studio, very much alone.  And
yet—could she confess to her father her love for this brother who had
come in and taken Harry’s place? The hurt to her pride burned again
angrily.  Her father, like herself, had been deceived by the brother at
the hospital and what sympathy could she expect from him?  He would be
furious at the deception that had been practiced upon them both, and
would perhaps take Harry’s part against her.

Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of the
fireplace.  If it was to be war, she would fight.  She had married Harry
in a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but the
understanding had been definite.  And now she would rather run away—even
from her father—than to fulfill the terrible vows she had taken.  Jim
Horton—she wanted to hear his side of the story.  Reviving faith in him
made her sure that if he were alive he would come to her and tell her
everything....

A cautious step on the stair outside—a knock.  She went over quickly,
turned the key in the lock, opened the door, then stood staring, unable
to speak.

"It’s I, Moira," said Jim Horton gently.

"You—," she faltered.

"I said that I would come back, but I—I was detained," he said coolly.

If he had expected her to be surprised at his appearance out of uniform
she gave no sign of it.  She opened wide the door and stood aside.

"I—I know," she murmured.

"I won’t stay long, but there were some things I wanted you to know—some
facts in extenuation of my conduct, that may make you think less
bitterly of me——"

"You look ill," she said, staring at him.  "It is all too horrible to
think about——"

"Horrible, if you like," he said slowly, misinterpreting her meaning,
"but done in a weak moment with a good motive——"

"Oh, not that.  I mean, what they did to you—the danger you passed
through——"

"You know of that?"

"Yes.  I followed Harry, and got the police——"

"It was you?  Good God!"

"It was the least that I could do—after I found out—from him—what had
happened."

He stared at her in incomprehension.

"You mean that he confessed to you?"

She nodded and then laughed nervously.

"I don’t know why I should be keeping you standing on the door-sill—like
a model.  If you’ve much to say you’d better say it sitting, Jim
Horton."

He started and stared at her, but she had closed the door behind him and
led the way with an assumption of carelessness to the chairs by the dead
fire, as though aware of its symbolism.

"You know—the truth?"

She shrugged.  "What Harry—what my husband—has told me, no more—no
less."

He marveled at her ease, at the cruelty of her chosen phrases.  And yet
he could not cavil at them.  It was clear that she meant that there were
to be no further misunderstandings, that she was shifting the burden to
his shoulders where it belonged.  The sense of his culpability weighed
upon him and he did not look at her, and so he missed the quick, anxious
sensitive glances that searched his face for the truth in his heart.
But he bent his head forward and stared into the ashes that had glowed
so warmly a few nights ago.

"I have come to speak the truth," he began, his voice deep, resonant and
trembling with his emotion.  "A visit of confession and renunciation——"

"It’s rather late, isn’t it?" she said in a hard little voice that he
scarcely recognized as her own.  He knew that he deserved this of her
and more, but it cut him none the less.

"I will tell you the truth," he went on firmly.  "And then you shall
judge for yourself.  I owe it to you to tell the facts, but I owe it to
myself, too."

She nodded and sat.  And so, quietly, neglecting no detail, he told her
of Harry, from the moment of their meeting on the battlefield until they
had met outside in the Rue de Tavennes.  He heard Moira gasp at the
mention of Harry’s cowardice, but he went on to the end, without pause.

"Something of what followed, you know," he went on quietly.  "I tried to
tell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn’t Harry Horton.  They
didn’t believe me. They thought I was still out of my head.  And so I
lay there for a while, silent.  I think I must have been pretty weak."

He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.

"There were some letters to Harry.  I had no right to read them.  But I
did.  A letter from you to him—about your marriage—showing what a farce
it was.  A letter from Barry Quinlevin——"  He paused and frowned. "It
was an invasion of your privacy—and his—but you were nothing to me—then.
I was sure that I would never meet you.  I thought that I would wait a
few days before I tried to tell the officers of the hospital who I was.
It was a hard thing to do—because it meant that I would have to pay the
penalty of a military crime."

"But sure, after what you’d done," Moira’s voice broke in clearly, "they
couldn’t be punishing you——"

"Disgraceful imprisonment—and for Harry—the penalty of desertion in the
face of the enemy.  You see there were two of us to consider."

"Yes, I understand."

"Then you came—suddenly—without warning."  His voice sank to a deep
murmur and he bent his head.  "It was a moment for a decision.  I hadn’t
it.  I was weak.  I let you believe that I was your husband.  It—it
seemed the easiest way just then.  God knows I meant you no harm.  And
God knows I’ve suffered for it."

He rose and leaned upon the mantel, his face turned away from her,
summoning courage for the harder thing that he still had to say.  "And
there’s something else, that made me do what I did——" he began.

"Something more?" he heard her question.  "What do you mean?"

He paused a moment.

"It’s hard to tell you—but I must."  And then, "Have you ever heard of
the Duc de Vautrin?" he asked.

"Yes," she uttered in bewildered tone, "the name is familiar to me.  But
what——?"

"Mr. Quinlevin—has mentioned him?"

"Yes, I think so.  A man he met many years ago in Ireland.  But why do
you ask?"

"Because his life and yours are bound up in each other——"

"Mine?"

He paused painfully.

"Moira, perhaps I’m breaking all the ties in your life that you had
thought most sacred, but I’ve got to tell you what I know."

"I don’t understand—you frighten me——"

"God knows I’ve given you pain enough already.  I’m a bird of ill-omen.
But I’m going to go on, if you’ll let me."

She sat motionless, her strained white hands gripping the chair arm.

"Under the cover of the dressing table, in the room there, where I
slept, are the two letters that I read in my bed in the hospital—the one
from you—the one from Barry Quinlevin.  I left them there when I went
away. Unless some one has removed them, they should be there now——"

In obedience to the suggestion, she rose and went quickly out into the
hall and into the deserted room.  Harry had not entered it nor had she
even told him of the valises containing his impedimenta that had been
sent down from headquarters.  The letters were there.  Trembling with
uncertainty she found them and glanced at the familiar handwriting, her
own and her father’s, and then came back to the door of the studio.
There she stood a moment, weighing the letters in her hands.  Jim Horton
stood as she had left him, leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his gaze upon
the extinguished fire.  It seemed that lost in his own gloomy reverie he
had already forgotten her. Never in all the weeks that she had known
him, not even when he had lain in his hospital bed—had he seemed a more
pitiful figure than now—needing her as she—God help her—needed him.
What did it matter what this letter contained?  In her heart she knew
that the only thing that mattered to her was the love that this man bore
her. She had recognized it in the deep tones of his voice, which had
thrilled her again, and in the attitude of submission which had
anticipated the change in her sentiments.

It was a moment for decisions, like his moment in the hospital.  She had
only to tell him to go and she knew that he would have obeyed her.  But
like Jim Horton, she no longer had the strength.  Some instinct told her
that here in this outcast soldier—this splendid outcast—was a rock that
she could cling to....

She glanced over the stair and then entering the studio quietly, slowly
approached him, letters in hand.

"You wish me to read——?" she asked.

"Yes, please, Moira."

She glanced at him and then sank into the armchair and opened Barry
Quinlevin’s letter.  For a long while there was no sound but the rustle
of the paper in her fingers. At last he heard her stir slightly and
glanced up at her. Her face was deathly pale.

"My father—de V—’The money has stopped coming’—What does it all mean?"
she asked.  "And what are those papers?  What is the agency working
against him?  And what does he mean by putting the screws on?"

"It means that Barry Quinlevin is—is blackmailing the Duc de Vautrin—has
been doing so for years," he said in a suppressed tone.

She rose and faced him, her breast heaving.

"Blackmail!  My father——"

He bowed his head.

"Unfortunately it’s the truth.  He spoke to me of it in the
hospital—thinking I was Harry——"

She raised the letter again and read.

"I can’t believe—I can’t——," but her words trailed off into silence as
she read again the damning phrases.

His heart was full of tenderness and pity for her and he caught her by
the hand.  "Moira, dear," he murmured, "I wouldn’t have spoken of
this—but _you_ are involved—I couldn’t understand for a long while.
They’re using you as a cat’s-paw—a snare—a stool-pigeon.  Perhaps you
don’t even know the meaning of the words—it’s too hideous!"

"Using _me_?" She seemed unaware of her fingers still in his.  "How can
they use _me_?  I know nothing whatever of this affair."

He led her to her chair again and made her sit. "Listen," he said
gently, "and I will tell you all that I’ve found out about it——"

"I can’t believe—Who has told you?"

"Piquette Morin——"

"Piquette—?"  Her brows drew together——

"A friend of—of your husband’s," he said.  "It was she who first
discovered our dual identity in the Café Javet—a friend of Harry’s—who
took pity on me."

"The woman—who—who—helped you to escape?" she gasped, awakening.

"Yes.  She shared the secrets of this intrigue.  And when they knocked
me out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and went
in through the passage from the river.  It was she who took me back to
her apartment and nursed me."

"Oh," she faltered.  "I—I see.  But what reason have you to believe that
she speaks the truth?"

He had taken his place by the mantel again.  "Unfortunately—I had
already proved it by the mouth of Harry himself."  He broke off and met
her piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn’t have cared what they did, if
they—if you hadn’t been a part of the plan.  I would have told you who I
was the other night and gone—away....  But it was too cruel.  Barry
Quinlevin is a strange man.  He loves you—perhaps.  He wants to see you
rich—happy—but he became desperate when the source of his income was cut
off——"

"The Irish rents——?"

"There were no Irish rents, Moira.  The source of his income, all these
years—and yours—has been—the Duc de Vautrin—hush money paid to keep a
secret——"

"Holy Virgin—!  Then I——?"

She paused, bewildered by the very terror of her thoughts.

"Listen, Moira.  You must know it all.  As nearly as I can get it, the
story is this.  Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an
Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with
her her immense _dot_, with the provision from her father’s will that if
any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of
the mother’s death."

"Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself.  "Athlone!"

"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran
away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her—Mary
Callonby dying in childbirth."  And then softly, "Do you follow me,
Moira? It’s very important."

"I’m trying—to follow you," she murmured painfully.

"When Mary Callonby left the Duc, de Vautrin went upon a voyage around
the world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware of
the death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who was
cared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke——"

"Nora Burke!"  Moira had started up suddenly in her chair, her eyes wide
with sudden comprehension.

"You remember her——" he said.

"My old nurse——!"

"Yes.  It’s here that the story involves your fortunes and—and Barry
Quinlevin’s.  The infant daughter of the Duc de Vautrin died at the end
of a few months, without his being aware of it—without his even being
aware that a daughter had been born.  The death of this child was kept a
secret——"

"But why?  Why?" pleaded Moira, a glimmering of the intrigue coming to
her.

Jim Horton turned away again.

"Because it was necessary that the Duc de Vautrin should remain in
ignorance of it."

"Holy Virgin!  You mean that Nora——?"

"Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin.  You were of the same age as the child
of the Duc de Vautrin.  There were few neighbors.  Your mother had also
died in childbirth. Nora Burke came into Barry Quinlevin’s house as
nurse."

"Oh, it is impossible!" gasped Moira.  "I can’t—I can’t believe it."

"It is what I’m to help you to prove."

"But there must be papers—birth certificates—witnesses——"

"Perhaps.  I don’t know, Moira.  All of these things seem uncertain.
The idea is that Barry Quinlevin, taking pity on the fatherless child of
the Duc, and mourning his own child that had died, had brought the
little girl into his own house to keep her until the Duc’s return——"

"Oh!  It is infamous!"

"That was the way Nora Burke came into the house of Barry Quinlevin, and
that was the way you became the daughter and heiress of Mary Callonby."

"I—her heiress?"

He nodded.

"I do not know all the facts, but it seems that when the Duc de Vautrin
returned to Paris, he was met by Barry Quinlevin with proofs of his
daughter’s existence.  It was to the Duc’s interest to keep the matter
secret, since the income from the Callonby fortune which he enjoyed
would of course go to the child.  And from that day to this the matter
has been kept a secret and Barry Quinlevin has been paid for keeping
it."

Moira had risen and was pacing up and down the length of the studio.

"It is too horrible—it bewilders me.  Who told you all this?"

"Piquette Morin—Harry told her."

"And—and Harry—?"

"His interests and yours were the same."

She buried her face in her hands for a moment.  "Wait," she gasped.  "I
must think—think."

So Jim Horton was silent, watching her anguish with pity and anxiety.
But at last she grew calmer and sank into the chair, reading Barry
Quinlevin’s letter to Harry again.

"And yet this might refer to something—something else—" she pleaded,
catching at any straw that would save her from this disgrace.

He shook his head.

"I wish I could reassure you—but I can’t.  The facts are too clear."

She was silent a moment, breathing hard.

"It was terrible for _you_ to have to tell me this."

"Yes—but you understand that I had to, don’t you?"

She bowed her head and he went on.

"And now I only want you to tell me how I can help you—how I can make
things easier——"

"What shall I do?  What can I——"  She halted again, intimidated at the
thought of her father.  And then—

"If I were only sure....  Of course the Duc de Vautrin must be told at
once."

"There’s no hurry.  You must think it over.  Verify my statements, when
you can——"

"Yes, yes.  I must—or refute them.  I see that."

"I want to help you.  I’ll do anything——"

"Yes.  I know—" she paused again.  "Whom can I trust now?"

He caught her fingers and pressed them softly to his lips.

"It is a terrible situation for you—but you can’t go on as a partner in
this intrigue——"

"No, of course—I must be finding out—speaking to—to him—to my father—"
and then, turning to him, "Whom can I trust—unless it’s you!"

He relinquished her fingers and turned away.

"I deceived you, Moira—cheated you——"

"That doesn’t matter now—nothing matters——"

"You mean—that you will forgive me?"

He leaned forward toward her, searching her face eagerly.

"Yes—yes," she whispered.

"Moira!"

"God help me!  I’ve the need of you."

He fell to his knees beside the chair and took her in his arms.  Her
trouble was so great—the crisis in her life so tragic!

"I’ve tried to make myself believe I didn’t care—," she went on,
whispering, "that everything should be as it was before you came.  I
tried——"

"You poor child——"

"But in spite of myself—in spite of everything—my faith in you is just
the same."

"Thank God for that.  We must find a way out——"

But she shook her head.

"No.  There’s no way out—I’m sure of that—for me—and you.  It’s
wrong—all wrong——"

But she did not refuse him her lips now and he held her close in his
arms.

"Moira," he whispered.  "It was meant to be."

"It’s wrong—all wrong," she repeated.  And then with a sigh, "Its very
sweetness—is—terrible——"

He touched her brow tenderly with his lips and then gently released her.

"Do you want me to go?"

But her fingers still held him.

"No—no—not yet—not just yet, Jim.  This is our moment—yours and mine.
And I’ve been wanting you so——"

"You knew that I’d come back to you, didn’t you, dear?"

"I’ve been praying that you would—you won’t be going, Jim—away—as you
said you would?"

"No, dear—not—not if you need me—not if you want me.  But I’m a
nondescript now—a deserter—an outcast."

"The cruelty of it!  You!"

"I got what I deserved," he said with a smile.

"And Harry?  I can’t be staying here if he’s going to be here, Jim.  The
very touch of his fingers ... the sight of him, knowing what I do——"

"He won’t dare—I would have him broken——"

"And give yourself up to the Military Police.  No. You can’t be thinking
of that.  I’m not afraid of him—nor of my father.  But—they can’t be
disgracing you. You must keep in hiding.  I see it all now.  But you
won’t be going away, Jim.  Promise me that you won’t go away."

"And you’ll let me see you?"

"Yes.  I _must_ see you.  I can’t let you go—not yet, Jim. I know it’s
wrong.  I don’t care about the wrong to Harry, but I _do_ think of the
wrong I do myself and you. My love for you has been so clean—so
beautiful, Jim. it can’t be anything else—for either of us."

"I love you, Moira dear.  I needn’t tell you how——"

"Don’t you suppose that I know already, Jim?  But it’s so hopeless——"

"Your marriage—a joke!  It means nothing——"

"A hideous joke—but a marriage just the same!"

"You can’t be tied to this man always——"

"I _am_ tied to him.  Oh, Jim—!" she broke off in her despair.  "Don’t
be making it more difficult—don’t be pleading with me for that—it’s
impossible.  I’d like to be going with you—away—somewhere just you and
I—but I can’t——"

"I’ll have patience.  Some day——"

"No, dear.  That’s the worst of it.  It can’t be, ever. I have sworn——"

She stopped and they both listened, Moira started—frightened. From
somewhere down the stairway outside came the sounds of a laugh and of
voices in conversation.

"Harry!" she gasped.  And with quick presence of mind ran to the door,
turned the key in the lock and then listened.  "My father, too—.  They
mustn’t find you here."

"Yes," said Jim coolly.  "I think we’d better have this thing out—here
and now."

"No—no," she whispered tensely.  "It would be the end of all things.
Not yet.  I must have time to think——"

Already there was a knock upon the door.  Moira had caught Jim by the
arm and was hurrying him toward a closet in the corner of the room.

"In here, quickly," she whispered.  "You must.  My father will go in the
other rooms."

"But, Moira——"

"As you love me—please—," she pleaded, pushing him in, shutting the
door.  Then breathless, she turned and faced the door into the hallway.




                             *CHAPTER XII*

                           *QUINLEVIN SPEAKS*


A moment longer she waited, summoning calm and resolution, when the
knocking on the door began again and her name was called.

"Coming," she replied, looking around the studio keenly.  And then
catching sight of Jim Horton’s hat, whisked it under the couch and then
opened the door.

Barry Quinlevin came in, Harry carrying his bag. With a gay laugh he
caught Moira into his arms.

"Well,—it’s joyful I am to be back, dusty and unwashed, but none the
less glad to be here.  How are ye, child?  By the amount of time ye took
opening the door, I thought ye might be dead——"

"I’m very tired—," she murmured, "I’ve not been up to the mark——"

He held her off and looked at her in the dim light from the gas jet.

"A little peaky—eh—too much moping in the dark. Let’s have some
lights—and a drink of the Irish.  ’Twill do none of us harm."

He moved into the studio and Harry Horton set the bag down.

"Did you have a successful trip?" asked Moira, putting more color into
her voice than she felt.

"So, so," said Quinlevin.  "A bottle, Moira—and some glasses and water,"
and when she had obeyed, "There—the very sight of it’s already making a
new man of me. Harry, boy—yer health."

Moira sat and listened while he described the incidents of his trip.
Harry could not meet her look, but she saw that he drank sparingly.  As
for her father, she watched him in silence, aware of his flamboyant
grace and charm, again incredulous as to the things she knew of him.
But his letter to Harry in her shirtwaist seemed to be burning the fair
skin of her breast to remind her of his venality.

On his way to the bottle he pinched her pale cheeks between his long
fingers.  "Where’s yer spirit, girl?  Ye look as though ye’d been
hearing a banshee.  A fine husband ye’ve got, and all, to be putting
lilies in yer cheeks instead of roses!"

"She stays in the studio too much," put in Harry, uneasily.

"A good jumper and a few stone walls of County Galway would set ye right
in a jiffy.  We’ll be taking ye there, one day soon, I’m thinking, if ye
don’t come to life. What is it, child?"

"Oh—nothing—I’m just tired."

He took his glass and held it to the light with a critical air.

"Maybe it’s better if ye go to bed then.  I’ll just clean up a bit and
then come back and have a talk with you, Harry boy."

And finishing his glass, he took up his bag and went into his room to
cleanse himself, leaving Moira alone with Harry.  She was very
uncomfortable, and sat wondering what ruse she could find to get rid of
them.

Harry fumbled at his glass nervously.

"You’re going to tell him?" he asked.

She shrugged.  "Of course," she said coolly, "the farce has gone on long
enough."

"Yes," he muttered.  "Perhaps you’re right.  I’ll tell
him—myself—to-night."

"Thanks," she said quietly, "it would be better."

They seemed to have very little to say.  She saw Harry furtively looking
at her, but she was oblivious of him, for her thoughts were beyond him,
over his head, in the paint closet where Jim Horton sat uncomfortably,
awaiting the moment of release But how could she effect it now? It
seemed almost enough of luck to have hidden Jim Horton’s hat before they
had entered.  She knew that his predicament was hardly to his liking and
in spite of her entreaties, feared that any moment he might be opening
the door and facing the situation.

And when Barry Quinlevin returned to the room in a moment, his face
shining with his vigorous ablutions, any immediate hopes she may have
had of Jim’s release were dashed to the ground.

"Ye’d better be going to yer room, child, and get yer beauty sleep," he
said.  "I want to talk to Harry."

That he wanted to be alone with her husband was evident, and the request
was something in the nature of a command.  Still wondering what she had
better do, she got up and moved slowly toward the door into the kitchen.
They would talk—she would watch at the door and listen.

"Very well," she said languidly, "perhaps I’ll feel better if I lie down
for awhile—" and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.  But
she did not go into her room.  All alive with uncertainty and
apprehension, she crouched by the door, listening intently.  The keyhole
was large.  Through it she could see the closet upon the opposite side
of the studio where Jim was concealed, and what they said she could hear
distinctly.

"Well, Harry boy," said Quinlevin, "here we are again, and with Nora
close at hand, ready for the ’coup.’  There can’t be any haggling or
boggling now.  A clean million we’ll get from it, or my name’s not B.Q."

"Did you have any trouble getting Nora to come?"

"A little—but five thousand pounds settles her business. Nora was always
a bit of rogue, but she couldn’t deny real genius.  And then, a bit of
blarney——"

"But the birth certificate——"

"Here—," producing his pocket case, "a little mildewed and rumpled from
hiding in the mattresses, and the like, but still quite legible.  See,
Patrice—a little hard to read, ye see.  Patricia it is.  Patricia
Madeleine Aulnay de Vautrin.  Female, me boy.  Born August 7th, in the
year of Our Lord, 1897—signed by the Doctor—Dominick Finucane—and
attested by the Parish priest—a little illegible in certain notable
places, but all quite straight and proper.  He can’t go back of that."

"And the other servant—who knew—?"

"Dead as a herring—a fortnight ago—ye’ll admit most fortuitously—for I
can’t keep the whole of County Galway under my hat."

Harry Horton frowned.

"No.  And you can’t keep Moira there either."

"What d’ye mean?"

"Merely that she’ll put a spoke in your wheel if you’re not careful."

Quinlevin laughed.

"I won’t worry about that bridge until I come to it. She won’t object to
taking her place in the world as the Duchesse de Vautrin——"

He broke off abruptly.  "What’s that?  Did Moira call?"

"I didn’t hear anything."

"I’ve got the fidgets, then.  I’d be having to give her up if Monsieur
the Duc should take a fancy to her—but ye needn’t fear.  He won’t.  He’s
too self-centered, and well out of it at a million francs.  Ah, he’ll
wriggle and squirm a bit, on the hook, but he’ll pay in the end—or we’ll
gaff him for the whole estate."  He stopped and carefully cut the end
from a cigar.  "D’ye think, by any chance, that Piquette Morin could
have done any talking?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because four months ago Monsieur the Duc was in Ireland asking
questions."

"Who told you this?"

"Nora Burke.  He got nothing from her.  She knew which side her bread
was buttered on.  But that’s what made her squeamish when my allowance
stopped coming to her."

"I see.  And you’ve paid her something?"

"Yes.  And the devil’s own time I had getting it together.  I’m thinking
I’ve squared accounts with you already in all this business."

But Harry Horton had gotten up and poured himself out a stiff drink of
the whisky, which he drained hurriedly.

"I don’t like it," he muttered uneasily.

"What?"

"This de Vautrin business."

Quinlevin calmly stared at him.

"Yer feet aren’t getting cold now?"

Harry took a pace or two, trying to find his words. And then,

"Things haven’t been going right, here—since—er—since you left."

"I see," said Quinlevin with a shrug.  "You and Moira haven’t been
hitting it off——"

"No.  And it’s worse than that."

Barry Quinlevin leaned forward, his shaggy brows thatched unpleasantly.

"What the devil are ye talking about?"

"I—I’ve got to tell you."

"Ye’d be obliging me if ye would."

Harry met the sharp look of the older man and then his gaze flickered
and fell as he sank into his chair again.

"You—you’ve heard me speak of my twin brother, Jim?" he asked after a
moment.

"The railroad man ye quarreled with over the trifling matter of an
estate.  Well, what of him?"

"He’s turned up—here—in—Paris."

"What have you got to do with him?"

"More than you think.  I’ve got to tell you what has happened—and it’s
plenty.  It’s been H—— and repeat.  D—— him!"

"At least," laughed the Irishman, "he seems to have gained no new place
in yer affection."

"No—nor will he in yours when you have the facts."

"Go on.  I’m listening."

And slowly, halting here and there for a word or a phrase that would put
a better construction on his own share in the affair, he told Quinlevin
of the substitution of Jim Horton for himself and of the events that had
followed, including his return to Paris and the desperate means he had
taken to regain his own identity.  Of Moira he spoke nothing, but as the
situation was revealed with all its hazards to the success of their
intrigue, from an attitude of polite attention with which he had
listened at first, Quinlevin became eagerly and anxiously absorbed,
interjecting question after question, while his iridescent eyes glowed
under his frowning brows and his long, bony fingers clutched his chair
arm.  By degrees, the full meaning of the revelation came to him—its
relation to Harry’s future, to the matter of the Duc, to Moira.  But as
he grew more furious, he grew more pale, more calm, and listened in a
silence punctuated by brief questions, to the conclusion of the story, a
little contemptuous of the nervousness of his companion, reading below
the thin veneer of braggadocio the meanings that the younger man strove
to conceal.

"So," he said coolly, "ye’ve gone and let us all in for a nice mess of
broth!  Shell-shock!  Humph!  And ye’ll let a man be tearing the uniform
off yer very back—winning yer honors for ye."

He rose and stood at his full height, looking down at the figure in the
opposite chair.  "And Moira—?" he asked.

"He came—here—to this apartment—when he left the hospital——"

"She did not guess?"

"Nor you," said Harry with, some spirit, "since you invited him here——"

"True for ye—I did—bad cess to him."  He broke off and took a pace
toward the lay figure in the corner and back.  And then, "This is a bad
business," he said soberly. "And ye don’t know where he is at the
present moment?"

"No.  He got away clean through a passage to the river——"

"You’ve no idea who helped him?"

"No.  And Tricot’s no fool—nor Pochard——"

"But they lack imagination—like yerself——"

Harry Horton aroused himself.  "He was drugged, I tell you—to the limit.
I saw him before I came here to see Moira.  He was clean out.  Tricot
was for dropping him into the river when we ’got’ him—but I wouldn’t let
them do that—no—not that."

"Ye were always lacking in a pinch, Harry——"

"But my brother—my own brother——"

Quinlevin shrugged.  "I can see yer scruples.  A brother’s a brother,
even if he does wean away yer wife."

Harry started up, his face livid at the cool, insulting tones.

"And ye can’t blame Moira," continued Quinlevin coolly, "if he’s turned
out a better man than yerself."

His fiery eyes burned in his pale face and challenged the other
man—intimidated him until the hot words on Harry’s tongue died
unuttered.

"A fine mess!  And he’s no baby—this frolicsome brother of yours!  How
much does he know of the de Vautrin affair?"

"Enough," muttered Harry sullenly, "from the letters and what you told
him in the hospital——"

"He can’t go far—"  He broke off and then, with a quick change into
eager inquiry.  "He’d hardly have had time to find the Duc, and if he
did——"

"No," said Harry sullenly.  "De Vautrin is in Nice."

"Good.  Then we’ll have time."

"For what?"

"To meet the situation as it should be met.  I intend to take a hand in
this affair myself."

"What can you do?"

"I’ll find a way.  There’s one thing sure.  I don’t intend to have the
ingenious plans of half a lifetime spoiled by any blundering hay-maker
from Kansas City.  He’s not my brother.  I won’t have your scruples.
And if Moira has learned to be fond of him, so much the worse for her.
I asked her to marry you because I didn’t want any strange young man to
come poking about my affairs or hers.  She’s a good girl—too good for
the likes of either of us.  She was never much after the men, being
wedded to her art, and I thought you’d do as well as another—that ye’d
make good over here and turn out the husband she deserved."  He paused
to give his words more weight.  "Instead of making good—ye’ve made a
mess of it—to say nothing of falling short with Moira.  I might have
known.  But it’s too late now for me to be crying over my spilt milk or
yours.  And whatever happens I’d like ye to know, my boy, that this
affair means too much—to be balked for a mere sentiment.  If she doesn’t
love you that’s yer own affair.  And as for yer brother, Jim—all I say
is let him look out for himself."

He had sunk into his chair again, his lips compressed, his eyes closed
to narrow slits and his voice, husky a moment ago with his passion,
enunciating his words with icy precision.

"But how are you going to find him?  Haven’t I told you that he’s
slipped away—lost in Paris?  And you know what that means."

"How could he slip away—drugged—after being knocked out and
unconscious?"  He leaned forward in his chair, his white fist clenched
on the table.  "Somebody helped him——"

"It’s not possible."

"Why not?  How do ye know?  Ye were all so frightened of the police that
ye took to yer heels without a look around."

"But nobody but Pochard’s crowd knew about the old passage to the
river——"

"Then somebody in Pochard’s crowd did the helping."

"It can’t be.  They’re all in on it."

Quinlevin shrugged.  "Perhaps, but I’ll be looking into that phase of
the question myself."

"Go ahead.  I wish you luck.  But how is that going to help?"

"It’ll find Jim Horton.  And that’s the only matter I’m concerned
about."

There was a pause, and another voice broke the silence.

"And when you find him what will you do about it?"

In her place of concealment Moira trembled at the sound.  For there was
a harsh scraping of chairs as Harry and Quinlevin rose, startled, and
faced Jim Horton, who had opened the door of the closet and stood
revealed before them.

Harry Horton drew back a pace, leaning on a chair, his face gray, then
purple again.  Quinlevin stared, one eye squinting, his face distorted
in surprise and curiosity at the astonishing apparition.

"So," he said, "the skeleton in the closet!"

"You’ll find me far from that," said Jim Horton, striding forward to
within a few paces of them.  "You thought I might be hard to find.  I’ll
save you that trouble."

"I see," said the Irishman, finding his composure and a smile.  "So
ye’re the interloper—the comic tragedian of the piece, all primed and
set for trouble.  Well, I can’t say that ye’ll be disappointed—"  He
reached deliberately for his trousers pocket and drew out a weapon.  But
Jim leaped for him at the same time that Moira, rushing into the room,
shrieked Quinlevin’s name.

The sound disconcerted him and the shot went wild and before he could
shoot again Jim Horton had caught his arm and given his wrist a vicious
twist which wrenched the weapon away and sent him hurling into a chair.
Harry Horton hadn’t moved.  His feet seemed riveted to the floor.

"Father!" Moira gasped, her face white as paper. "You might have killed
him."

"That was the exact intention," said Quinlevin, making a wry face and
nursing his wrist.

But Jim Horton, frowning at the two men, held the weapon in his hand, in
command of the situation.

"Why did you come out, Jim—why?" Moira pleaded, wringing her fingers and
staring from one to the other.

But Jim Horton didn’t even hear her.  His gaze was fixed steadily on
Barry Quinlevin, who had shrugged himself back into self-possession and
was smiling up at the intruder as though in appreciation of an admirable
joke.

"We’d better have this thing out—you and I," said Jim, coolly,
eliminating Harry from the discussion.

"By all means," said Quinlevin.  "And I’m glad ye know a real enemy when
ye see one."

"You’ve hardly left any doubt about that.  There’s not much to say,
except that you’re not going to drag Moira into this dirty business with
the Duc.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly—but ye’ll hardly be less perspicuous if the muzzle of the
revolver is twisted a bit to one side.  It’s a hair trigger—thanks.  As
you were saying——"

"I won’t waste words.  I gave Harry his warning. Instead of heeding it,
he hired a pair of thugs to put me out of business.  But I’ll take no
chances for the future. I’m in no mood to die just yet."

"I like yer nerve, Jim Horton.  I may add, it suffers no disadvantage in
comparison to yer twin brother."  He shrugged and folded his arms.
"Well.  Ye seem to have turned the odd tricks—the ace of clubs—the ace
of hearts. Now what are ye going to be doing with us all entirely?"

"I told Harry what I’d do, and I’ll repeat it now. Drop this affair of
the Duc de Vautrin—without dragging Moira through the dirty mess, and I
quit—leaving Harry with his rank and honors."

"And if I refuse——?"

Jim Horton shrugged carelessly.

"I’ll tell the truth—that’s all."

"Brevity is the soul of wit.  Permit me to say that I admire the
succinctness of yer statement.  But the alternative is impossible."

"You mean, that you’ll go on with this affair——"

"Ye’ve guessed it, me son—as sure as ever ye find it convenient to
remove the imminent and deadly weapon and yerself from my presence."

"That’s final?"

Quinlevin laughed and very coolly poured himself out a glass of whisky.

"What’s the use of quarreling?  By a bit of mistaken heroics ye’ve fired
yerself into the midst of my little family circle and exploded.  Maybe
ye’ve done some damage.  But I’m an old bird, and I don’t scare so
easily.  Come now. Ye wouldn’t kill me out of hand.  Ye’re not that
kind. And so—let’s be reasonable.  Can I pour ye a drink?"

"No, thanks——"

"As ye please.  But ye’ve got to admit that there are two sides to this
question.  If the information in my possession is correct, d’ye see,
ye’re a deserter from the army of the United States.  A word to the
nearest private of the Military Police and ye’re jugged, to do yer
explaining to a judge advocate."

"You can’t—you won’t do that."

Moira seemed to find her speech with an effort, for the rapidity of
events and their portentous consequences to her own destiny had robbed
her of all initiative.  But her courage came back with a rush as she
faced this man who had deceived her all these years—and charmed her even
now with his reckless grace and magnetism.

"You won’t do that," she went on breathlessly.  "I can’t permit it.
I’ve heard all you said.  I’ve been listening—-there——"

"Ah, you heard," said Quinlevin with a quick glance at her.  "Then
perhaps it’s just as well.  I would be having to tell you some day."
And then, with quick decision.  "Ye’re not my daughter.  Ye’re the child
of the Duc de Vautrin."

As he shot this bolt at her, he watched its effect.  Moira grew even
paler and stared at him as though he were a person she had never seen
before.

"The daughter—of the Duc de Vautrin?" she stammered.

"That’s not true, Moira," broke in Jim’s voice, "but you’re not _his_
daughter either.  I’ll take my oath on it."

She glanced at Jim as though the deep tones of his voice had steadied
her for a moment.

"Not his daughter—then who——?"  She paused and sought Quinlevin’s eyes
uncertainly.

"I’ve told ye the truth, my dear.  It was my crime not to have told ye
before—but that’s all ye can lay against me—that and the love for ye
that has made the confession difficult."

Moira faltered.  But Barry Quinlevin’s eyes were upon her, alive, it
seemed, with the old affection.  And across her brain flitted quick
visions of their careless past, their years of plenty, their years of
privation, in which this man, her father she had thought, had always
loomed the dominant figure, reckless perhaps, aloof at times—but always
kindly—considerate....  But there was Jim Horton just beside her....
She felt his presence too—the strength of him—the honesty and the love
of her that gave him the courage to face oblivion for her sake.  The
silence was deathly, and seemed to have gone on for hours. Jim did not
speak.  There was Harry too, standing like a pale image, the ghost of
her happiness—staring at her. Were they all dumb?  Something seemed to
be required of her and her instinct answered for her.  She moved toward
Jim Horton, her fingers seeking his.

"I—I love him," she found herself saying.  "I—want you both to know.  It
has all been a horrible mistake—But it’s too late to cry over.  It has
just happened—that’s all.  I can never love any one else——"

"Moira——," whispered Jim.

"But I know that—that there’s nothing to be done.  I only wanted you to
know," she finished firmly, "that any one who harms him, harms me——"

"Moira," Jim’s voice broke in pleadingly at her ear. "Come away with
me—now.  You can’t stay here.  The situation is impossible."

She felt Barry Quinlevin’s eyes before he spoke.

"I don’t need to remind ye, Moira—of yer vows at the altar——"

"What vows!" broke in Jim, fiercely facing his brother. "A travesty—a
cruel hoax.  There’s no law that will keep it binding——"

"She married me—with her eyes open," muttered Harry.  "And unless I
release her——"

"Stop!  For God’s sake," Moira’s voice found itself in pity for her own
humiliation.  "There’s no release—no hope for either of us.  There’s no
divorce—except death——"

"I ask nothing of you, Moira," Jim was pleading again, "only to go with
me—away from here—to-night—for your own self-respect."

"An outcast——," sneered Quinlevin.

He saw how the game was going, but he went too far. She turned on him
defiantly.

"An outcast!" she said.  "I would be proud to be facing the world alone
with such an outcast as Jim Horton—the shame and the glory of following
blindly where my heart was leading me——"

"Come, then," said Jim.

"No.  Don’t you see?  I can’t.  What Harry says is true.  I married with
my eyes open.  I swore to a lie. And I’ve got to abide by that lie.
I’ve got to, Jim.  For God’s sake, have pity."

She sank helplessly into a chair, relinquishing his hand. All hope, all
life, it seemed, had gone out of her. Jim Horton stood regarding her for
a moment and then silently walked to the door, when he heard her voice
again.

"Jim," she cried despairingly.

He turned in the doorway and their glances met for a moment.

"Will you come, Moira?" he asked quietly.

"I can’t, Jim.  I can’t——"

He waited a moment, and then laying Quinlevin’s weapon on the table in
front of him, turned again and walked out of the door and into the
darkness of the corridor.




                             *CHAPTER XIII*

                         *BEGINNING A JOURNEY*


It would have been easy for Quinlevin to have shot him in the back, and
at the moment Jim Horton wouldn’t much have cared if he had.  He went
down the stairs slowly, across the court and out into the street,
wandering aimlessly, bare headed, with no sense of any intention or
direction.  "There’s no divorce—but death."  Moira’s words rang again
and again in his brain.  That was a part of her creed, her faith, her
religion.  She had once spoken of what her Church had always meant to
her—her Mother, she had called it,—and she was true to her convictions.
"There’s no divorce—but death."  The revelation of her beliefs was not
new to him, yet it came to him with a sense of shock that she had chosen
at the last to remain with Harry and Quinlevin and all the degradation
that the association meant to her.  It had been a choice between two
degradations, and force of habit had cast the last feather into the
balance.  In the bitterness of his own situation—isolated, outcast, with
no hope of regeneration, he tried to find it in his heart to blame her.
But the thought of the pain and bewilderment he had seen in her eyes
made him only pitiful for her misfortunes.  It seemed as though the
shock of the many revelations of the evening had deadened her
initiative, enfeebled her fine impulses and made her like a dependent
child—at the mercy of custom and tradition. And he could not forget that
he had gone to her asking nothing, expecting nothing, and that in spite
of all the barriers that she recognized between them, in spite of the
deception he had practiced, she had still clung to him and even
acknowledged him in the presence of her husband and the man she called
her father.  Love had glowed in her eyes and in her heart, lifting her
for a time above the tragic mystery of her origin and the broken ideals
of a lifetime.  It was almost enough for him to ask of her.

It didn’t seem to matter much now what happened to him.  But almost
unconsciously he found himself casting an occasional glance over his
shoulder to see if he was followed.  He had no fear of Harry.  His
brother had shown to-night in his true colors, but the picturesque
scoundrel whose name Moira bore was clearly a person to be reckoned
with.  Why Quinlevin hadn’t taken a pot-shot at him on the stairs was
more than Jim Horton could understand, unless some consideration for
Moira had held his hand.  The impulse of fury that had made him draw his
revolver had faded.  But their controversy was still unsettled and Jim
Horton knew that the one duty left him must be done at once.  After he
had told what he knew to de Vautrin, Quinlevin could try to kill him if
he liked—but not before....

Would the memories of the past prevail in Moira’s relations with
Quinlevin?  Would he be able to convince her that she was the Duc’s
daughter?  He remembered that most of what he had heard from his place
of concealment could be susceptible of a double interpretation under the
skillful manipulation of the resourceful Irishman.

Jim Horton knew that Piquette had told him the straight story, from
Harry’s own lips, but he could not violate her confidence by using her
name.  It meant danger for Piquette from Quinlevin and perhaps a
revelation of her breech of Pochard’s confidence and a greater danger
even from Tricot.  He knew that he must move alone and reach the ear of
de Vautrin at once with his testimony.

He approached the café of Leon Javet when he heard the light patter of
feet behind him and stopped and turned.  It was Piquette, divested of
her fine raiment and dressed in the simple garb of a _midinette_.


"Jeem——," she said.  "I ’ave been waiting for you—outside——"

"Oh, Piquette——"

"You mus’ not go in Javet’s—come, _mon ami_, to de oder side of de
street——"

"Why, Piquette?" he asked curiously.

"Because Tricot and _Le Singe_ are looking for you and dey will watch
Javet’s."

"H-m.  Who told you this?"

But he let her take him by the elbow to the darkness opposite.

"Pochard.  De house in de Rue Charron is watch’ by de police.  Dey are
afraid you will give de evidence——"

"They needn’t worry just now," he muttered.  "I’ve something else to
do."

"But you mus’ keep away from de _Quartier_——"

"I expect to.  I’m going away, Piquette——"

"Jeem!  Where?"

"To Nice.  I’ve got to see your friend de Vautrin, at once."

"Ah—de Vautrin!"

She walked along with him for a moment in silence.

"Where is your ’at, _mon ami_?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, aware for the first time of his
loss.

"I left it——"

"In the Rue de Tavennes?"

"Yes."

"Ah, you mus’ tell me.  Come to de Boulevard Clichy. It is safer."

"I’ve taken a lodging in the Rue Jean Paul."

"No," she insisted.  "You mus’ take no more chances on dis side of de
river jus’ now—nor mus’ I."

"You mean that they suspect——?"

"Not yet—but dey will if dey see us—you and I——"

"You can’t run that chance, Piquette."

"We are quite safe in de Boulevard Clichy.  Come."

And so he yielded to her persuasions and followed her by a roundabout
way across the Pont Carrousel and so toward their destination, while he
told her in general terms of the events of the evening.  She listened,
putting in an exclamation or a brief question here and there, but made
no comments until they reached her apartment, where she made him
comfortable in her best chair, gave him a cigarette and getting out of
her street dress, slipped into her dressing gown.  To the western mind,
unused to the casual ways of the _atelier_, this informality might have
seemed indecorous.  But Jim Horton was deeply absorbed in his own
thoughts and for the moment did not think of her.  And when she drew her
robe around her and took up a cigarette, she seemed for the first time
to be aware of his abstraction.  To Piquette’s mind those things which
were natural to her must be natural to every one else, and this, after
all, is only the simple philosophy of the child.  As she curled herself
up on her _chaise longue_ and lighted her cigarette he smiled at her.


"Well, _mon_ Jeem*," she said, "what you t’ink of Monsieur Quinlevin?"
(She pronounced it Canl’van.)

"He’s just about the smoothest proposition that ever happened," he
replied.  "He’d have gotten me, if I hadn’t moved in close."

"An’ ’Arry——?  ’E did not’ing?"

"No.  Just stood there.  He’s lost his nerve again. He won’t bother me,
but the Irishman is in this game for keeps."

"He is dangerous, _mon ami_.  You ’ad better not go on wit’ dis affair."

"Yes, Piquette, I must," he said quietly.  "I got into this situation by
being a moral coward, I’m not going to get out of it by being a physical
one.  Besides, I’ve promised."

"Who?"

"Myself.  It’s a duty I owe——," he paused.

"To Madame ’Orton?  An’ what t’anks do you get?"  She shrugged
expressively.  "A bullet or a knife in de ribs, perhaps.  You ’ave
already almos’ enough been shot and beaten, _mon vieux_."

"And yet here I am quite comfortable in your best chair, and none the
worse—thanks to you, Piquette."

"But you cannot always be so lucky.  I would be ver’ onhappy if you were
kill’, _mon_ Jeem."

"Would you, Piquette?" he said, taking her hand impulsively and kissing
it gently.

"An’ den it is too late to be onhappy——," she sighed and put her other
hand over his.  "Oh, _mon_ Jeem, life is so short, so sweet.  It is not
right to take a chance of dying before one’s time."

"I don’t want to die just yet, and I don’t expect to, but life doesn’t
mean a whole lot to me.  It’s too complex, you
understand?—_difficile_——"  He gave a sigh and sank back in his chair,
relinquishing her fingers.  "I guess I was meant for the simple life,"
he said, with his slow smile.

She was silent for a moment, regarding him soberly.

"What ’as happen’, _mon ami_?  She ’as let you go?"

He paused, frowning at the ash of his cigarette.

"What else could she do?" he asked quietly.  "I asked nothing—expected
nothing of her."

"Then you cannot be disappoint’!" said Piquette dryly. "She is not worth
de trouble.  You run a risk of being kill’, to save ’er from ’er ’usban’
who is a _vaut rien_, you offer ’er de bes’ you ’ave an’ she send you
away alone into de darkness.  You t’ink she loves you.  _Saperlotte_!
What she knows of love!  If I love a man I would go wit’ ’im to de end
of de worl’, no matter what ’e is."

He sat watching her as she spoke—listening to the clear tones of her
voice, watching the changes in her expressive features.

"I believe you would, Piquette," he muttered.

"An’ you," she went on shrilly, "you who ’ave save’ ’er ’usban’ from
disgrace, you who win ’im de _Croix de Guerre_ an’ den go into de
darkness an outcas’—she let you go—she let you go——!"

"Sh——," he broke in.  "She had to—I understand—she is a Catholic——"

She paused and then went on.  "Why ’as she marry your broder if she does
not love ’im?  La la!"  She stopped and shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"Perhaps you onderstan’ now, _mon petit_ Jeem, why I ’ave not marry.
Not onless I love, and den——," her voice sank to a tense whisper, "and
den ontil deat’ I would be true——"

"Yes, Piquette.  You are that sort.  But this——," and he glanced about
the room.

She shrugged as she caught his meaning.

"Monsieur ’as much money.  Why should I not be content as well as some
one else?"

Deep in his heart he was sorry for her, but he could see that she was
not in the least sorry for herself.  And the unconventionality of her
views, the total lack of moral sense, seemed somehow less important than
the rugged sincerity of her point of view and the steadfastness of her
friendship.

"And you have never loved well enough to marry?" he asked.

"No, _mon_ Jeem," she said gently.

Their glances met, his level and friendly.  And it was her look that
first turned away.  "No, _mon_ Jeem," she repeated slowly.  "One does
not meet such a man, ontil it is too late."  She gave a sharp little
gasp and sat up facing him.  "An’ I speak of my troubles when you ’ave
greater ones of your own.  I want to ’elp you, _mon ami_. You ’ave in
your mind a duty to do with Monsieur the Duc de Vautrin.  You ’ave make
me t’ink.  Perhaps it is my duty too."

"I’ve got to see him at once, before Quinlevin does."

"_Eh bien_.  He is on the Riviera—Nice.  We s’all find ’im."

"We?"

"_Parfaitement_!  Perhaps I can make it easier for you to see him——"

"You’ll go with me?"

"Why not?  Onless you do not want me——?"

"Of course I’ll be only too happy, only——"

"What, _mon petit_?"

"It seems a great deal to ask.  You’ve already done so much."

"No," she said with a smile.  "It will perhaps be safer for both of us
away from Paris.  An’ you are onhappy. Will I perhaps not cheer you up a
little?"

"There’s no doubt of that, Piquette——"

"I would like to go wit’ you.  It will give me pleasure—if you do not
mind."

"But Monsieur the Duc——"

"_Je ne me fiche pas_.  Besides, shall I not now be doing him a
service?"

"Yes, that’s true."  He stopped as a thought came to him.  "The Duc
suspects something.  What made him go to Ireland and question Nora
Burke?"

"Perhaps I talk’ a little too much dat night——"

"Has he spoken of it since?"

"Yes.  But I tol’ ’im not’ing.  I did not wish to get ’Arry in trouble.
But now——," she shrugged and lighted a fresh cigarette.  "I do not care
about what ’appen to ’Arry or Monsieur Quinlevin.  It is only what
’appens to you dat matters, _mon_ Jeem.

"But in befriending me you’ve made enemies of all that crowd——"

"Not onless dey find out.  It is you who are in danger. After what you
’ave ’eard to-night, you are more dangerous to Quinlevin dan ever."

"I gave him his chance.  He didn’t take it."

"But he’ll make anoder chance.  You do not know dat man.  Even Tricot is
afraid of ’im."

"Well, I’m not.  He thinks the world owes him a living.  But he wouldn’t
last half an hour out in the country where I come from.  He’s clever
enough, to put it over Moira all these years——"

"Yes, _mon_ Jeem.  An’ ’e may ’put it over’ still—now dat you go from
’er——"

"Perhaps," he muttered, with a frown.  "But that doesn’t matter.  She’s
not de Vautrin’s daughter—or his—I’d take an oath on it.  I’ve got to
clear her skirts of this dirty mess.  She wouldn’t come.  They’ve got
her there now—a prisoner.  She can’t help herself.  I can’t be losing
any time."

He rose suddenly as though aware of the passage of time and took a few
paces away from her.

"Not to-night?" said Piquette.

"The first train.  I’ve got to go and find out."

She glanced at the small enameled clock upon the mantel.

"It is too late.  Dere would be no fas’ express until de morning."

"Very well.  I’ll see."  And he strode toward the door.

"At de Hotel Gravelotte—at de corner you will find out, but wait——"  She
had sprung up and running out of the apartment, returned in a moment
with a soft hat, which she gave him.

"Thanks, Piquette—you’re my good angel.  I do seem to need you, don’t
I?"

"I ’ope you do, _mon vieux_," she said quietly.  And then, "Go an’ ’urry
back.  I will wait for you."

Thus it was that the next day found Jim Horton and Piquette together in
a compartment of the Marseilles Express on their way to the Riviera.
Jim had managed to get reservations in a train which was now running
regularly, and then, after advising Piquette, had returned to his
lodgings in the Rue Jean Paul, meeting her at the Gare de Lyon at noon.
Piquette seemed to have thought of everything that he had forgotten, and
greeted him with an air of gayety which did much to restore his drooping
spirits.  It was very cozy, very comfortable, in their compartment _à
deux_, and Piquette looked upon the excursion from the angle of the
child ready and willing to take a new pleasure in anything.  Curiously
enough, she had traveled little—only once to the Côte d’Azur, and looked
forward with delight to the southern sunshine, the blue of the sea, and
the glimpse of the world of fashion which was once more to be seen upon
the _Promenade des Anglais_.  The passing landscape she greeted with
little childish cries as she recognized familiar scenes—the upper
reaches of the Seine, Juvisy, then Arpajon, Etampes and Orleans.

And Jim Horton sat watching her, detached by her magnetism from the
gloom of his thoughts, aware of the quality of her devotion to this
newly found friend for whom with joyous carelessness she was risking the
good-will of her _patron_, the displeasure of her bloodthirsty friends
of earlier days and even perhaps her very life.  She was a new event in
his experience, giving him a different meaning for many things.  There
had been no new passages of anything approaching sentiment between them
and he watched her curiously.  It seemed that what she wished him to
understand was that she was merely a good friend that he could tie to
and be understood by.  Even when he took her hand in his—a natural
impulse on Jim’s part when it lay for a moment beside him—she only let
it rest there a moment and then gave a careless gesture or made a swift
useful motion which dispelled illusions and exorcised sentiment.  And
yet of sentiment of another sort she was full, fairly bubbling over with
sympathy and encouragement, inviting him to share her enjoyment of the
gray and brown pastoral from the car window, peaceful, beautiful and
untouched by the rough hand of war. It was a kind of friendship he
couldn’t understand and wouldn’t have understood perhaps even if he had
been skilled in the knowledge of women.  And yet, there it was, very
real, very vital to him in all its beauty and self-effacement.

Whatever her past, her strange philosophy of life, her unique code of
morals, he had to admit to himself that she was a fine young animal,
feminine to the last glossy hair of her head, and compact of splendid
forces which had been diverted—of virtues which refused to be stifled by
the mere accident of environment.  But most of all was she that product
of the Latin Quarter, which knows and shares poverty and affluence,
friendship and enmity,—the _gamine_, the _bonne camarade_.

She thought nothing of her exploit in rescuing him from the house in the
Rue Charron, nor would she permit a repetition of his admiration and
gratitude.  The impulse that had driven her to the rescue was
spontaneous.  He was one she knew, an American soldier, a friend of
France, in trouble.  Was not that enough?

As the day wore on Piquette grew tired looking at the scenery and after
yawning once or twice, laid her head quite frankly upon his shoulder
with all the grace of a tired child and immediately went to sleep.  Jim
Horton smiled down at her with a new sense of pride in this strange
friendship, admiring the fine level brows, the shadows on her eye-lids,
slightly tinted with blue, the well-turned nose, the scarlet curve of
her under lip and the firm line of her jaw and chin.  Two outcasts they
were, he and she, strangely met and more strangely linked in the common
purpose of protecting the destinies of a decadent French gentleman whom
Jim Horton had never seen and in whom he had no interest.  And
Piquette——? What was her motive?  Her loyalty to de Vautrin, unlike that
which she had shown for him, was spasmodic, actuated by no affection but
only by the humor of the moment.  She did not love this man.  He had
never been to her anything more than a convenience.

He smiled.  The word suggested a thought to him. Convenience!  Was this
relation of Piquette to her patron any worse than those marriages of the
ambitious girls of his own country, without love, often without hope of
love, to bring themselves up in the world?  Piquette at least was
honest—with the _patron_ and with herself.

The vows at the altar were sacred.  He knew how sacred now.  He had not
dared to think of Moira and he knew that it was well that Piquette had
kept his thoughts from her.  But now as his companion slept, his arm
around her slim figure, he began to think of Moira and the tragic
decision that he had given her to make.  She had chosen to remain there
in the Rue de Tavennes because that was the only home she knew, and in
the agony of her mind she felt that she must find sanctuary in her own
room with her thoughts and her prayers.  And the love she bore him, he
knew was not a mere passing fancy, born of their strange romance, but a
living flame of pure passion, which could only be dimmed by her duty to
her conscience—but not extinguished.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Piquette stirred slightly in her sleep and spoke his name.  "_Mon_
Jeem," she muttered, and then settled herself more comfortably against
his shoulder.  Jim Horton did not move for fear of awakening her, but
his gaze passed over her relaxed features and a generous wave of
gratitude swept over him for all that she had done for him.  What a
trump she was!  What a loyal little soul to help him with no hope of
reward but the same kind of loyalty she had given him.  He must not fail
her.  If there were only some way in which he could help her to
happiness.  In sleep she was so gentle—so child-like—so confiding.
Thinking of all that he owed her, he bent over and kissed her gently on
the brow.

She did not waken, and Jim Horton raised his head. Then suddenly, as if
in response to an impulse, looked at the small, uncurtained window that
let out upon the corridor of the carriage.  There, two dark eyes stared
at him as though fascinated from a pallid face, the whiter for its frame
of dusky hair—the face of Moira Quinlevin. He thought for a moment that
the vision was a part of his obsession and for a second did not move—and
then started forward, awakening Piquette, for behind the face, in the
obscurity of the corridor, he made out another head—and the iridescent
eyes of Barry Quinlevin.




                             *CHAPTER XIV*

                            *A NIGHT ATTACK*


And even as he looked the faces were merged into the obscurity and
vanished.

Piquette clung to his arm, whispering.

"I’d such a dreadful dream—  Why, Jeem, what is it?"

He started to his feet.

"Barry Quinlevin—there!" he gasped.  "With _her_!"

Her clutch on his arm tightened.

"Here—impossible!"

"I saw them."

"You dreamed, like me.  I can’t believe——"

"They were there a moment ago.  Let me go, Piquette."

"No," she gasped in a frightened whisper.  "You mus’ not follow——"

"I’ve got to—to explain," he muttered.

But she only clutched his arm the more firmly and he could not shake her
off, for she held him with the strength of desperation.

"Not now, _mon_ Jeem," she pleaded.  "I—I am frighten’——"

He glanced at her quickly and it seemed as if this were so, for her face
had gone so white that the rouge upon her lips looked like the blood
upon an open wound.

"It is jus’ what ’e want’, _mon_ Jeem, for you to go after him."

"What do you mean?"

"It would give him de excuse he want’ to shoot you——"

"Nonsense."

"_Defense personnelle_.  He knows de law.  He will kill you, _mon_
Jeem."

"I’m not afraid.  I’ve got to go, Piquette——"

"No.  You s’all not.  An’ leave me here alone——?"

"There’s nothing to be frightened about on a train full of people——"

He managed to reach the door with Piquette clinging to him and peered
out into the corridor.  A guard was approaching.

"_Ou est ce monsieur et cette dame_——" he stammered,

Ollendorf fashion, and then his French failed him and he floundered
helplessly, pleading with Piquette to finish what he wished to say.

But the man understood, rattled off a rapid sentence and disappeared.

"It is dat dey have gone into anoder carriage," she translated.  "You
see.  It will be impossible to find dem."

"No," he muttered, but he knew that the delay had cost him his
opportunity.

"You mus’ not leave me, _mon petit_," Piquette pleaded at his ear.  "I
’ave fear of him.  ’E ’as seen us together. Now ’e knows that it is I
who ’ave tol’ about Monsieur le Duc—I who ’ave ’elp you from de house in
de Rue Charron—everyt’ing.  I ’ave fear——"

Jim laid a hand over hers and patted it reassuringly.

"Don’t worry.  He can’t harm you."

"I am not afraid when you are ’ere,——" she whispered.

And she won her way.  It was the least that he could do for her; so he
sat again thinking of the look in Moira’s eyes and frowning out of the
window, wondering how best to meet this situation, while Piquette clung
to his arm and patted his hand nervously.

"We should ’ave watch’ for ’im, _mon_ Jeem—at de Gare de Lyon.  I don’
on’erstan’——"

"Nor I—how he got her to come with him," muttered Jim fiercely.

"’Ave I not tol’ you ’e is a man _extraordinaire_—a man to be watch’—to
be fear’——?"

"How did he get her to come?" Jim repeated, as though to himself.  "How
did he——?"

There seemed no necessity to find a reply to that, for there she was, in
the next carriage, perhaps, with this shrewd rascal, whose power and
resource seemed hourly to grow in importance.

It was difficult to believe that Moira had listened to Quinlevin, had
believed the story he had chosen to tell her, directly after the
convincing proof of his villainy, directly after Jim Horton’s own plea
to save her.  What art—what witchcraft had he employed?

The answer came in a shrewd guess of Piquette’s.

"Dis was de firs’ fas’ express to de Mediterranean," she said.  "’E knew
you would go to Monsieur de Vautrin.  Las’ night ’e foun’ out I would go
wit’ you."

"But how——?"

"Who knows——?" she shrugged uneasily.

He turned with a frown and examined Piquette with quick suspicion, but
her gaze met his frankly.  The thought that had sped through his mind
was discreditable to her and to him for thinking it.  There was no
possibility of her collusion with Quinlevin.  Her fear of him was too
genuine.

"H-m.  He arranged things nicely.  To show her _me_ with _you_——"

"_Parfaitement_!  It is dat only which made ’er come, _mon petit_."

"Smooth!" muttered Jim.  "And she saw me, all right," he finished
bitterly.

Piquette was silent for awhile.

"She is ver’ ’andsome," she said at last.  And then, "An’ she foun’ me
asleep wit’ my ’ead on your shoulder."

"Yes," muttered Jim.  "She did."

At the moment he could not think how much his words wounded her.

"I am sorry, _mon petit_," she said gently.

His conscience smote him at the tone of contrition.

"Oh, it doesn’t matter, of course," he said.  "There was no hope—for
me—none.  But it complicates things a little."

"Yes, I comprehend.  Monsieur hopes to keep you from reaching the Duc."

"He won’t succeed—but I’d rather he hadn’t seen me in the train."

"Or Madame."

Jim Horton made no reply and was at once enwrapped in his thoughts,
which as Piquette could see, excluded her. And after a glance at his
face, she too was silent.  The train, stopping here and there, rushed on
through the darkness, for hours it seemed to Piquette, and her companion
still sat, staring at the blank wall before him, absorbed in his
problem.  He seemed to have forgotten her—and at last she could bear the
silence no longer.

"_Mon pauvre_ Jeem, you love ’er so much as dat?" she asked.

He started at the sound of her voice and then turned and laid his hand
over hers.

"I’m a fool, Piquette," he muttered.

"Who s’all say?"  She shrugged.  Then she turned her palm up and clasped
his.  "I am ver’ sorry, _mon ami_."

The touch of her hand soothed him.  In spite of the danger that she now
ran, only half suggested by what she had said, she could still find
words to comfort him.  Selfish brute that he was, not to think of her!

"Piquette!  I have gotten you into trouble."

"No.  I got myself into it, _mon_ Jeem."

He made no reply—and sat frowning.  The train had stopped again.  By
contrast with the roar to which their ears had become accustomed, the
silence was eloquent as though their train had stopped breathless upon
the edge of an abyss.  Then small sounds emerged from the silence, a
complaining voice from an adjoining compartment, the buzzing of an
insect, a distant hissing of steam.  Then suddenly, the night was split
with a crash of sound and glass from the window was sprinkled over them.
Another crash.  And before Piquette had realized what was happening Jim
had seized her bodily and thrown her to the floor of their compartment,
and was crouching over her, while the missiles from outside, fired
rapidly, were buried in the woodwork above the place where they had sat.

Six shots and then a commotion of voices here, there, everywhere, and
the sound of feet running inside the train and out.

"Lucky I pulled that blind," said Jim as he straightened, glancing at
the bullet holes.

"Quinlevin," gasped Piquette as she rose to a sitting posture.

Jim Horton got up and opened the door just as the guards came running
with excited inquiries, and seeing Piquette upon the floor.

"Madame has been shot——?"

But Piquette immediately reassured them by getting up, frightened but
quite unhurt.

"By the window—the shots came," she explained quickly in French, while
Jim exhibited the damaged paneling.  "Some one outside has fired at
us——"

They understood and were off again, out into the darkness where there
was much running about with lanterns and many cries of excitement, while
the other passengers crowded into the compartment and examined the
bullet holes, mouths agape.

"Is it the Boches?" asked an excited _mondaine_ of her _compagnon de
voyage_.

"Not unlikely," replied the other.

But Jim Horton knew better.  Consideration for Moira’s position had kept
him silent and inactive until the present moment, but he was angry now
at Quinlevin’s dastardly attempt at the murder of either or both of
them, so nearly successful.  And so, when the officials of the train led
by a fussy, stout, black-bearded individual in buttons, returned to
question him, he answered freely, his replies quickly translated by
Piquette, describing Quinlevin.

"A monsieur with a mustache and _Imperiale_?" echoed the stout official,
taking notes rapidly on a pad.  "And mademoiselle had dark hair and blue
eyes——?"

"They were of the party of four in the second carriage——," broke in the
guard whom Jim had questioned earlier in the day.

"It is impossible, Monsieur.  They left the train at St. Etienne."

"A party of four?" questioned Piquette, astonished.

"_Oui, Madame_.  The two you mention besides another man and an older
woman."

"What did the other two look like?" asked Jim, thinking of Harry.

"The old woman had reddish hair streaked with gray—the man was small,
with a hooked nose."

"And the man with the hooked nose, did he leave at St. Etienne too?"
asked Jim.

"_Parbleu_, now that you mention it——," said the guard, scratching his
head, "I think I saw him a while ago at the rear of the train."

Jim Horton scowled.  "Find the man with the hooked nose, Monsieur," he
muttered.

But the fussy official was now shrugging and gesticulating wildly.  It
was impossible to do anything more.  It was like hunting for a needle in
a hay-mow.  His train was already an hour late.  The search would be
taken up in the village where they had stopped, but nothing could be
done for the present.  The train would be thoroughly searched and then
they must go on.  In the meanwhile perhaps it would be better for
Monsieur and Madame to change to a vacant compartment.

Jim Horton protested, but to no avail.  And after another wait, during
which there were more waving of lanterns outside and more shouts, the
train went on upon its way.  He had to confess himself astonished at the
desperate measures his enemies had taken to prevent his revelations.
Who was the small man with the hooked nose?  It wasn’t Harry, who was
tall—and whose nose was straight.  But when they were seated in the new
place provided for them, a thought came to Jim and when the guard came
around again he questioned.

"Was there anything especially noticeable about the small man with the
hooked nose?" asked Jim.

"I don’t comprehend, M’sieu."

"Did you notice anything curious in the way he walked for instance?"

"No—yes.  Now that you mention it, I think he walked with a slight
limp."

Piquette and Jim exchanged quick glances.

"Tricot!" gasped Piquette.

"You’re sure he is nowhere on the train?"

"Positive, M’sieu.  We have searched everywhere."

It was with a feeling of some security therefore that Jim settled
himself again and tried to make Piquette comfortable for the remainder
of the journey.  Neither of them felt like sleeping now and they talked
eagerly of the extraordinary happening.  There seemed no reason to doubt
that their assailant was Tricot and that the clever brain of Quinlevin
had planned the whole affair. There was no doubt either that Quinlevin
had told the _apache_ of Piquette’s part in the affair of the Rue
Charron and that the shots were intended as much for Piquette as for
him.  This was the danger in the path of those who betrayed the secrets
of the underworld.  But Piquette having recovered from her fright was
now again quite composed.

"It’s very clear why Monsieur Quinlevin left the train at St. Etienne
with Madame."

"He was afraid she would make trouble."

"Yes, _mon_ Jeem.  Also, ’e t’ought Tricot would have success."  She
caught his hand and held it a moment. "’E would ’ave kill’ me if you
’adn’ push’ me on de floor."

"Pretty clever, sizing us up like that, then letting Tricot do his dirty
work.  He didn’t think I’d see him. But we know what we’re up against
now.  And they’ll waste no time in following.  I’ve got to get a ’gun’
somewhere, that’s sure, and you’ve got to stop at Marseilles."

"At Marseilles?"

He nodded.  "I’m not going to let you run your head any further into
this noose.  You see what the danger is——"

But Piquette only smiled.

"I knew what de danger was when I offer’d to come, _mon ami_.  I’m not
going to stay at Marseilles.  I’m going on wit’ you, as I promis’."

"But, Piquette——"

She put her fingers over his lips.

"You do not know my great force of mind.  Besides," she added, "dey
cannot catch us now."

"I can’t have you running any more risks," he muttered.

"I s’all run de risk you run, _mon_ Jeem."

He smiled at her gently.  There was something animal-like in her
devotion.

In the dusk of the soft illumination from above, the shadows at her eyes
and lips seemed more than ever wistful and pathetic.

"Why do you dare all this for me, Piquette?"

"Why should I not tell you?" she said gently.  "It makes no difference
to you, but I t’ink I should like you to know.  It is because I love
you, _mon_ Jeem."

"Piquette!"

"It’s true, _mon ami_.  It ’as never ’appen to me before. Dat’s why I
know....  No, _mon_ Jeem.  It is not _necessaire_ for you to make
believe.  Voila!  You can ’old my ’and.  So.  But I want you to know.
It was from de firs’—at Javet’s—’Ow else should I ’ave care’ enough to
go find you in de Rue Charron?  ’Ow else would I care enough to fin’ out
de difference between you an’ ’Arry?"  She took a long breath before she
went on.  "It did not take me long, I assure you—for you, _mon ami_,
were de man I was to love an’ ’Arry——" she paused painfully.  "’Arry was
jus’ a mistake."

"I—I’m not what you think I am, Piquette," he broke in awkwardly.

"Let me finish, _mon ami_," she said with a wave of the hand.
"Confession is good for de soul, dey say.  I want you to know about me.
I am on’y what de _bon Dieu_ make me—a _gamine_.  If ’E wish’ me to be
_fille honnête_, ’E would not make a _gamine_.  _C’est la destinée_."

"Don’t, Piquette.  I know."

"Mos’ men are _si bête_—always de same.  Dey talk of love—Pouf!  I know.
_Toujours la chair_....  But you—_mon ami_—"  She held her breath and
then gasped gently.  "You touch’ me gently—wit’ respec’, like I was a
queen—you kiss me on de brows—like I was a _fille bonnête_. _Mon Dieu_!
What would you?  Is it not’ing to be care’ for by a man clean like dat?"

"I do care," he said impulsively.  "Yes—and like that. I’d give anything
to make you happy."

She gently disengaged his arm from about her waist.

"Den care for me like dat—like you say you care," she said gently.  "It
is what I wish—all I wish, _mon petit_ Jeem."

He touched her hand with his lips but there seemed nothing to say.

"_C’est bien_," whispered Piquette with a smile.  "I t’ink you ’ave
taught me somet’ing, _mon_ Jeem——"

"As you’ve taught me," he blurted out, "but I won’t lie to you,
Piquette."

"Dat is as it mus’ be.  An’ now we on’erstan’ each oder.  I am ver’
content."

Jim Horton, from embarrassment at the astonishing confession, began to
understand its motive and sat silent, Piquette’s hand in his, aware of
the bond of sympathy between them.

"It’s a queer world, Piquette," he said at last, with a dry laugh.  "I
care for somebody I can’t have—you care for me—why, God knows.  I’ve
made a fine mess of things and will probably go on making a mess of
things—_her_ life, mine, yours—when you and I might have hit it off from
the beginning."

"No, _mon_ Jeem, you were not for me."

"Piquette!"

She caught his hand in both of her own and with one of her swift
transitions from the womanly to the child-like she pleaded.

"An’ now you will not ’ide me away in Marseilles?"

He smiled at her earnestness and it wasn’t in his heart any longer to
refuse her.

"No, Piquette.  You shall go."

And impulsively, with the innocence that was a part of her charm, she
kissed him fair upon the lips.

"Ah, _mon_ Jeem.  You are ver’ good to me."

But at Marseilles he armed himself with a new automatic and with the
weapon in his pocket felt a reasonable sense of security, at least until
they reached their destination.

Piquette was resourceful.  And on the train to Nice found the answer to
the problem that neither of them had been able to solve.

"De ol’ woman, wit’ de gray hair," she said with an air of conviction
after a long period of silence—"it is Nora Burke."

"By George!" cried Jim, awakening.  "I believe you’re right, Piquette.
Nora Burke!  And he’s bringing her along to clinch the thing—down
here—at Nice."

She nodded.  "But we s’all reach Monsieur le Duc firs’, _mon_ Jeem——"

Delays awaited them when they reached the Hôtel Negresco.  Piquette was
provided with the name which Monsieur the Duc chose to use when
traveling.  Upon inquiry of the polite gentleman who presided over the
destinies of the guests of this newest addition to the luxuries of the
_Promenade des Anglais_, they were informed that Monsieur and Madame
Thibaud had gone upon a motor-journey along the Cornice Road.

At the information, Piquette laughed outright and the polite Frenchman
frowned.

"Is there anything so extraordinary in a motor-trip with Madame?" he
asked frigidly.

"No—nothing, Monsieur," she replied and laughed again.  But Jim Horton
understood.  Monsieur the Duc was relieving Piquette of a great moral
responsibility.

They were shown adjoining rooms where they removed the traces of their
journey, and then met for dinner, when they held a consultation as to
their future plans. If Monsieur the Duc had gone on a motor-trip he
might be back that night, or he might be away for a week. They found
that Monsieur and Madame had taken only a suitcase and the chances were
that they would return to the Negresco by the morrow.  But time was
precious—and it would not be long before Quinlevin and his queerly
assorted company would be arriving in Nice, ready in some nefarious way
to interfere with their plans.  And so after dinner they took the train
for Monte Carlo, hoping that de Vautrin’s weakness for gaming would have
led him to that earthly paradise of loveliness and iniquity.

It was late when they reached there, but Piquette had made no mistake,
for they found their man at the tables, so deeply engrossed that he did
not notice their approach or even look up when Piquette, ignoring the
wonderfully accoutered lady at his side, addressed him in her most
mellifluous tone.

Jim Horton took him in with a quick glance of appraisal—a man still in
his fifties, about the age of Barry Quinlevin, but smaller, with a thin
nose, sharp, black eyes, a bald head, and a dyed mustache waxed to long
points.  And the hands upon the green baize of the table wore large
rings, one set with a ruby, the other with an emerald.  That he was
losing some money was indicated by the pucker of his bushy eyebrows and
the nervous tapping of his jeweled fingers upon the cloth.

It was not until Piquette had spoken his Christian name several times
that he seemed to hear and then looked up, his face a cloud of
impatience and ill-temper.

"It is I, Olivier," she repeated—"Piquette."

"You—Madame!" he said with a glance at his companion.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette coolly, "and it seems that I’ve brought
you luck," for at that moment a pile of gold and bank notes was swept in
his direction.

"Ah—perhaps," he said confusedly.  And then, "But it isn’t possible.  I
was told that you were coming.  I can’t see you or this monsieur who
comes with you.  Go away if you please."

His attitude was uncompromising, his announcement bewildering, but
Piquette was undismayed.

"The red, Monsieur," she said calmly, and before he could prevent,
shoved a pile of the gold coins upon the color.  And the Duc, aghast at
her impudence, sat for a moment scowling at his pile of money, the
gambler in him arrested by the fascinating click of the little ball.

"Red wins," announced Piquette, echoing the _croupier_. "You see,
Monsieur, it will be wise for you to treat me with more politeness."

And as he still sat as though fascinated by the turn of his fortune, and
made no motion to prevent her, she put all the money she had won for him
on the black. Black won and Piquette laughed gayly, while the woman
beside de Vautrin sat in silence.

"It does not do to venture here with strange Goddesses."

She glanced rather scornfully at the Duc’s companion and straightened.

"Again, Madame," muttered de Vautrin, "the wheel runs for you."

"I have finished," said Piquette firmly.  "It is enough."

"No," growled the Duc, thrusting his winnings again upon the black.

"You will lose," said Piquette calmly, watching the leaping of the
little ball.  He did—all that she had won for him.  He tried again, lost
more, then turned on her with a frown.

"_Sacré_——" he began.

"Sh——," she silenced.  "_Allons_.  I did not come to interfere with your
games, but if Madame Thibaud will permit us——" and she smiled with
diabolical irony at de Vautrin’s companion—"I would like to have a word
with you at once."

"I will not listen to you—or him."  He scowled at Jim. "I know what it’s
all about.  I don’t wish to see you."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"Then what do you mean by this?  I’ve come to save you from a great
financial disaster——"

"You——?" he sputtered.  "What are you doing here, with this man?  It is
infamous.  I want no more of you. Go."

"No, Olivier.  I stay," she said quietly.  "You will kindly compose
yourself and tell me who has been sending you lying telegrams."

"A—a friend in Paris."

"Ah!  What did he say?"

"What does it matter to you what he said?" gasped de Vautrin.  "You are
in love with this monsieur.  _Eh bien_!  Go to him.  I don’t care.  I’m
through with you."

"Ah, no, you’re not, Olivier," said Piquette, smiling calmly, "not until
I’m through with you."  And then, soberly: "Don’t be a fool.  Your
_petit bleu_ was sent by Monsieur Quinlevin.  He has the best of reasons
for not wanting you to see us.  Will you listen to me now?"

Quinlevin’s name had startled him.

"What do you mean?" he sputtered.




                              *CHAPTER XV*

                              *GREEN EYES*


For a moment after Jim Horton’s departure Moira sat in her arm-chair,
her head buried in her arms, more than half stupefied.  One horrible
revelation had followed another with such rapidity that she was aghast
at the complete disruption of all the ties that had made her life.  And
this last tie—the strongest and the weakest of all—that too had been
broken as relentlessly as the others.

She straightened slowly, her face haggard with her suffering, but she
did not move from her chair and her fingers clutched its arms fiercely.
Her eyes, staring blankly past Quinlevin, were following Jim out into
the darkness of the Rue de Tavennes, but her fingers still clung to the
chair-arms and her body did not move.  It seemed that her limbs refused
to obey her will to follow. Then after a moment, she sank down again,
crushed, bruised and nerveless.

She felt the touch of Quinlevin’s hand upon her shoulder and his voice
whispering at her ear.

"There, acushla!  I’ll be explaining it all to you in the morning.  Go
to your room now, child, and rest."

She obeyed him silently, mechanically, not replying or looking at him or
at Harry.  Her throat like her eyes was dry, and parched, as though with
fever, but her hands, like her heart, were ice cold.  In the sanctuary
of her own room with the doors closed, she threw herself headlong upon
the bed, racked for a while by shuddering soundless sobs—and then after
a while merciful tears came.

"Jim," she whispered hopelessly into the darkness. "Jim, forgive me!"

Her fingers groped for her crucifix and clung to it, seeking strength
and courage.  And after a long while the spasm of weeping stopped and
she lay motionless and soundless, scarcely breathing.  She knew in her
heart that what she had done was best for Jim’s soul’s good and her own,
but her heart cried out against the cruelty of it.  And yet she was sure
that if she had followed him beyond the studio door, she would have gone
out with him into the world, glorying in her shame.  She had chosen.
Her one brief, gorgeous, pitiful romance was over.

And what was there left for her here at the studio but the shattered
fragments of ruined affections?  She had lived a lie—was living it
now—like her father....  She started up at the horror that she had
forgotten and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect her
thoughts; then she rose with an effort, groped for the matches and
lighted her candle.  Her father?  By his own admission—her father no
longer.  Who was she then?  A waif? The daughter of de Vautrin?  Her
mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale, somber, but with
blue-black eyes that gazed steadily from their swollen lids.  Strength
she had prayed for, and courage to do what was right to do, and she
needed them both now....

[Illustration: THE MIRROR SENT HER BACK A HAGGARD REFLECTION, PALE AND
SOMBER]

There was no sound from the studio.  She glanced at her clock.  For
hours it seemed she had lain upon her bed of pain.

With a new resolution she bathed her face and wrists in cold water, then
went through the kitchenette into the studio to find Barry Quinlevin.
He was not there, but her husband was,—crouched in the armchair by the
table and the whisky bottle was empty.

She shuddered a little but approached him resolutely. He tried to rise
but, with a dull laugh and fumbling the arm of the chair, fell sideways
into a grotesque attitude.

"Where is——?" she began, and halted.

"Gone out," he mumbled, struggling into a straighter posture, "back
soon."

"Where has he gone?"

He shook his head.  "Dunno.  Asked me to stay—take care of you, m’dear."

She turned away from him, in disgust.

"Oh—don’ worry," he went on—"not goin’ bother you. After t’morr’—won’
see me, y’know——"

She turned quickly and he laughed again.

"Goin’ join m’regimen’.  Furlough up t’morr’."

She whispered a "Thank God" below her breath as she stood looking at
him.  And then aloud, gently, in a new kind of pity for him.

"You’d better lie down, Harry, and get some sleep," she said, "or you’ll
be in no condition to go on duty."

"Thanks.  Ought to sleep.  Haven’ slep’ f’r weeks, seems to me.  Don’
seem to care though."

"You’d better.  There’s a room outside.  Your baggage is there too."

"Um—that’s nice of you, Moira.  R’turnin’ good for evil.  Baggage.  _He_
brought it—didn’ he?"

"Yes, Harry."

He paused a moment and then leaned forward in his chair while she
watched him curiously.

"Rotten mess!  What?" he mumbled.

She didn’t reply.  And he went on, concentrating thought with
difficulty.  "He told you I tried—kill him—didn’ he?"  He wagged his
head comically.  "I couldn’ do that—not kill ’im—wouldn’t do
y’know—m’own brother—no—not that——"

He put his hands to his eyes a moment and swayed, but Moira steadied him
by the shoulder.

"Harry—come.  I’ll help you.  You must go to bed."

"Not yet—in a minute.  Somethin’—say."

He groped for her hand on his shoulder, found and clung to it.

"Shame I’m such rotter, Moira.  Beas’ly shame.  I’m not half bad sort if
leave me ’lone.  I was sick—out there. Head of Levinski—grinned at me.
Gold tooth—grinned at me—in wheatfield——"

"Come, Harry," she broke in again, "lean on me.  I’ll help you to bed."

"Ah, I was sick awright——" he shuddered, oblivious of her.  "Makes me
sick now—think of it.  Jus’ a head, Moira, nothin’ else.  But God!  What
a head!"

"It won’t do you any good now to think about that," she put in quickly,
for he was shivering as though with a chill.

"No.  No goo’ now.  Awf’ rotter, ain’t I?"

"Come——"

He stumbled to his feet and she helped him to support himself.

"Will you forgive me, Moira?"

"Of course."

And as she urged him out of the door toward the vacant room, "Knew
y’would," he mumbled.  And then, "Goo’ ol’ Moira!"

In the room she helped him off with his coat, puttees and shoes and then
pulling a blanket over him left him to his own devices and went back to
the studio to wait for Barry Quinlevin.

But she wasn’t weary now.  From the same reserve force from which she
drew the strength to stand for hours and paint even when her sitters
were weary, she gained new courage and resolution for the return of
Quinlevin.  But for a moment she was tempted again. The way was clear.
What was to prevent her from going and finding Jim?  For a moment only.
Then she sank, into the chair by the fireplace—to fight her battle with
herself and wait.  Her glance restlessly passed from one familiar object
to another, the portrait on the easel, the lay figure in the corner in
its fantastic pose and heterogeneous costume, the draperies for her
backgrounds, hanging just as they had hung this afternoon, and yet all
so strangely changed.  The door of the closet where Jim had been hidden
remained open, exhibiting its untidy interior.  Instinctively she rose
and closed it, her sense of order triumphant even over her mental
sufferings. Then she went back and sat down to think.  There was much
that she and her—that she and Barry Quinlevin would have to say to each
other.


He came at last, expecting to find Harry and not the straight figure of
the woman who faced him like a pale fury.  The shadows of pain at her
eyes were gone, lost in deeper shadows of anger and determination.

"You!  Moira," he said in surprise.

"Yes, I——"

"Where’s Harry?"

"I put him to bed.  He was drunk," she said shortly.

"The devil he was!"  He frowned darkly and then seemed as ever, quite
the master of himself.  If the glance he cast at her discovered her
state of mind, he gave no sign of uneasiness.  He approached her with
his easy air as if nothing unusual had happened, but when he spoke again
his voice was pitched low and his eyes were soft.

"I thought you’d be in bed, child——"

"I’ve something to say to you——" she cut in quickly.

"Oh, very well,—say on, my dear.  You don’t mind if I smoke a
cigarette?"

As she made no reply he lighted one and sank into the most comfortable
chair with a sigh of content.

"At least you owe me something, Barry Quinlevin," she began tensely,
trying to keep her voice under control, and announcing her _leit motif_,
so to speak, in her first phrase. "I’m no chattel of yours, no infant
any longer, to be bandied about as a dupe in your wild plans for the
future. It’s _my_ future you’re dealing with just as you’ve dealt with
my past——"

"Have ye had any cause to complain of my treatment of ye?" he broke in
calmly.

"You’ve cheated me—lied to me all my life—isn’t that enough?  Kept me in
ignorance of the source of our livelihood—God knows what else—made me a
partner in a crime—without my knowledge—made me help you to get
dishonest money——"

"Hardly," he said.  "It was yer own money."

"I don’t believe you," she said icily, "if it was my money you would
have gotten it for me—all of it—long ago."

"And lost yerself, my dear, to the Duc de Vautrin," he countered
quickly.

She started slightly.  That possibility hadn’t occurred to her.  But she
went on rapidly.

"You forget that I heard what you said to Harry—That I know what has
been in your heart all these years. I was your decoy and you used me as
you pleased, glad of my working, which kept me busy so that I couldn’t
be inquiring what was going on.  You forget that I heard why you wanted
me to marry Harry, but _I_ can’t forget it—would to God I could—and
you’d dare to ask me if I have anything to complain of, knowing all that
and knowing that _I_ know it.  Do you think I’m a mere piece of
furniture without a soul, not to care what my heritage is, not to
cherish my traditions——?  You’ve built my life on a lie, destroyed my
very identity in a breath, torn down all the sacred idols of my girlhood
and young womanhood and ground them under your feet.  You!"

She caught at her heart and took a step nearer him.

"My mother—who was my mother?" she gasped.

He shrugged.  "Mary Callonby—the Duchesse de Vautrin," he said easily.
"And you are Patricia Madeline Aulnoy de Vautrin."

"Impossible.  I’m no longer credulous."

"You’ll have to believe the truth!"

"And who are you to ask me to believe?  You who dared to speak to me of
the sanctity of motherhood, who taught me that I was your own
daughter—and that my mother, your wife——"

She broke off with a sob, quickly controlled.

"It was because I loved ye, Moira dear," he said very quietly.

She halted, aghast at this tenderness, the familiar tones of which made
her wonder for a moment whether she weren’t dreaming all the dreadful
accusations on her tongue’s end.  But a pain shot through her heart to
remind her of her sufferings.

"And was it because you loved me that you dared obliterate me, sneered
at my pitiful love affair—the only passion I’ve had in my life or will
have—and even tried to murder in cold blood—the—the object—of it?
Answer me that—Barry Quinlevin!"

The Irishman’s manner now changed.  His brows drew together in a tight
knot and the long fingers upon the chair-arm clenched until the knuckles
were white.

"I’ll answer ye that," he said abruptly.  "And more. I’ve heard what ye
had to say with patience and chagrin. I’ll take the blame for me sins of
omission where blame is due, trusting to yer conscience to be forgiving
me presently for yer harsh tones to one who sinned for the very love of
ye.  But when ye speak of this other man who by a trick forces his way
into yer lodgings and yer affections, learns yer family secrets and
mine, reads yer letters and mine, makes love to his own brother’s wife
behind his back,—yer own brother-in-law, mind ye—and then tells one lie
after another to make his story good, its time there was a man about the
place to protect ye, if ye can’t protect yerself——"

"Stop——!"

"No.  I’ve heard _you_.  Now ye’ll be listening to me. If Harry isn’t
man enough to be looking out fer what belongs to him, then I _am_.
Ye’ve given this man yer heart, acknowledged yer affections before us
all.  God be praised that’s all it amounts to!  But when ye hear me out,
ye’ll be wishing yer tongue had rotted before ye’d made such an
admission."

He saw her shrink and he rose from his chair, following up his advantage
quickly.  "There—there my dear, Ye’ve almost had enough of trouble for
one night——"

"Go on," she murmured stanchly, "but if you’re going to speak ill of Jim
Horton I won’t believe you."

"Ye can do as ye please about that, but I’ll be telling ye what I know
of him just the same.  And when I tell ye I wish I’d shot him dead
before yer eyes, I’d only be satisfying the conscience of yer life-long
guardian and protector——"

"Conscience!  _You_!" she laughed hysterically.  "Go on."

"I will, little as ye’ll like it.  When I went from here where d’ye
suppose I went?  To Pochard.  And I wrung from him the truth about yer
friend Jim Horton.  It was Piquette Morin who helped him from the house
in the Rue Charron——"

"I know it.  I thank God for it."

"It was Piquette Morin who took him back to her apartment in the
Boulevard Clichy and kept him there until he recovered."

"I know that too.  Go on——"

"But ye didn’t know that Piquette Morin was a woman without a shred of
conscience or morals, a woman of the streets, who glories in her
infidelities to the Duc de Vautrin, whose mistress she is——"

"I care nothing for that," stammered Moira.

"Ye may not care, since Jim Horton has lied about that too, but ye
_will_ care about the relations that exist between the two of them."

"I won’t listen," said Moira, making for the door.  But he barred her
way.

"Oh, yes, ye’ll listen, Moira dear, and I’ll be giving ye all the proofs
ye need before I’m through."

"Proofs!  I dare you."

"All in good time.  If ye’ll be patient.  Where do ye think I went from
Pochard’s?  To the Boulevard Clichy, where yer precious friend had
returned to the arms of Madame Morin——"

She waved a hand in protest.

"I watched the door of the apartment.  He came out. I followed, and
where do you suppose he went?  To the ticket office where he booked a
compartment for two—on the twelve o’clock train to-morrow for
Marseilles."

"And what of that?" she stammered.

"Merely that yer friend Jim Horton, failing of success with his
brother’s wife, has decided upon a honeymoon to the Riviera with a lady
who is more _complaisante_ than yerself."

"I don’t believe it."

"Ye’d find it less difficult to believe if ye guessed how mad she was
for him, how handsome she is and how skilled in the wily arts of her sex
and trade," he said keenly. "Oh," he said, with a shrug, "it could only
have been a great passion that would have dared the rescue from the
house in the Rue Charron.  And no man remains long ungrateful for such
an act of unselfishness."

Moira leaned against the mantel-shelf, staring at him wide-eyed, but he
met her look with one more steady than hers, hardy, indignant, but
injured and grieved too at her attitude.  Skillfully he had baited his
hook with a truth that she knew.  He saw the fleeting question in her
eyes and answered it quickly.

"If ye want the proofs——go to the Boulevard Clichy now."  He paused to
give the suggestion weight, "Or if ye’ve no heart to-night for such a
brutal encounter—to-morrow—on the train to Marseilles."

He had caught her ear.  He knew it by the sudden shutting of her teeth
over her words, the proud lift of her chin, the hard look that came into
her eyes.  And though she answered him still defiantly, her tone had no
body in it and trembled with the new uncertainty.

"I don’t believe you."

"I don’t ask ye to.  But ye will believe in the evidence of yer eyes,
and I’ll be providing ye with that, my dear."

"How you hate him!" she gasped.

He shrugged and turned half toward her.

"Hate?  Hardly.  I merely despise him.  I would have killed him to-night
with a clean conscience, knowing what I do."  He dropped the cigarette
he had taken up and approached her a pace or two.  "Oh, Moira, alanah,
won’t ye see?  Is it blind ye are to the truth that lies before yer very
eyes——?  Can’t ye see that it’s the love of ye that drives me to protect
yer happiness?  Have I ever failed ye, all these years?  Haven’t I given
ye yer share of all I had?  Answer me that—aye—even when there was not
too much for the both of us?"

"I—I’ve heard enough—to-night," she said wearily.

"I’m sorry.  I—I’ve done what I thought was the best. I’m still yer
guardian—until ye come into yer own——"

"I can’t listen to that," she shuddered.  "De Vautrin—my father!"

He bowed his head with tragic grace.

"The same—bad cess to him."

She sank into a chair, bewildered and helpless.

"I want nothing—only to go away somewhere alone. I’ve heard enough."

"That you shall do presently, alanah," he said, touching her gently, the
familiar voice close at her ear.  "But now you must be going to bed and
trying to sleep.  ’Tis a cruel day ye’ve had—cruel!  But to-morrow when
ye’ve had some rest——"

"To-morrow——?" she raised a despairing face.

"Ye’ve got to be facing it.  But no more to-night. Come."

She let him take her by the arm to the door.

"Forgive me, acushla," he whispered.

But she made no reply and left him standing there. And Quinlevin watched
her merge into the darkness within, then turned and picked up the
cigarette he had dropped, lighted it with great care, and sat and
smoked, ruminating over the ashes in the fireplace.

But he had played his cards with the true gambler’s knowledge, of the
psychology of his victim.  Jealousy! Such a weapon at his very hand.  It
was almost a pity to use it.  Poor child.  As if she hadn’t already
suffered enough!  But there was no choice.  And she would get over it.
Love never killed—only hate ... only hate. He finished one cigarette and
then glanced toward the door through which Moira had passed.  Then
lighted another and composed himself for awhile longer.

It was not until he was near the end of this cigarette that a slight
sound caused him to look up over his shoulder.  Framed against the black
opening Moira stood, pale, dark eyed, her black hair streaming over her
flimsy dressing-gown, and then came forward noiselessly.

"Moira, child——!" he cried, rising, with an air of surprise.

"You must show me the proof——," she stammered, "what you
said—to-morrow."

"Yes.  If ye insist——"

"I do.  It’s a test—of the truth—between you and—and him——"

"I’ll provide it.  Ye’ll leave with me on the twelve o’clock train for
Marseilles?"

"Yes—anything."

"Very well," he muttered.  "I’ll arrange for it.  I’ve some business in
Nice.  It’s just as well if you come along."

"Anything——," she whispered, shivering and still protesting, "but I
don’t believe—I don’t believe——"

"Go to bed again, child.  I’ll call ye in the morning."

As she disappeared he turned toward the mantel, hiding the smile of
triumph that crossed his lips.  Then he leaned for a long while looking
into the hearth.

"Poor child!" he whispered.  "’Tis a cruel pity, but—"  He paused and
then turned toward the bottle upon the table, which he raised and
examined carefully, then set down with an air of disgust.  "The drunken
scut!" he muttered, then swore softly below his breath.

                     *      *      *      *      *

What remained of Quinlevin’s task was not difficult, for he had already
anticipated his success with Moira by making arrangements with Nora
Burke and Tricot, Nora to face de Vautrin with her confession and her
evidence, Tricot to help him in keeping Jim Horton from reaching the
Duke.

By the expression of Moira’s face when they met in the studio in the
morning, he discovered that his poison had worked its slow course
through her veins.  Irish she was—all Irish now—slow to love and quick
to jealousy—proud to the quick, and capable of a fine hatred when the
proofs were brought as Barry Quinlevin intended to bring them.  She
listened with an abstracted air as he told her that her old nurse, Nora
Burke, and a man, a friend of his, were to be the other members of their
party. She showed some surprise and then a mild interest, but he could
see that to Moira her companions meant very little.  She was thinking,
brooding somberly over what he had told her, and his air of confidence
in his undertaking did nothing to give her courage for her decision. And
yet he knew that she would abide by it—a choice between Jim Horton and
himself.  And he knew already what that choice was to be.  For reasons
of his own it was important that Jim Horton and Piquette should not see
him on the train; nor that Moira should be presented merely with the
evidence of the two of them entering the train.  The evidence must be
condemnatory.  He would wait and trust to circumstances.

The thing was simplicity itself.  The window into the corridor was like
a dispensation.  He passed the compartment once or twice to make sure
that the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when it
grew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head on
Horton’s shoulder.  Then he acted quickly.

"Come," he said to Moira.  "It is time I showed you who is the liar."

And resolutely she followed him, looked—and saw.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Nothing seemed to matter to her after that.  Incredulity, surprise and
then guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton’s face in the brief
moment when their glances had met.  The pretty painted face upon his
shoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman’s waist, her
sudden awakening as he started—all these brief impressions so vivid, so
terrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courage
to hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin.  He watched her
with admiration.  Her heart might be breaking but she’d never whimper
now.  He knew her.

"Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked.

"Yes.  Quite," she gasped.

"And you’ll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?"

"I will."

"Good.  I must be leaving ye for a while to talk with my friend.  And
don’t be distrusting me again, alanah."

Moira was silent and gazed out of the window into the darkness until
Nora came.  And she listened to the tale that Nora Burke told, or seemed
to listen, and thus Quinlevin found them later, the girl’s hand in that
of her old nurse.

The announcement that they were to get out of the train at St. Etienne
created no astonishment.  Moira moved as in a dream, obeying blindly as
she had always been accustomed to obey the suggestions of her protector,
caring nothing for their significance and reassured as to the integrity
of his intentions with regard to herself. There was no doubting that he
loved her in his strange way.  And the fury he had expended upon Jim
Horton seemed scarcely less than that she now felt for him.  A man could
kill—but a woman could only despise.

She was at least thankful when she saw the train bearing the couple pass
out of her sight into the darkness, and followed Quinlevin where he
led—to a hotel for the night—to another train in the morning, to
Marseilles, to Nice, and the Hôtel Ruhl, where in the privacy of a room
of her own, she threw herself upon the bed and gazed dry-eyed at the
ceiling.




                             *CHAPTER XVI*

                             *NORA SPEAKS*


The attention of Monsieur de Vautrin having been attracted by Piquette’s
news of the immediate threat against his fortune, it was no longer
difficult to persuade him to listen to what Jim Horton had to say.
Madame Thibaud was therefore conducted with scant ceremony to an
apartment in the Hôtel de Paris, after which the Duc rejoined Piquette
and Jim in the Casino.  The unflattering opinion Jim Horton had formed
of this French nobleman was, upon closer acquaintance, in no way
modified.  The peevish and supercilious air with which he had greeted
Piquette had changed to one scarcely less unpleasant,—a fidgety anxiety
and apprehension which revealed weaknesses of fiber one would not have
expected to discover between the points of so long and so imposing a
mustache.  He gave Jim the impression of being very weary in the pursuit
of a will-o’-the-wisp. And in repose, his face bore the scars worn by
those who live for pleasure alone.  Altogether he seemed a person
scarcely worth borrowing so much trouble about.  His attitude of
suspicion toward Jim Horton was illy concealed, but he listened,
frowning and questioning, until at last convinced of the reality of his
danger at the hands of the renegade Irish adventurer to whose venial
cleverness he had so long paid handsome tribute.

"But they can do nothing," he said at last in excellent English, with an
air of bravado which was meant to be effective, and which was only
pitiful.

"I’m not so sure about that," said Jim, "the mere fact of your having
paid for the support of the child for so many years makes it seem as
though you believed in the thing."

"What do I care?  I have the money.  Let them take it if they can."

"Oh, they’ll take it all right, if you don’t find some way to meet their
evidence."

"Lies."

"Yes, of course.  But you’ve got to prove that they are.  Where’s your
defense?  You didn’t even know you had a daughter until Barry Quinlevin
told you you had. What proof have you that your own child died?  And if
you believed Quinlevin then, why shouldn’t you believe him now——?"

"I had my suspicions——"

"Pardon me.  Suspicions won’t satisfy an Irish court or a French one.
What proof have you that Madame Horton isn’t your own child?  None?
Exactly!  But everybody who could have known anything about the matter
is dead except Nora Burke, and you’ve already heard what she has to
say."

"H—m.  And what is _your_ interest in this matter, Monsieur?"

"That’s a fair question," said Jim slowly.  "I’ll give you a fair
answer.  Madame Horton is my brother’s wife.  The story I’ve given you
is straight—as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from my
brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My
interest in this affair is personal to this extent.  I don’t intend to
have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer."

"Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me
this unpleasantness——"

"Yes—I’ve told her," said Jim slowly, "but she’s helpless.  Can’t you
see, Monsieur?  It has all been very sudden—for her.  She doesn’t know
what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate
and the testimony of the nurse."

"But if Madame Horton is an honorable woman——"

"You can count on that," put in Horton quickly. "She doesn’t want your
money—she isn’t Quinlevin’s kind——"

"Then why doesn’t she renounce him?"

"She might—but what difference would that make? She might permit herself
to think she was Joan of Arc, but that wouldn’t make her any one but
Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin, if Barry Quinlevin has evidence
enough to prove that she is...."

De Vautrin frowned darkly and twitched his jeweled fingers.

"But she would have something to say about her own desires in the
matter," he said.

"Her own desires haven’t anything to do with it.  See here, Monsieur de
Vautrin—Barry Quinlevin proves her birth by a certificate; he also
proves by the nurse that she was the child brought into his house, and
the child he has brought up as his ward, bearing his name and accepting
your money for twenty-one years—hush money, monsieur, that you paid to
keep her out of a fortune you thought belonged to her."

"But it doesn’t belong to her," cried de Vautrin, gesticulating.  "It’s
mine since the child is dead.  Monsieur Harry Horton——"

Piquette broke in.  "Monsieur ’Arry ’Orton could be call’ to the stan’
of course, but ’is testimony is not to be relied upon."

"Your brother, Monsieur——?"

"Yes, Monsieur de Vautrin," replied Jim, "my brother—but an intimate of
Barry Quinlevin’s——"

"Ah, I comprehend—an accomplice?"

"You might call him that—if you like."  He shrugged and turned aside.
"We don’t get along, my brother and I, but I don’t think you’ll find
much to gain by putting him on the witness stand.  Besides, it won’t
look very pretty in the papers.  It’s as much to my interest as yours to
keep it out."

The Duc eyed him suspiciously again.

"But you must have some other interest besides this in wishing to help
me.  What’s the ax you have to grind, Monsieur?"

Jim Horton grinned and shrugged.

"For myself—nothing."

"That is difficult to believe."

"Then I would advise you to tax your imagination to the utmost.  I don’t
want Madame Horton to figure in an affair that she will regret the rest
of her life."

"But why——?"

"Monsieur is in love wit’ Madame ’Orton——"  Piquette’s voice broke in
very calmly.

There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette,
Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other
in astonishment.

His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a
situation such as this.  But Piquette met his gaze clearly.

"It is de trut’, Olivier," she repeated.  "An’ now perhaps you
on’erstan’."

"It is extraordinary," he gasped.  "And you two——?"

"I brought ’im to you.  Your interests are de same—and mine, wit’ both."

"_Parbleu_!  If I could believe it——!"

Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if
they were real.

"You needn’t believe it, if you don’t want to," he said carelessly.
"And you don’t have to believe my story. But I’ve given you your
warning.  Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate
and his Nora Burke."  He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the
door.  "I think I’ll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly,
and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur."

"One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the
hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what
you say is what I wish to believe?  It is all very bewildering.  I
should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."

Jim Horton turned with a smile.

"It’s about time.  And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little
interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur.  I don’t mind being
shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin’s affairs, but I might have
been hit—or Piquette might—which would have been worse, and I don’t
relish having my word doubted—or hers."

"I beg forgiveness.  You have been shot at?"

Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin’s watery eyes grew larger.

"_Mon Dieu_!  And you say they are coming here?"

"Yes.  If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination.  I’m
afraid you’re in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."

De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly.

"I will not see them.  I will go away."

Jim Horton nodded.  "That’s all right—but it’s only putting off the evil
moment.  When they get their evidence working you’ll have to meet it,
someway.  And then what will you do?"

De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the
seat beside him.  And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of
conviction,

"I shall fight, Monsieur."

"With what?"

"With the evidence you’ve given me."

"It’s not enough."

Horton shook his head and laughed.

"It looks to me as though you were elected President of the Quinlevin
Endowment Association."

"But there must be some way of getting at the truth," cried the
Frenchman, now really pitiful in his alarm.

"Ah, that’s it," laughed Jim.  "_You_ know Madame Horton is not your
daughter and _I_ know it, but that doesn’t beat Quinlevin."

"What then, Monsieur?"

"You’ve got to kill his evidence."

"But how?"

"With stronger evidence of your own.  You haven’t it, or any prospect of
getting it that I can see.  So there’s only one course open."

"And that, Monsieur?" asked de Vautrin eagerly.

"To break down Quinlevin’s.  I’m no lawyer, but that’s only common
sense.  Nora Burke is a liar bribed with five thousand pounds.  And
there never was a lie that didn’t have its weak points.  You’ve got to
make her speak the truth——"

"How?"

"I don’t know.  But I wouldn’t mind trying.  Then you’ve got to get that
birth certificate——"

"I don’t see how you expect to do that."

"Neither do I—Quinlevin is no fool, but then he’s not super-natural
either."

The Duc was silent, appalled by the undertaking which had presented
itself.  And the calm way in which his visitor discussed his projects
filled him with wonder.

"Justice, Monsieur de Vautrin, is on your side.  Will you fight for it?"

"Assuredly, Monsieur—if you will but help."

Jim Horton laughed.

"Then you no longer believe I have an ax to grind?"

"No—no, Monsieur."

"And you no longer cherish evil thoughts of Piquette?"

"Upon my honor," said the Duc, a jeweled hand at his heart.  "And yet,
Monsieur, you can hardly blame me for some irritation at meeting her
here with you."

Jim Horton glanced toward the door significantly. And then dryly, "You
hardly deserve her, Monsieur de Vautrin.  I am proud of her friendship.
It’s the finest thing in my life."

De Vautrin wagged his head foolishly and then shrugged a futile
shoulder.

"What do you want me to do, Monsieur?" he asked peevishly.

Horton lighted a cigarette carefully and took Piquette by the hand.

"First, Monsieur de Vautrin," he said coolly, "you will send Madame
Thibaud about her business——"

"Monsieur!" said the Duc with a show of dignity.

"Suit yourself.  But she’s in the way.  This is no time for fooling.
Does she go or doesn’t she?"

De Vautrin’s injured dignity trembled in the balance for a moment and
then fell away, merged in his apprehension for the immediate future.

"That can—can doubtless be arranged," he said with a frown.

"Good," said Horton jovially.  "And the sooner the better.  It will
clear the atmosphere amazingly.  Then we will prepare to fight Monsieur
Quinlevin with his own weapons."

"Yes.  You—I—Piquette.  That’s what we came here for.  You’ve made the
mistake of under-rating Barry Quinlevin.  He’s desperate.  He is playing
a big game and if you don’t want to be the goat you’ll do what I
advise."

"I’m listening."

"If I’m not mistaken he will reach here to-morrow afternoon with Madame
Horton and Nora Burke.  And you’ve got to see them."

"I—Monsieur?"

"Yes—you—here in your rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. You will give it out
that you are here for a week.  They must take rooms in Monte Carlo.
Then you will listen politely to everything Quinlevin has to say—to
everything Nora Burke has to say, but you yourself will say nothing."

"But you, Monsieur?"

"I shall be in an adjoining room, but they must not know it."

"But Barry Quinlevin will discover that you have been here."

"Of course.  You will tell him that.  They will tell you that I have
lied.  But you won’t believe them.  And then you will tell them that I
have gone away."

"But when will you come in to my assistance?"

"That depends upon what I hear through the keyhole."

"But would it not be simpler to pay this Nora Burke for telling the
truth?"

Horton laughed.  "It does seem simple, doesn’t it? I don’t know much
about French law, but I wouldn’t want to be caught at it out where I
come from.  Let’s play this game straight and trust to luck.  If
Quinlevin is too sharp for us we’ll try something else.  Do you agree?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

And so it was settled.  On the following morning Madame Thibaud was sent
back to Paris.  And Piquette and Jim Horton ostentatiously took the
train for Nice, returning subsequently by automobile to Monte Carlo,
where they were hidden in rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. In this they were
aided by an official of the Hotel who proved to be an old acquaintance
of Piquette’s in Paris. And so when Barry Quinlevin arrived from Nice in
the afternoon, with Moira and Nora Burke, inquiring for the Duc, the
information was conveyed directly to Horton, who was happy to learn that
Tricot had not yet caught up with the party.

Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was
to play, seemed to enter into the game with some spirit, and was sent
over to the Casino to play _trente et quarante_ where after awhile Barry
Quinlevin found him, deeply absorbed in his game of chance. The Duc
manifested polite surprise, Quinlevin polite insistence, and then they
talked for awhile, the Duc indifferently, Quinlevin impressively,—to the
end that an appointment was made for an hour later the following
afternoon in the Duc’s apartment, where he would listen in all good
nature and tolerance to what his visitors would have to say.  He hoped
his "daughter" was handsome.  It would be a pity if all this money was
to go to one who could not use it with dignity.  All this in an ironic
and jocular mood which only brought a dour smile upon Quinlevin’s face.

But the main object of the preliminary encounter was achieved, for Barry
Quinlevin accepted without reservation the Duc’s assertion that Jim
Horton, having performed his mission, had returned to Paris.

When the hour of the appointment arrived, Jim Horton sat behind the door
into the bedroom of Monsieur de Vautrin, carefully studying the pages of
an English-French dictionary.  The Duc sat over his paper with an air of
unconcern he was far from feeling.  Piquette, at the American’s
instructions, was elsewhere.

Quinlevin, shown to the door of the room by a servant of the hotel, met
the Duc with his most amiable smile and introduced the women of his
party.  Moira was pale, Nora Burke uncomfortable but arrogant.

"Monsieur de Vautrin," Quinlevin began with something of an air, "permit
me to present to ye yer daughter, Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin."

The Duc smiled politely, bowed—and stared.  Moira, who, as though in
duty, had taken a step toward him, paused.  And then as she saw the look
that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her
cheeks. The Duc’s rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of
the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself.  If she were a
mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the
admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting.  This man—this
effete boulevardier—her father——?  Impossible!  And the repulsion she
felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere away from the
sight of him.  What else she had expected, she didn’t know, for even
Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what would be likely to
happen.  But there was her mentor at her side, a gentle hand upon her
elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the window, which
Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather exaggerated gesture of
formality.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into
another chair.  "Ye’re not to be blamed for not flying to each other’s
arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was
to say the least a most trivial affair.  But in a while, perhaps, ye’ll
be knowing each other better and I’m sure, Monsieur, ye’ll be finding my
ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion."

"Ah," said de Vautrin.  "I don’t doubt that.  It would truly be a great
pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of
mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately——"

"One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the
facts in the matter.  Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my
ward’s choosing.  She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty
which she owed to the memory of her mother.  Many years have passed
since yer affairs—er—called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault
to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame.  She
knows that ye’ve provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it
my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could.  But the time
has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs,
and it’s my duty to be putting her there.  To this end, as ye’ll see,
I’ve brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye’re already
acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like
to put to her."

Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant
who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her
feet shifting uneasily.

"I’ve heard something of Nora Burke’s story," said de Vautrin dryly,
"but there are parts of it that I have not heard."

"Ye’re quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora
too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence."

"Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I
comprehend.  But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I
have promised to do so.  It can do no harm.  _Allons_!  Proceed, Nora
Burke.  My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter
was born?"

"She did, yer Highness——"  And, as the woman hesitated——

"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin.

"The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits
before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor
Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul,
faded away before our very eyes."

"And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly.

"Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the
priest who gave her Absolution——"

"And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly.

"Yes, yer Highness—but the birth certificate I was afther kapin’ since
no father came near us, nor any relation.  Mary Callonby was a lonely
kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on
the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther
her."

"And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly.

"She is."

"It’s very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die."

"All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.

De Vautrin shrugged.  "Well.  What happened then?"

"Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn’t know what to be afther doing, so
we just followed the advice of Father Reilly."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded.

"In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin—this gentleman here—who
lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home.
Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein’ very lonely, he said, his own wife and
colleen havin’ died a few months before."

"That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin."

"We thought so—yer Highness—but it was kind of Father Reilly too—for
nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin
was that grateful—he watched the babby like it was his own——"

"That’s true enough.  He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened
then?"

"Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook
and me as nurse, bringin’ up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin,—alone
in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein’
away to London or Paris on business.  But all the whoile I was kapin’
the birth certificate an’ all the whoile tryin’ me best to take the
place of poor Mary Callonby."

"And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin.

"I had me wages.  It was enough."

"And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years
afterward, you received more money?"

Nora’s glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly.

"I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand—a proper
share of the sum for the support of the child.  And they agreed to say
nothing."  He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper.  "This,
as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child."

"And the original?" asked the Duc.

"Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.

De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully.

"And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked.  "Dead also?"

"Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly.  "It’s most unfortunate—but
her signature can be verified."

"H—m.  And Father Reilly also.  Of course," said the Duc with a quick
glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?"

"Yes," said Quinlevin.  "Letters from you—accompanying yer checks—which
guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris.  The will of Patrick Callonby
and a few other trifles which are important to ye."

"And you think your case is complete?"

"Oh, yes, quite.  An Irish court won’t hesitate very long just at this
time in carrying out the provisions of this will."

Monsieur de Vautrin smiled.  "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked
quietly.

"To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own.
Ye know the terms of the will.  In the event of the mother dying, her
fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child.  But she’s to be
considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which
however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father
and only daughter.  Ye’ve both formed the habits of yer lives—yerself
living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London.  Yer daughter is disposed
to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the
future.  She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go
on living with me—yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer
bachelorhood."

"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.

Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which
Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.

"As to terms, that won’t be made difficult.  The estate of Patrick
Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling—we’ll say twenty
millions of francs or thereabouts—since ye’re not a man of business and
allowing for depreciation.  Give yer daughter proper securities to the
amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two
thirds to you——"

Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin
had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.

"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.

"It’s merely," he replied, "that you don’t figure enough for
depreciation."

"What do ye mean?"

"Twenty-one years is a long while.  And you are right when you say that
I am no man of business.  My fortune has diminished year by year and
since the war—pouf! it has vanished into thin air.  The estate of
Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."

Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.

"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."

"Of course.  I commend you to them.  And Nora Burke, who might have told
me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be
generous."

"I’ve tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her
bewilderment.

"And how much more will you tell when there’s no money for the telling?"
said de Vautrin, rising.

For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim
Horton strode quickly into the room.




                             *CHAPTER XVII*

                          *JIM MAKES A GUESS*


Horton did not look at Moira and quickly sought out the tall figure of
the astonished Irishman, who stood by the table, glaring angrily.

"What’s this, Monsieur de Vautrin?" Le asked.

"I beg pardon," said Horton quickly, "but my departure has been delayed
by the necessity for presenting some evidence which had been overlooked
by Mr. Quinlevin."

"A trick—Monsieur de Vautrin," stormed the Irishman. "I’ll have none of
him," and moved toward the door into the corridor.  But Jim Horton had
reached it ahead of him, and quickly locking the door, put the key into
his pocket, turned quickly, his height topping Quinlevin’s, his bulk
dominating him.

"I’m afraid you must," said Horton coolly.

"Must——!"  Quinlevin struggled for his temper and then, realizing that
he was doing his cause no good, shrugged a careless shoulder and glanced
toward the door into the adjoining room.

"And yer _compagnon de voyage_?  Is she to be with us also?" he said
insultingly, for Moira’s benefit.

Horton met Moira’s glance as she took a pace forward toward him.

"By what right do you keep me here against my will?" she asked in angry
disdain.

He faced her coolly.

"By every right you’ve given me—to act in your interest whether you wish
it or not."

"I’m quite capable of looking after my own affairs," she cut in quickly.

He smiled quietly.

"If I thought so, I shouldn’t be here."

"Will you unlock that door?" she asked icily.

He did not move and his level gaze met hers calmly. "No, Moira——" he
said gently, "I won’t."

"Oh!" she gasped furiously, then turned her back and went to the window
where she stood silently looking down over the garden.

Without noticing her further Horton turned toward Quinlevin.

"You seem to have forgotten your conversation with me in the hospital at
Neuilly, Mr. Quinlevin, and the intimate blood-ties that bind me to your
fellow-conspirator, Harry Horton."

Quinlevin had sunk into a chair in an attitude of careless grace and
playing this old gambler’s game smiled grimly up into the face of the
enemy.

"Yer talents for the dramatic will be getting ye into trouble, Mr.
Horton.  I’ve only to be asking Moira to shout for help from the window
to land ye in a jail.  But I confess to some idle curiosity as to yer
reasons for this behavior.  And I warn ye that when ye unlock the door
I’ll see ye into the prison at Monaco.  In the meanwhile I’ll tell ye
that what ye say will be held against ye."

"And what of the evidence I hold against _you_, Barry Quinlevin?"

"The evidence of a deserter from the American army," Quinlevin sneered.
"Let it be brief and to the point, Corporal Horton."

"You don’t alarm me," said Horton calmly.  "I’ve discounted that.  Give
me up to the Provost Guard and my brother will go on the witness stand,
against me, but against you too, Mr. Quinlevin, in Monsieur de Vautrin’s
interests."  Horton laughed easily as the Irishman refused a reply.
"Come.  Perhaps it won’t be necessary to go so far as that.  If your
friend Tricot had done his shooting at Marboeuf a little lower neither
Piquette nor I would be here to oppose you."

Jim Horton saw Moira turn from the window with startled eyes at Tricot’s
name, but he went on carelessly. "But here I am, and I’m not easy to
kill, Mr. Quinlevin. If I came through at Boissière Wood I’m not likely
to get hit now.  So you’d better listen to me."

"I’ve been doing little else these ten minutes, Mr. Horton," said
Quinlevin, yawning politely.

"I won’t waste any more time than I can help, but when you promise Nora
Burke five thousand pounds for telling a lie I want to give her her
money’s worth."

He turned to the old woman with a frown as he caught her off her guard
but Quinlevin broke in quickly.

"See here, Horton, I’ve had about enough of this——"

The Irishman rose furiously, but Horton took a quick pace toward him.

"Keep your hands out of your pockets, Quinlevin," he shouted warningly.
"I’m younger than you—and quicker.  That’s better.  And Monsieur de
Vautrin, you will please close the window.  The interview is apt to be
noisy."

The Irishman knew that he was no match in physical strength for the
American, and so he sank into his chair again, Horton near him in a
commanding position where he could watch Nora Burke.  He was conscious
of Moira’s gaze from the corner by de Vautrin.  She had not spoken but
he knew that he had her attention again.

"Five thousand pounds for a lie," he said distinctly over Quinlevin’s
head.  "That’s true, isn’t it, Nora?"

But the woman had had time to regain some of her composure after the
sudden shock of his first accusation and turned on him defiantly.

"It is not," she replied.  "And the man lies who says it."

"Even if it was Mr. Quinlevin himself?" said Horton.

"Say nothing, Nora," the Irishman’s voice broke in quickly.  "No one can
make you speak."

"But when he says——"

"Silence!"

Horton shrugged.  "As you please.  But she’ll have to answer later, and
it won’t be so easy then.  Five thousand pounds is a lot of money——"

"It’s a lie——"

"Silence!" from Quinlevin.

"It’s a mighty small sum, Nora Burke, for so big a lie."

When the woman opened her mouth to speak again Quinlevin silenced her
with a gesture.  But her face was flushed and she shifted from one foot
to the other, glaring at her tormentor, who, it seemed, had just begun
his inquisition.

Horton smiled at her grimly.

"It’s a mighty small sum, Nora—especially as you’re not going to get any
of it—unless Mr. Quinlevin has other means at his disposal."

"I want no money from Mr. Quinlevin."

"Then you’re just lying for the fun of it?  Do you happen to know what
the penalty for false-swearing is in France?"

"Don’t let him frighten you, Nora," interjected the Irishman.

"It’s Excommunication," said Horton, grinning at his own invention.

Nora was silent but her face was a study in her varying emotions.  She
had not bargained for this, and her knees were shaking under her.

Quinlevin’s laugh reassured her a little.

"I’m not believin’ ye——" she muttered.

"You don’t have to believe me—but you’ll wish you’d never left Galway
when Monsieur de Vautrin’s lawyer gets through with you—and nothing at
the end of it all but a French jail."

"I never did any harm in me life."

"Except to forget to speak the truth.  You’re getting old, Nora.  Maybe
that’s what’s the matter with your memory.  Because Monsieur de Vautrin
is certain that the facts about the birth of his child are quite
different from those you’ve related.  You’ve said that Mary Callonby’s
child was this very girl called Moira Quinlevin——?"

"I did—she was," blurted Nora, furiously.

"And before she died—that very night—she gave the child a Christian
name?"

"She did."

"You’re very sure of this?"

"Nora——!" warned Quinlevin.

"I’m sure of it.  Why wouldn’t I——" cried Nora, "when I was hearin’ the
very words of her tongue."

"And the child was a girl?"

"Yes—a—a girl——"

Quinlevin rose, glaring at Horton.

"Silence, Nora!"

"Then why," insisted Horton, "if the child was a girl, was it given the
Christian name of a boy?"

"A boy——!"

Nora Burke started back a pace, her round foolish face, usually florid,
now the color of putty.

"Nora!" Quinlevin roared.  "Keep silent, d’ye hear?"

But it was too late to repair the damage done.  Horton had not taken his
gaze from Nora Burke’s face, and he knew that he had struck his mark.
He was aware of Moira, who had come forward and was leaning on the table
near him, watching as eagerly as he.

Jim Horton shrugged and brought quickly from his pocket a small red
book, which he opened at a page carefully dog-cared.

"This little book is a dictionary of French and English, Nora.  It’s a
very good dictionary.  Here’s a page of Christian names in French and in
English.  Here you are: Patrice—Patrick.  Can you tell me in the name of
all that’s sensible why Mary Callonby named the child Patrick unless it
was a boy?"

Nora gasped for breath once or twice, glancing at Quinlevin, who
shrugged and frowned.

"The name upon the birth certificate is Patricia," he growled.

"Then who changed it?" asked Horton keenly, glaring at Nora.

"Not I, sor.  I—I can’t write," she gasped.

Jim Horton laughed.

"It couldn’t have been Father Reilly, or Dr. Finucane. Perhaps Mr.
Quinlevin will produce the certificate."

"When the time comes," gasped Quinlevin, "ye’ll see it—in a court of
law."

"And the death certificate of your own child too, Mr. Quinlevin?" asked
Horton amiably.

"Ay—that too," he stammered in his rage as he faced the American, "but
you won’t be there to see.  For on my evidence you’ll be shot, my friend
the masquerader."

"I’ll have to run that chance——"

Moira’s voice, tense, shrill with nervousness, broke in as she caught
Quinlevin by the arm.

"No, never.  You will not dare.  I forbid it."

"We’ll see to that——"

The Duc, who at last seemed to have recovered his initiative, came
forward with an air of alacrity.

"Perhaps, Monsieur Horton, it is just as well if you now unlock the
door."

Horton looked at his wrist watch.

"Willingly.  Oblige me, Monsieur."  And he handed de Vautrin the key.
"Unless there are some further matters Mr. Quinlevin wishes to discuss."

Jim’s gaze met Moira’s for the fraction of a second and brief as it was,
he seemed to find a glimpse of that fool’s paradise in which he had
lived for a while.  And then her glance turned from him to Quinlevin as
she moved past Horton toward the door.  Nora Burke, her stolidity
shaken, her arrogant mien fallen amid the wreck of her probity, sent a
fleeting glance over her shoulder toward the long mustaches of de
Vautrin and stumbled after Moira.

But the Duc was in high feather again and fairly danced to the door.

"Will you give me your Paris address, that I may send you the money, Mr.
Barry Quinlevin?" he shouted after him into the corridor.

There was no reply.  Quinlevin’s clever house of cards had toppled and
fallen.  But Horton followed down the corridor when they turned the
corner and watched what happened.  At the landing, the Irishman made a
gesture and the two women went in the direction of their rooms, while
Quinlevin passed down the stairs.

When Horton returned to the room the Duc closed the door and came
delightedly toward him.

"Ah, _mon ami_.  It was as good as a play.  How did you know that my
child was not a girl—but a boy?"

"I didn’t know it," sighed Horton, with a laugh.  "I guessed it."

"But you must have——"

"I got to thinking—last night.  The whole story was a lie—why shouldn’t
this be a part of it?"

"But a suspicion wasn’t enough——"

"Enough for a starter, Monsieur.  You’ll admit, it _might_ have been a
boy.  Just because you always _thought_ the child was a girl, that
didn’t make it one.  I lay awake.  Phrases in Quinlevin’s talk in the
studio came back to me and I began to think about the name ’Patrice’—he
said, ’_a little hard to read.  Patricia it is_.’  Just phrases, but
this meant something.  ’_Female, me boy.  A little illegible_——’"
Horton turned with a quick gesture.

"Why should the name Patricia be illegible when all the rest was clear?"

"But you said nothing of this to me," muttered the Duc.

"I wasn’t sure.  I sent out for the dictionary.  It had the Christian
names in the back.  Patrice was Patrick. There wasn’t any Patricia.  You
French have a way of giving males and females the same names anyway.
Madeleine—I knew a Frenchman in America with Madeleine for a middle
name.  Aulnoy might be anything——"

"A family name——"

"Yes.  Your wife wanted your family name in it—but she wanted her
father’s name too—Patrick—so she called the boy Patrice—we can prove
this now, I think."

"Assuredly, Monsieur," said de Vautrin, "you are a genius."

"No.  I’m only a good guesser.  But it worked.  I got the poor thing
rattled.  And when I saw Nora’s face I knew I’d hit with the second
barrel."

Outside it was getting dark.  Horton went to the window and peered out.

"Monsieur de Vautrin, there’s nothing to keep you here now," he said.
"It may be even dangerous to remain. You must go away incognito and by
the first train. You’ve been very careless with your affairs.  Lay your
entire case in the hands of your lawyer—telling him all that has
happened here and sending to Ireland for a careful search of the birth
records of the parish of Athlone——"

"But you, Monsieur.  What will you do?"

"I shall stay here awhile.  There’s something else that I must do."

"And Piquette——?"

"I will see that she returns safely."

"You are very good, Monsieur," said the Duc.  "Will you forgive me for
my suspicions?"

"Yes.  If you will promise to give Piquette the affection she deserves.
She is a child, Monsieur, with great impulses—both good and bad—what she
becomes will depend upon your treatment of her."

"She has saved me from great trouble, bringing you, my savior——"

Horton moved into the bed room and picked up his hat.  "Don’t let that
trouble you," he said, and then offered his hand.  "Glad to have met
you, Monsieur.  _Au revoir_.  I will see you in Paris in a week.  But
don’t waste any time getting out of here.  _Allez—tout de suite_, you
understand.  Paris in a week, Monsieur."

And with a quick wave of his hand Horton went out and walked rapidly
down the corridor.  The interview with Quinlevin had served a double
purpose.  He had succeeded beyond all hope in finding out what he had
wanted to know; and he had so occupied the Irishman’s time that Piquette
could proceed unmolested in making an investigation of her own.  He
hurried up to her room to meet her, as agreed.  Watching the corridor,
he knocked by a preconcerted signal.  There was no reply. After a moment
he opened the door and entered.  The room was empty.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Piquette was fearless but she was also clever.  It was her thought that
Barry Quinlevin would take no chances with the original birth
certificate and other papers in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin.
It was her suggestion that she be permitted to take advantage of the
absence of Quinlevin and his party to make a thorough search of the
rooms for any private papers.  And in this she was aided and abetted by
Monsieur Jacquot, in the office of the hotel, to whom she explained as
much as was necessary, and who provided the keys and wished her luck in
her undertaking.

Jim had allowed her an hour for the investigation, during which period
he had promised to keep Quinlevin prisoner.  Here then, Piquette reached
new heights of self-abnegation, for in helping Jim in the cause of
Moira, she worked against her own interests, which had nothing to do
with Moira Quinlevin.  Jim had opened her eyes to her obligations to
Monsieur de Vautrin but she had done her duty merely because Jim had
asked it of her.  He had kissed her as though she were a queen.  She
could never forget that.

But in spite of any mental reservations she may have had in doing
something in the interest of the girl Jim Horton loved, she was
conscious of a thrill of keen interest in the task that she had set
herself.  And Piquette went about her investigation methodically,
waiting on the steps from the upper landing until Quinlevin and the two
women had entered the room of the Duc, when, keys in hand, she made her
way quickly to the rooms Quinlevin had engaged.  There were three of
them _en suite_, with connecting doors, and with a quick glance along
the empty corridor she entered the nearest one.

An ancient valise, and a flannel wrapper, proclaimed its occupant—Nora.
There might be something of interest here—but it was doubtful, for Barry
Quinlevin was hardly a man to leave Nora in possession of any documents
that were better kept in his own hands.  But Piquette nevertheless
searched carefully and for her trouble, found nothing.  The door into
the adjoining room, that of Madame Horton, was open, showing how quickly
and easily an _entente_ had been re-established between Moira Quinlevin
and her old nurse.

At the threshold of this room Piquette paused, glancing with a delicate
frown at the articles of feminine apparel on bed and dressing stand.

"H—m," she sniffed, scenting the air delicately, her chin raised.
"Violette!"  Then she approached the bed and took a white garment and
rubbed it critically between thumb and forefinger.  "H-mph!" said
Piquette again.  A pair of stockings next—a small slipper which she
measured with her own, shrugged, and then searched the suit case and
dressing table thoroughly.  Of paper there was nothing—not even a
post-card.

The door into Barry Quinlevin’s room was bolted on the side where
Piquette stood.  She went back through the rooms that she had passed, to
be sure that nothing had been disarranged, locked the outside door of
Nora Burke’s room as she had found it, and then went back to Quinlevin’s
door which she opened quickly and peered around.  Here there was a field
for more careful investigation, a suit-case, a dressing-stand, a bed,
some chairs, a closet—all of them she took in in a quick inspection.
The suit-case first—and if locked she meant to take it bodily away.

It wasn’t locked.  She had a slight sense of disappointment. It
contained a change of under-linen, some collars, socks, a box of cigars,
and a bottle of Irish whisky.  All of these she scrutinized with care,
as well as the cloth lining and the receptacles in the lid, and then
arranging the contents as she had found them, straightened with a short
breath, and looked elsewhere.  No.  Monsieur Quinlevin would have hidden
such important papers more cleverly than that.  Where then?  In a place
so obvious that no one would think of looking there for them?  That was
an ancient trick well known to the police.  But after she had looked
around the room, she examined the bed minutely, running her nimble
fingers along the ticking of the mattress, the pillows, dismantling the
bed completely, and then satisfied that she had exhausted this
possibility, remade it skillfully.

Next, the dressing-stand, inch by inch inside and out, then the
upholstery of the chairs, straightening at last, puzzled.  And yet she
knew that the birth certificate must be in these rooms somewhere.  She
moved the rugs, examined the ashes in the fireplace, the base board and
molding, took down the pictures from the walls and then, baffled, sank
into the arm chair for a moment to think. Could Quinlevin have taken the
precaution to leave the documents in the safe at the Hôtel Ruhl in Nice,
or would he perhaps have deposited them downstairs in the strong-box of
the Hôtel de Paris?  In that event Monsieur her friend would help....

But her hour had not yet expired.  There were a few moments left.  Where
else was she to look?  She glanced at the picture molding, the walls,
the electric light brackets by the bed and dressing-stand, then rose for
a last and possibly futile and despairing effort.  She ran her sensitive
fingers over the bracket by the bed.  It was affixed to the wall by a
hexagonal brass plate held by a small screw.  She tried to move the
screw with her fingers but it resisted, so she ran to the dressing-stand
for a nail file and in a moment had moved the brass plate from the wall.
A patch of broken wall-paper and wires in a small hole—but no papers.

She screwed the plate carefully into place and turned to the other
fixture over the dressing-stand.  This was her last venture, but she had
determined to make it, and felt a slight thrill of expectation when the
screw of the first bracket moved easily in her fingers.  She loosened
the plate and as it came out from the surface of the wall, there was a
sibilant rustle and something slipped down behind the dressing-stand to
the floor.  Eager now with excitement, she thrust her fingers behind the
plate and brought forth some papers.  These she examined quickly in
amazement, then carefully screwed the bracket into its place, recovering
the other paper that had fallen to the floor—success!  The papers that
she had taken from behind the bracket she could not understand, but the
paper that she had recovered from the floor was the much desired birth
certificate of the dead child.  The light was failing, but in the shadow
of the hangings of the French window she stood and read the name
Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin.

She was filled with the joy of her success and so absorbed in the
perusal of the paper that she did not hear the small sounds that came
from the adjoining room, nor was she aware of the tall dark figure of
the girl with the pale face who for a long moment had stood in the
doorway watching her in silent amazement.  And it was not until Moira
spoke that Piquette turned, the papers hidden behind her, and met the
steady gaze of the woman Jim Horton loved.

"What are you doing in this room?" asked Moira steadily.




                            *CHAPTER XVIII*

                                *AT BAY*


Piquette sent one fleeting glance at her, then stepped out upon the sill
of the French window which extended to the floor.  When she turned
toward Moira, a little pale and breathing rapidly, her hands were empty.

"What did you throw out of the window?  What are you doing here?" Moira
asked again, moving quickly to the push-button by the door.  "Answer me
or I’ll ring."

Piquette by this time had recovered some of her composure.  "Oh, Madame,
it is not necessaire to ring," she said easily.  "I can explain myself
if you will but listen."

"You have no right in this room—unless you are a servant of the hotel.
And that you are not——"

"No, Madame," said Piquette coolly, "I am no servant of de hotel.  But
strange to say, even agains’ my will, I am your frien’."

"My friend!  Who are you?"

Piquette glanced toward the door into the hall rather anxiously.

"If you will permit me to come into your room I will answer you."

Moira hesitated for a moment, and then indicated the door by which she
had entered.  Piquette preceded her into the room, as Moira stood by the
door, still uncertain but curious as to this stranger who claimed
friendship. Piquette indicated the door.

"You will please close it, Madame," she urged with a smile.  "I am quite
’armless."

And Moira obeyed, catching the bolt into its place and turning with an
air very little mollified.

"Who are you?" she demanded shortly.  "Answer me."

instead of replying at once Piquette sank into a chair, crossed one knee
over the other and leaned forward, her chin on her fingers, staring
frankly at her companion.

"You are ’andsome, Madame ’Orton," she murmured as though grudgingly.
"Ver’ ’andsome."

Moira flushed a little and returned the other woman’s look, a sudden
suspicion flashing across her mind that this woman—this was——

"Who are you?" she stammered.

"I—I am Madame Morin—and I am called Piquette," said the visitor
clearly.

Moira recoiled a pace, her back as flat as the door behind her.

"You——!  Piquette Morin!  You’d dare!"

"Quietly, Madame ’Orton," said Piquette gently, "I ’ave tol’ you I am
your frien’."

"Go, Madame," said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door.
"Go."

But Piquette did not move.

"Ah!  You do not believe me.  It is de trut’.  I am your frien’.  I am
proving it by coming in here—by trying to ’elp you in dis——"

"I do not need your help, Madame.  Will you go?"

"Yes, Madame ’Orton.  I will go in a minute—when I tell you de risk Jeem
’Orton an’ I ’ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool."

Moira gasped at the impudence.

"What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does.  I
wish to hear no more——"

"Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de _vilain_ Tricot, to shoot at
us in de train——"  Piquette shrugged.  "_Sapristi_!  Madame ’Orton,—if
we ’ad been kill’ you would perhaps t’ink it a proof of friendship."

She had caught the girl’s attention, but Moira still demurred.

"I ask no favors of you, Madame Morin," she said haltingly.

"No, Madame ’Orton," said Piquette quietly, "but I ’ave give’ dem
freely, for you—for _heem_.  Perhaps you t’ink dat is not’ing for me to
do.  _La, la_.  I am only human after all."

So was Moira.  Piquette’s purposeful ambiguity aroused her curiosity and
she turned toward the French girl, her glance passing over her with a
new interest.

"I don’t understand you, Madame," she said coldly.

"I did not ’ope dat you would.  But it is not so _difficile_. I try to
’elp Monsieur Jeem ’Orton, because ’e ’as taught me what it means to be
brave an’ fait’ful an’ honorable to de one ’e love’, an’ because you are
blind, an’ will not see."

"Not so blind that I have not seen what you would have hidden."

"I ’ave not’ing to hide from you, Madame ’Orton.  I am proud of de
frien’ship of Jeem ’Orton.  I would go to de en’ of de worl’ to make ’im
’appy."

"Friendship!" gasped Moira.

"Or love, Madame," said Piquette gently, "call it what you please."

"And you dare to tell me this—you!"

Piquette only smiled faintly.

"Yes, I love ’im."  And then, with the simplicity of a child, "Don’t
you, Madame?"

Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn’t heard correctly.

"No.  No.  This is too much.  You will oblige me——"

"You wish me to go?" said Piquette with a shrug.  "In a moment.  But
firs’ let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin ’as tol’ you about us
is a lie—all lies."

"You forget, Madame," said Moira, "that I have seen."

Piquette smiled.

"Because I go to sleep wit’ my ’ead on ’is shoulder.  An’ what is dat?
For shame, Madame.  Jeem ’Orton care’ not’ing for me.  I bring ’im out
of de ’ouse in de Rue Charron—I nurse ’im in my apartment.  You t’ink ’e
make love to me when ’e t’ink of you?"

Piquette laughed scornfully.

"What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones’ man
an’ not remember it, for de greates’ t’ing dat come’ in a woman’s life?
’Is eyes!  _Mon Dieu_, Madame.  I know de eyes of men.  ’E on’y love
once, Jeem ’Orton—an’ you t’ink ’e make love to me.  I would give myself
to ’im, but what Jeem ’Orton give’ to me is much more sweet, more
beautiful.  ’E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil’, when I
would give ’im my body."  Piquette stopped, and then, gently, "A woman
like me, Madame, can on’y worship a man like dat."

Moira was leaning against the bed rail, her head bent, her eyes
searching out Piquette’s very soul.

"And you, Madame," said Piquette, her voice gathering scorn in its very
suppression.  "You, Madame, who love ’im too, you listen to everyt’ing
’is enemies say agains’ ’im—you believe dese lies, you let dem try to
keel ’im, you ’elp dem bring you to _déshonneur_.  You try to keep ’im
from saving you from disgrace!  What kind of a woman are you, Madame, to
’ave a love like dat t’rown at your feet an’ walk away an’ leave it like
a dead flower upon de groun’?  Mus’ it take a woman like me to show you
what is fine and noble in de worl’?  You sen’ ’im away into de night.
_Juste ciel_!  Is dere no blood in your heart, Madame, no tenderness, no
pity, for de love of a man like Jeem ’Orton?  Love!  You do not know
what love is, you——"

"Stop, Madame!" gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under the
wrist that masked her eyes.  "You dare not tell me what love is.  You
don’t know—everything."

"Yes," said Piquette quietly.  "I know everyt’ing.  But only God could
keep me from de man I love."

"Yes, God!" whispered Moira tensely.  "Only God."

The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on the
table and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up at
Moira partly in pity, partly in scorn.  Piquette’s education had not
fitted her to understand the motives of women different from herself,
but she saw in Moira’s face the scars of a great passion and the marks
of suffering not to be denied.  And so after a painful moment for Moira,
she turned her glance aside.

"I cannot speak of this to you, Madame," she heard the girl stammer.
"You have no right to judge me or to question my motives.  And if I’ve
misjudged you—or Jim Horton, God knows I’m sorry for it.  But
you—Madame—why should _you_ come and tell me these things?"

Moira’s breath seemed suspended while she waited for the woman’s answer.
Piquette traced for a moment with her finger on the arm of the chair.

"You may be’ sure it ’as cos’ me somet’ing," she said slowly.

"Does he know—does Jim Horton know?"

"No, Madame.  He knows noding."

"Then why——?"

"Because," said Piquette, rising with some dignity, "because it pleases
me, Madame.  What Jeem ’Orton wish’—is my wish too.  ’E love you.  _Eh
bien_!  What ’e is to me does not matter."

Moira stared at her dully.  She could not believe.

"If you do not on’erstan’ me, Madame," Piquette continued, "it is
because you do not wish to on’erstan’, because all de sacrifice ’e make
for you is in vain.  You listen to deir lies, become a partner in a
crime to get money which does not belong to you——"

"How do you know this?"

"’Arry ’Orton—your ’usband—tol’ me de trut’."

"Harry!"

"Yes, Madame.  I was a frien’ to your ’usband."

"You——?"

The glances of the two women met, held each other—read each other,
omitting nothing.  It was Piquette who looked away.  If self-abasement
was to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.

"An’ now," she said quietly, "if you please, I shall go away."

"Not yet, Madame," said Moira gently.  "Not until I tell you that I know
what you have done—that I believe what you have said."

"Thank you."

She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.

"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame.  Forgive me."

"It is Jeem ’Orton who should forgive."

"I have done him a great wrong—and you.  And I must do him another great
wrong.  You have said that only God could keep you from the man you
love.  God _has_ kept me from Jim Horton.  I cannot see him again."

"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly.

"No, perhaps not," wearily, "but you have taught me something.  If
sacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it——"

"An’ make Jeem ’Orton suffer too——!" cried Piquette wildly.  "What for
you t’ink I tell you dese t’ings, Madame?  You mus’ go wit’ ’im to
Paris."

"No.  I can’t."

"What will you do?"

"I don’t know yet.  I must think."

"You will do what ’e ask of you."

"No."

"You mus’ see ’im."

"No.  Don’t ask me, Madame——"

There was a knock upon the door into the corridor—repeated quickly.  The
two women exchanged glances, Moira bewildered, Piquette dismayed.  She
had remained too long.

"Monsieur Quinlevin——!" she whispered.

Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into Nora
Burke’s room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin entered
quickly, followed by another figure.

"Moira, why didn’t ye——" the Irishman began, and then his glance passed
to Piquette.  "Ah—you here, Madame," he frowned with quick suspicion,
glancing toward the door into his own room.  And then suddenly beckoned
his follower in.  It was Monsieur Tricot, bent, hobbling, but full of
every potentiality for evil.

Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key into
his pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion,
unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared.  Moira
had scarcely time to note the villainous look the _apache_ cast in
Piquette’s direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon of
vengeance.

"Ah, Madame Morin," he snapped, "it seems as though I were just in time.
What have ye done with the papers?"

The little patches of color upon Piquette’s lips and eyes seemed
suddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot’s evil
face nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whose
secrets she had betrayed.  She was horribly frightened, but she managed
to control her voice as she replied steadily.

"What papers, Monsieur?  I know nothing of any papers."

"The papers referring to the de Vautrin case.  _Your_ papers, Moira, yer
birth certificate and the letters which went with it."

Moira stood near the door into Nora’s room, pale but composed.  And now
she spoke bravely.

"Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it.  I know
nothing of any papers."

Piquette smiled inwardly.  Her embassy had not been entirely without
success.  But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming a
certainty.

"Oh, we’ll see about this."  And striding quickly to Nora Burke’s door
locked it securely.  And then to Piquette.

"Ye’ll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin," he said dryly.
"Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips."

Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.

"You will let Madame Morin go," pleaded the girl to the Irishman.

"No!" he thundered.  "There will be no more trickery here.  And ye’ll
stay here too—under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks."

The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot’s sharp
talons had closed on Piquette’s shoulder, but with an effort at
composure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which Barry
Quinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness.  Piquette caught just
one glimpse of Moira’s white face before the door closed between them.
Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sank
rather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.

"This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame,"
said Quinlevin easily, in French.  "Our friend, the deserter, locks me
in with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keep
you prisoner until they are found.  Where are they, Madame?"

His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires played
forbiddingly in his little eyes.

Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though in
search of a resting place.  She feared Quinlevin, but more than him she
feared the evil shape just beside her shoulder.  She could not see
Tricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bent
shoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lust
burning in his little red eyes.  For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owed
her, here she knew was her real enemy.

"The papers, Madame," Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.

Still no reply.

"You took them from behind the bracket yonder. What did you do with
them?"

"They are gone," she said quickly.

"Where?"

"That I shall not tell you."

She felt the claws of Tricot close upon her shoulder until she shrank
with the pain, but she made no sound.

"One moment, Tricot," said the Irishman, "there are first other ways of
making Madame speak.  Release her."

Tricot obeyed.

"Of course Tricot and I can search you."

Piquette laughed.

"Search me, Monsieur.  It is your privilege.  I am not squeamish."

The Irishman frowned.  There was no doubt that what he had proposed had
no terrors for a life model.  But there were other means at his
disposal, to find out what he wished to know.

"I should have remembered your métier, Madame," he sneered.  And then,
"Our friend Tricot has a long memory.  He is not a man who forgets.  If
you will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much to
his liking."

Piquette did not dare to look.

"It seems," the Irishman went on, "that the betrayal of the secrets of
the small society to which you belong is a grave offense."

"I’ve betrayed no secrets," said Piquette, finding her voice.  "No one
knows of the affair of the Rue Charron——"

"Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy——"

"No.  He will tell nothing——"

"Tricot is not willing to take that chance.  Eh, Tricot?"

"No," snapped the vulture.  "Piquette knows the penalty.  She’ll pay
it."

"And if I pay it," said Piquette bravely, "you’ll know no more about
what has become of your papers than you do now."

Quinlevin made a sign to Tricot.

"There’s something in that.—but I’m in no mood to be trifled with.  That
ought to be pretty clear."

"It is.  I’m not trifling."

"Then speak.  Or——"  Quinlevin paused significantly.

Piquette continued to glance around the room as though in a hope that
something might happen to release her from her predicament.  It had now
grown dark outside, but her captors showed no disposition to make a
light.  And yet it seemed impossible that they would dare...

She tried to gain time.

"And if I could tell you what has happened to the papers," she asked
uncertainly, "will you let me go?"

"Yes—speak."

"And if I cannot tell you——"

"I will tell you, Madame.  You will be left here alone in this room with
the good Tricot."  And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, "He is a
very ingenious rascal, Tricot.  Never yet has he been caught by the
police."  Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of the
open window, as though listening.  "An open window," he mumbled.  "I
left it so—perhaps.  But do you go, Tricot, and look out.  Perhaps there
is some one below."

The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon the
small portico.

"No one can help you, Madame," Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper,
"for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent."  He caught Piquette
furiously by the wrist and twisted it.  "What have you done with my
property?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You are lying."

Tricot’s silhouette appeared at the window.

"Monsieur," he whispered tensely, "there’s a man—below."

"Horton!" said Quinlevin.  "What is he doing?"

"Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur."

The clutch on Piquette’s arm grew tighter.

"What did you do with the papers?"

"I burned them in the fireplace," she said desperately.

Quinlevin rushed to the hearth and struck a match, examining the ashes
minutely.  Then he straightened quickly.

"You lie, Madame.  I burned some letters here this morning.  The ashes
are just as I left them."  In one stride he was at her side again, a
pistol in his hand.

He caught her roughly by the arm and she bit her lip to keep from crying
out with pain.

"He is down there.  What did you do with the papers? Answer me."

"Let me go."

"No."

"What will you do?"

"Unless you tell me the truth—shoot him from the window."

"You would not dare——" she whispered, in spite of her pain, "the people
of the hotel—will investigate.  The police——"

"Bah!  A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls—will you
tell the truth?  Are the papers in this room?"

"I won’t tell."

"Very well."  And then turning to his companion at the window, "What is
he doing now, Tricot?"

"He does not move——"

The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.

"A better chance for a shot, then," he snapped.  "Here, Tricot."  And he
moved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.

Piquette sprang up despairingly.

"Monsieur," she cried, "for the love of God.  Don’t shoot.  I will
tell."

"I thought so.  Where are they?  Quick."

"I—I——"

He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot’s skinny hand
threatened her throat.

"Speak——!"

"I—I threw them out of the window," she gasped.

It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth.
With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window while
Tricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.

"Jeem!" she shrieked in a last despairing effort.  "Go! Go!"  And then
the fingers of the _apache_ closed and the sound was stifled as she fell
back in a chair helpless.

"Shut up, damn you," growled Quinlevin.  "Keep her quiet, you.  Not
death, you understand.  We may need her."

Piquette heard these things dimly.  A torrent was roaring at her ears
and her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought for
her breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.

"And you, Monsieur?" she heard Tricot ask.

"I’m going down—into the garden.  If she speaks the truth I’ll find it
out."

Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock,
while she fought Tricot.  But strong as she was, she knew, that she was
no match for him.  His arms were like steel springs, his fingers like
iron.  But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that would
arouse the hotel.  But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even the
dim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes.
She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed,
choking—choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came at her
side.

"Be quiet," croaked Tricot’s voice at her ear—"or I’ll——"

And she obeyed.  For death was in his voice and in his hand.




                             *CHAPTER XIX*

                             *IN THE DARK*


Jim Horton looked at his watch again.  He had kept the visitors in the
apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour.  He hurried
cautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied by
Quinlevin’s party.  There was no one in sight and so he stole along the
corridor, listening.  Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms.  But
Piquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin.  No sound.  And so
he waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any moment
to see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman at
least had probably not yet come up.  But the suspense and inaction
weighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the back
stair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette,
Monsieur Jacquot.  But to his disappointment he found that the man had
gone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice.  Quinlevin, he
discovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate danger
from him was not to be expected.

Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty.  If Piquette had already
succeeded in her mission, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t returned
to her room.  Perhaps he had missed her on the way.  She might have used
the main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not have
been probable.  During the day he had managed to take a surreptitious
survey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated,
and it was only Piquette’s suggestion to keep the Irishman busy while
she searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reach
Quinlevin’s room from the outside. There was a small portico at the
Irishman’s windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached by
climbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-building
where a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good hand
hold—something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything else
failed.

He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she had
been successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doors
securely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, if
molested, she could summon the servants of the hotel.  And Quinlevin
would hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant the
police, and the police meant publicity—a thing to be dreaded at this
time with the battle going against him.  Nor did Horton wish to make a
row, for Piquette was a burglar—nothing less—and discovery meant placing
her in an awkward position which would take some explaining.  Monsieur
Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of trying to use
him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willing to take
a share in so grave a responsibility.

So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a small
corridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for the
Irishman’s return, and was just about to go out of the rear door into
the garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard the
sounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed for
travel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column to
watch and listen, the Duc’s flushed face and gay mien proclaiming the
triumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, no
doubt a short session with the brandy-bottle.  This was Monsieur de
Vautrin’s incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of his
beloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the pains
that had been wasted upon him.  His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrin
walked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he was
about to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darkness
and stood beside him.  A passage of words between the two men and the
Duc laughed.

"A great game, Monsieur the Irishman," Horton heard him say, "but you
have lost.  In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of my
avocat.  And then—beware!"

Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed off
into the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon the
step.  It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had a
companion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light and
Horton knew that Quinlevin’s forces had been augmented by one.  For
Monsieur Tricot had arrived.

The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, and
went up the stairs.

"There’ll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded," muttered
Horton to himself.  And then in a quick afterthought, "And maybe a worse
devil—if she hasn’t."

He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to the
rear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette’s
room—aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she been there,
for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that in which he
had left it half an hour before.  He waited for a few moments, then
turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly toward Quinlevin’s
door, waiting for a moment and listening intently.  He made out the
murmur of voices, a man’s and a woman’s, but he could not hear it
distinctly.  But that the man’s voice was the Irishman’s he did not
doubt, nor that the woman’s was Piquette’s. Cautiously he turned the
knob of the door.  It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him.
There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it.  The
Irishman had the law on his side.  If Horton persisted, Quinlevin could
shoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect of
acquittal in any trouble that might follow.

Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs,
past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden.
At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were upon
the other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted.
Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, he
stole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the first
floor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from the
shelter of which he carefully scrutinized the façade of the building,
identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin.  Then went
nearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched to
listen for any sounds that might come from above.  Silence, except for
the distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.

He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the door
upstairs was not Piquette’s—that it might have been Moira’s or Nora
Burke’s.  But if it was not Piquette’s voice, then where was she?  And
why had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin’s wrath at her
intrusion?  There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed the
allotted time and that now they had come in upon her—-the Irishman and
the rascal Tricot.  She was in for a bad half hour—perhaps something
worse.

But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired to
keep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret.  They would not
dare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name for
respectability.  They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, if
damaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin.  So
Horton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainly
waited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now beside
Piquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in the
Rue Charron.  He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning the
ascent.  And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among the
twigs just above his head.  It was within reach of his hand and he took
it—a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled.  He fingered and then
looked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf was
another square of paper—and a letter further off, another, and another
hanging in the opposite side of the bush.

In his hands idly he fingered the letter.  The paper was fine and it
bore an embossed heading or crest.  He was about to throw it aside when
he looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside Barry
Quinlevin’s windows—realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery that
these papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those of
the third—Quinlevin’s.  Of course they were unimportant—and yet....  He
started to his feet and looked around.  Elsewhere, so far as he could
see, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who was
well paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland.  Horton bent over
searching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others.
He glanced up at the windows on the third floor.  There was no sign of
occupancy, for though one of the windows was open, both were still dark,
but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the low
murmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a light
for a cigarette.

But the papers in his fingers!  He realized with a growing excitement
that they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been long
exposed to the damp sea air.  Had Piquette...?  Not daring to strike a
light he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way.
And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly.  Their meaning
flashed through his consciousness with a shock—a letter from Monsieur de
Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printed
document bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de
Vautrin—the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin’s fortunes
hung—and Moira’s.

He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting,
for the light was dim.  And the real significance of his discovery was
not to be denied.  No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers out
of the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate a
thing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means of
disposing of them.  He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust the
documents safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to his
place beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for any
other papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare.
Piquette was up there.  He was sure of it now.  Otherwise why hadn’t she
escaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin’s return
with Tricot?  But why had she thrown them from the window unless their
presence threatened?  These and other speculations were to remain
unanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men her
danger was great.

There was a slight sound from above.  He peered upward.  In silhouette
against the sky was the figure of a man—he couldn’t tell whether Tricot
or the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then.  They had just
guessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and there
seemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could have
failed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage.
Desperate!  Yes, but worth it—for Piquette.  He owed it to her.  And, as
in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold with purpose
and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would not dare to
shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a man climbing the
wall of his hotel into the window of his room,—that would be a
sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense.  And yet had
Quinlevin considered the possibility of Horton’s attempting so dangerous
a climb?  If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton’s
favor.

But there was to be no choice for Horton—for as he stood, measuring the
height of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voice
crying his name.  "Jeem!" it called, "Go!  Go!"

He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in an
outer pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding,
crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for a
further sight of Monsieur Tricot.  He thought he heard sounds now, the
creaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds,
more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her....  D—— them!
Cowards!

Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he would
have to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window above
him, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation proving
unreliable.  The window sill which was his objective was at least two
feet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of the
projection on which he stood.  It was not above him and he would have to
leap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet to
the menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance.
But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching,
swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until he
got a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on the
sill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped the
room was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility;
straightening and climbing the shutter.  Quinlevin’s portico was within
his reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peering
upward.  No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within....  He heard
them again now—fainter, horribly suppressed.  He caught the edge of the
portico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and in
a moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.

There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they ... In the
brief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figure
below moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden.  He crouched
below the balustrade instinctively.  It was just at this moment that the
cautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window to
peer over.  It was Tricot.  Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and the
impact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of the
room.  Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation.
Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of Monsieur
Tricot’s knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand that
held it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, just
within the door of the room.  But the Frenchman was strong and struggled
upward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck him
under the jaw.  That took some of the fight out of him, but he still
fought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered why
Quinlevin hadn’t joined in the entertainment.  Tricot in desperation
tried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn’t pinioned,
and it was about time to end the matter.  A memory of the night in the
Rue Charron was behind Horton’s blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatly
behind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his head
came into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and lay
silent.

Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair,
into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot’s revolver, which
he put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look for
Quinlevin.

He didn’t find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, and
gasping horribly for her breath.

"Piquette!  It’s Jim," he whispered.

Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.

"They choked you, Piquette."

"Tri—cot," she managed to utter painfully.

"I’ve attended to him.  Where’s Quinlevin?"

She pointed, soundless, toward the door.

"He went down to look for me?" he questioned.

She nodded.

"Good," laughed Jim.  "We’ll be ready when he comes back."

He went out and had another look at Tricot.  The man was out of it and
there was a dark shadow on the stone work where he had fallen.  So
Horton came back into the room, found a pitcher of water, with which he
bathed Piquette’s forehead and throat and then gave her to drink.  And
in a moment she was able to enunciate more clearly.  But she was very
weak and it seemed that her nerve was gone, for her shoulders shook with
hysteria and she clung to Horton still in terror of her frightful
experience.  But Horton was taking no chances now and did the thinking
and talking for them both.

"You’re sure Quinlevin went down to look for me?" he asked again.

"Yes, _m-mon ami_.  Tricot,—’e saw you below—in—de—de garden."

"He knows you threw out the papers?"

"Yes.  Into de garden."

"Not now," said Horton.  "In my pocket."

"You found dem?"

"Yes."

"_Dieu merci_!  It’s what I—I ’ope’."

"But we mustn’t lose them again now, Piquette, after all this.  Is the
door locked?"

"I—I doan know.  I——"

Horton strode to the door and turned the key.

"Now let him come," he whispered grimly.  And then, "Where’s Moira?" he
asked.

"Lock’ in ’er room—yonder."

"You saw her?"

"Yes, _mon_ Jeem."

"But she must have heard all this commotion."

"I doan know."

"Um."  He paused a moment, glanced at the door into the corridor, and
then crossed quickly to the door Piquette indicated, knocking softly.
There was no reply.

"Moira!" he said through the key-hole.  "It’s I—Jim."

He seemed to hear sounds within, a gasp, a movement of feet and then
silence.

"Moira—it’s Jim."  There was no sound, so he unbolted the door and
turned the knob.  It was locked on the inside.

A gasp from Piquette, who had been listening for sounds at the other
door, now warned him to be quiet and he straightened.  There were
footsteps outside and then a knock.

"Tricot!" said the Irishman’s voice.  "Let me in."

"Quickly!" whispered Horton, into Piquette’s ear, "in the chair and gasp
like hell."

She understood and obeyed him.  Horton went to the door, turned the key
and Barry Quinlevin strode in.

"He’s gone, Tricot—the papers too——"

So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went around
his throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and he
crumpled backward in Horton’s strong arms, down to the floor, where in
spite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him,
his weight on the astonished Irishman’s chest, his fingers at the man’s
throat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightest
sound.  The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important things
are, given some intelligence and a will to do.

Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purely
psychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of the
physical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had so
easily mastered him. And Tricot...?  Outside upon the balcony was a
shadow that had not been there before.  The game was up.  And so he
resorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.

"Well, Horton," he uttered, "ye’ve won."

"Not yet, Quinlevin," said Horton grimly.  And then to Piquette, who had
stopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings,
"The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please."

She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head to
foot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles of
apparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between them
lifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity.
Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as they
dragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs of
returning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward.  Of
the two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touch
of Horton’s revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin,
writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.

"And now, Quinlevin," said Horton coolly, "it must be fairly obvious to
you that the fraud you’ve practiced at the expense of Madame Horton is
now at an end.  The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket,
where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur de
Vautrin.  In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless be
released by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be in
another part of France!"

He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette’s voice.

"We mus’ not stay too long, Jeem ’Orton.  Some one may come."

"Madame Horton?" he muttered, and went over to the door of Moira’s room
and listened.  There was no sound. "Moira," he said again distinctly
through the keyhole. "Will you unbolt the door?"

A small sound of footsteps moving, but they did not come toward the
door.

"Moira," he repeated more loudly.  "You must let me in.  We are going
away from here—at once."

No reply.

"It is as I suppose’, Jeem ’Orton," whispered Piquette at his ear.  "She
does not wish to come."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I saw her, Jeem," she whispered.  "I talk wit’ ’er.  It is ’opeless.  I
do not t’ink she will come.  She is afraid."

"Afraid—of me?" he muttered incredulously.  "I——"

"Not of you, _mon vieux_," returned Piquette.  "Of ’_erself_!"

"I don’t understand——"

Piquette shrugged.  "Try again den, Jeem ’Orton."

He did—to no avail.  There was now no sound from within in reply to his
more earnest entreaties.

"Something must have happened to her," he mumbled straightening, with a
glance toward the bed.  "If I thought——"

"But no," Piquette broke in quickly.  "Not’ing ’as ’appen’ to ’er, _mon_
Jeem.  She is quite safe."

"I’m not so sure about that——"

And putting his weight against the door, he tried to force it in.  It
yielded a trifle, but the slender bolt held. He waited a moment,
listening again, silencing Piquette’s whispered protestations at the
commotion he was creating, but heard nothing.  Then moving away a few
paces he pushed the door with his full weight and it flew open with a
crash, almost throwing him to the floor.

The room was empty, but the unlocked door leading into Nora Burke’s room
showed which way she had gone. He went in and looked around.  Then out
into the corridor by Nora’s door.  There were some people at the other
end of the corridor but Moira and her Irish nurse had disappeared.

Uncertainly, he came back through the rooms to Piquette, who stood in
Moira’s room, watching the prisoners through the doorway.

"It is what I ’ave said, _mon_ Jeem.  Madame does not wish to go wit’
you."

"But why——?  After all——"

"’Ave I not tol’ you?  She is afraid of ’erself.  She knows as I
know—she is a woman who loves—but not as I love, _mon_ Jeem.  It is ’er
God dat stan’ between you, ’er God—stronger dan you and what you are to
’er.  She is afraid.  She knows—if she touch your ’and—she will go wit’
you—whatever ’appens."

"What makes you think that?" muttered Horton, bewildered.

"She tol’ me so——"

"You?"

"I saw ’er—talk wit’ ’er.  Dat is why I wait too long ontil Monsieur
Quinlevin came."

Horton paused, thinking deeply.

"I must find her, Piquette.  She’s got to go with us," he murmured,
starting toward the door away from her.

But Piquette caught him by the hand.

"No, Jeem.  You mus’n’t.  Do you t’ink you can fin’ ’er?  Where?  An’ if
you do, your friend Monsieur Quinlevin will be discover’ and dey will
put you in de jail——"

"Let them.  I’ve got to take her away.  She’s helpless, Piquette, with
him—penniless, if she deserts him."

"Not so ’elpless as you t’ink.  But she does not want to see you.  Is
not dat enough?"

"No," he said, trying to shake loose her clutch on his arm.  "I’ll find
her."

"Jeem," Piquette pleaded desperately.  "You will spoil all de good you
do.  What does it matter if you fin’ ’er or not if you lose de paper to
Quinlevin again? You mus’ go away now before it is too late an’ make
Quinlevin powerless to ’urt ’er again..  Den, _mon_ Jeem, when ’er
future is safe, you s’all fin’ ’er.  What does it matter now?  In time
she will come to you.  I know.  You s’all fin’ ’er.  An’ I, Piquette,
will ’elp you."

She felt his arm relax and knew that she had won. He stared for a long
moment toward the open door into Nora’s room, then turned with a quick
gasp of decision.

"You’re right, Piquette.  We’ve got to get away—to draw his claws for
good."

"_Parfaitement_!  You need not worry.  ’E will not ’urt ’er now."

And so they returned to the Irishman’s room and looked carefully to the
bonds of the prisoners.  Nothing was disarranged.  They had done their
work well, and continued it by methodically making all arrangements for
departure; shutting the French window, putting an extra turn on the
bindings of the prostrate men, who glared at them sullenly in the
obscurity.  Then they went out, locking all three rooms from the outside
and leaving the keys in the doors.  Unobserved, they went up to their
rooms—packed their belongings, descended to the office where Jim coolly
paid their bills, and went out into the night.

There was a garage nearby, where they hired a car, paying for it in
advance, and in less than twenty minutes, Jim Horton driving, were on
their way to Vingtimille, on the border line between France and Italy.
There they left the machine in the care of a hotel and wrote a postcard
to the owner of the garage at Monte Carlo, telling him where he would
find his machine.  This message they knew would not reach him until some
time the next day, by which time they would be lost in Italy.




                              *CHAPTER XX*

                               *FREEDOM*


Meanwhile, Destiny was at her loom, weaving with careless hand.  The
American and French armies were moving closer to the Rhine, but the
Infantry regiment to which Harry Horton belonged lay at Château Dix
awaiting orders.  There Harry went upon the morning following the return
of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland.  Upon his breast he wore the _Croix de
Guerre_, but in his soul was a deathly sickness, the inward reflection
of the physical discomfort with which he had awakened.  The prospect
that lay before him was not to his liking.  The period during which he
had been out of uniform, the weeks of secrecy, of self-indulgence and
abasement, had marked him for their own, and unfitted him for the
rigorous routine of discipline that awaited him.  And so he faced the
ordeal with a positive distaste for his old associations, aware of a
sinking feeling in his breast that was not entirely the result of his
heavy potations while in Paris.

He felt the burden of his failure and a terror that he would not be able
to live up to the record Jim Horton had made for him.  There would be no
more fighting perhaps, but always beside him there would stalk the
specter of his military sin, of which the medal at his breast was to be
the perpetual reminder.  On the train down from Paris, the medal and its
colorful bit of green and red seemed to fill the whole range of his
vision.  D—— the thing!  He tore it off and put it in his pocket, and
then, somewhat relieved, sank back into his seat and tried to doze.  But
his nerves were most uncertain.  Every sound, even the smallest, seemed
to beat with an unpleasant staccato, upon his ear drums.  And he started
up and gazed out of the window, trying to soothe himself with tobacco.
That helped.  But he knew that what he wanted was stronger
drugging—whisky or brandy—needed it indeed to exorcise the demons that
inhabited him.  And the thought of the difficulties that would lie in
the way of getting what he craved, to-day, to-morrow, and the long days
and nights that were to follow still further unmanned him.

Before Moira had left for Nice, he had given her his promise to report
for duty fit and sober, and he had put his will to the task, aware that
the first impression he created with his Colonel was to be important.
It was for this reason that he did not dare to open his valise and touch
the bottles hidden there because he knew that one drink would not be
enough to sooth either his nerves or the dull pangs of his weary
conscience.  That he had a conscience, he had discovered in the house in
the Rue Charron when the desire of Monsieur Tricot and _Le Singe_ to put
Jim Horton out of the way for good had brought him face to face with the
evil image of himself.  He hated his brother Jim as much as ever,
because he was all the things that Harry was not, but the plans of
Quinlevin which seemed to stop at nothing, not even Moira herself, now
filled him with dread and repugnance.  His nerve was gone—that was it.
His nerve—his nerve....

But arrival at regimental headquarters restored him for awhile.  His
Colonel gave him a soldierly welcome, fingered with some envy the _Croix
de Guerre_, which Harry had pinned on his breast again before leaving
the railroad, and summoned Harry’s Major, whose greeting left nothing to
be desired.  And for the moment it almost seemed to Harry as though he
might be able to "put it over."  But the next day was difficult.  He
managed a drink early and that kept him going for awhile; but they gave
him his company in the morning, and from that moment the intimate
contact with those who had known him began—a lieutenant he had never
liked, a sergeant who was a psychologist, and a familiar face here and
there associated unpleasantly with the long weary days of training and
preparation until the regiment had been worked up into the advanced
position.  But his long sickness in the hospital and his unfamiliarity
with recent orders served him well for excuse, and the _Croix de Guerre_
upon his breast served him better.  A corporal and a sergeant with whom
in the old days he had had nothing in common, each of whom wore
decorations, came up to him, saluting, and reported that it was they who
had carried him back to the dressing station from the rocks at Boissière
Wood.  He shook them by the hands with a cordiality which did not
disguise from himself the new terror, and when they attempted a recital
of the events of the great fight in which they had shared, he blundered
helplessly for a while and then cut the interview short, pleading urgent
affairs.

Then, too, there was the nasty business of the wounds. He hadn’t any.
He was scathless.  He had tried the ruse of the adhesive tape on Moira
with disastrous effect. Here the result of the discovery of his
unblemished skin would prove still more disastrous.  And so at once he
discouraged familiarity, kept to his billet and attempted with all the
courage left to him to put through his daily round with all credit to
his new office.  But it irked him horribly.  His supply of strong drink
did not last long, and the thin red wines, the only substitute
procurable, were merely a source of irritation.

And there were others in his company of whose approbation he was not at
all certain.  There was the sergeant, who had had the platoon that had
been caught with his own in the wheat-field.  There were four or five
men of one of his own squads who had been close beside him in the same
wheat-field when he had been taken ill and they had left him face to
face with the grinning head of the hated Levinski.  And there was the
late Levinski’s own "buddy," Weyl, who had sometimes shared in Harry’s
reprobation.  Weyl annoyed him most perhaps, with his staring, fishy eye
and his Hebraic nose, so similar to that of his lamented tent-mate.
Weyl had been in the wheatfield and his heavy face seemed to conceal a
malevolent omniscience.  The large staring eyes followed the new Captain
of infantry, inquisitive, accusing and contemptuous. Whenever Corporal
Weyl came within the range of Harry’s vision, their glances seemed at
once to meet and hold each other and it was the Captain who always
looked away.  Weyl’s fishy eye fascinated and haunted him.  He saw it by
day, dreamed of it by night, and he cursed the man in his heart with a
fury that did nothing for his composure.

One day as Harry was making his way to mess, he came upon Corporal Weyl
standing at ease just outside his billet.  The man’s eye seemed more
round, more fishy, and his demeanor more contemptuous than ever.  The
last of the whisky was gone.  Harry Horton’s heart was behaving queerly
within him, and muscles with which he was unfamiliar announced their
existence in strange twitchings.  The breakfast coffee would help.  In
the meanwhile—he glared at Corporal Weyl, his fists clenched.

"What the H—— do you mean by staring at me all the time?" he asked.

Weyl came to attention and saluted in excellent form.

"I beg pardon, sir.  I don’t understand," he said.

"Why the H—— do you stare at me?"

"I didn’t know that I did stare, sir."

"Yes, you did.  Cut it out.  It annoys me."

But Corporal Weyl still stared as the regulations demand, looking his
Captain squarely in the eye.  And the Captain’s gaze wavered and fell.

"When I’m about," he ordered, "you look some other way.  Understand?"

"Yes sir.  I understand," said Weyl, saluting again as Harry turned
away, but still staring at him.  And Harry felt the fishy stare, more
than ever omniscient, more than ever contemptuous, in the middle of his
back, all the way down the road to mess.  But he had just enough of self
control to refrain from looking around at the object of his fury.

And at mess a disagreeable surprise awaited him, in the person of a
medico who had just joined the outfit.  The new Captain had barely
finished his coffee when he found himself addressed by the officer, a
Major, who sat just opposite him at table.

"How are you, Captain Horton?" asked the man cordially, extending a hand
across.  "Didn’t recognize you at first.  How’s the head?"

Harry stammered something.

"I’m Welby—looked after you down at Neuilly, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Harry.  "Of course.  Glad to see you again, Major."

"Things were a bit hazy down there, eh?"

"Yes, rather," said Harry.

"Delicate operation that.  Touch and go for awhile. But you came through
all O.K.  Delusions.  Thought you were another man—or something——"

"Oh yes," said Harry faintly, "but I’m all right."

"Glad to hear it.  How’s the head?"

"Fine."

"No more pains—no delusions?"

"No sir."

"I’d like to have a squint at the wound presently, if you don’t mind.
Interesting case.  Very."

Harry rose suddenly, his face the color of ashes.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered, "I’ve got a lot to do now. Later perhaps,"
and then without a word took up his cap and fled incontinently from the
room.

There were but two other officers present, but they stared at him as he
went out, for the conversation across the table had drawn attention.

"H-m," remarked the Major into his coffee-cup.  "Surly chap that.
Considering I saved his life—_Croix de Guerre_, I see?"

"Yes sir," said a Lieutenant.  "Just joined up. Worried, maybe."

"Not much worried about me, apparently," said the Major.

Harry went straight out to his billet, locked the door of his soom and
sank on the edge of his bed.  The situation was horrible.  This man of
all men who had seen Jim Horton through the hospital!  Suppose out of
professional curiosity the fool came nosing around!  Was Welby now with
the regiment?  Harry cursed himself for the hurry of his departure.
Would the man suspect anything?  Hardly.  But Harry couldn’t take a
chance like that again.  A second refusal of the Major’s request would
surely make him an object of suspicion.  And the wound in the
shoulder—there was none!  D—n them all! Why couldn’t they leave him
alone?

He couldn’t face the thing out.  It was too dangerous. Already he had
had enough of it.  And yet what was he to do?  Yesterday he had thought
he read suspicion of him in other men’s eyes.  They seemed to strip him
naked, those hundreds of eyes, to be gazing at the white uninjured flesh
where his wounds should have been.  All this in a week only—and what was
to happen in the many weeks to follow?  If this fool Welby had come why
wouldn’t there be other men of the regiment, of the battalion, who had
been at the hospital at Neuilly also?  They would catch him in a false
statement, force him into a position from which he could not extricate
himself, and then what? The Major,—the Colonel,—what answer could he
give them if they asked to see his wounds?

To Harry’s overwrought imagination the whole army seemed joined in a
conspiracy to bring about his ruin.  To go about his work seemed
impossible, but to feign illness meant the visit of a doctor, perhaps
Welby himself.  He would have to go on, at least for the day, and then
perhaps he would think up something—resignation, a transfer to some
other unit....

He managed to put through the day, still wondering why men looked at him
so strangely.  Was there anything the matter with his appearance?  In
the afternoon, the youngest of his Lieutenants approached him kindly.

"Hadn’t you better take a run down to the hospital, sir?" he asked.
"You look all in."

Harry stared at him stupidly for a moment.

"Oh, I’m all right—just—er—a little stomach upset——"

The youngster saluted and disappeared and Harry went back to his
quarters.  There was no wonder that he looked "all in."  He hadn’t dared
to go to the mess table since morning and he hadn’t had a drink since
yesterday.  Tobacco had ceased to have the desired effect upon his
nerves.  He felt like jumping out of his skin. The thing couldn’t go on.
He _was_ "all in."  A short leave of absence which might give him time
to pull himself together meant being gone over by a doctor—it meant
showing his scarless shoulder—impossible!  There was only one thing to
do—to quit while there was time—before the truth came out.  The more he
thought of his situation, the more clearly this course seemed indicated.
To disappear silently—in the night.  It could be managed—and when he
didn’t come back, perhaps they would think that the wound in his head
was troubling him again, and that he was not responsible for what he
did.  Or that he had met with foul play.  They could think anything they
chose so long as they didn’t guess the truth.  And they could never
learn the truth, unless they examined his body for the wounds.

But they would never find him to do that if he ever got safely back of
the lines.  He had managed it before.  He could do it again now; because
he wouldn’t have to trust to blind luck as he had done back of Boissière
Wood.  The more he thought of his plan, the more he became obsessed with
it.  At any rate it was an obsession which would banish the other
obsession of the watching eyes.  It was the dark he craved, the security
and blessed immunity of darkness—darkness and solitude.  He wouldn’t
wait for the ordeal of the morrow ... to-night!

And so, driven by all the enemies of his tortured mind, and planning
with all the craft of a guilty conscience, he arranged all things to
suit his purpose, passing beyond the village with the avowed purpose of
visiting a friend in another unit and then losing himself in the
thicket.

He traveled afoot all night, using his map and making for the railroad
at St. Couvreur, and in the early morning breakfasted at a farmhouse,
telling a story of having lost his way and craving a bed for a few
hours’ sleep.  He was well provided with money and his host was
hospitable. He slept a while, awoke and no one being about, searched the
house for what he sought.  He found it in a wardrobe upstairs—a suit of
clothing which would serve—and leaving some money on a table, made off
without ceremony into the thicket, covering a mile or so in a hurry,
across country, when he found a disused building in which he tore off
his uniform and donned the borrowed clothing, leaving his own, including
its _Croix de Guerre_, under a truss of straw.

It grew dark again.  But he did not care.  In a village he managed by
paying well to find a bottle of cognac. His cares slipped from him.
Nothing mattered—not even the rain.  His soul was set free.  He paid for
a good lodging and slept, warm inside and out; purchased the next day a
better suit of clothing and then boldly boarded a train for Paris.

It was extraordinary how easily his liberty had been accomplished.  They
would look for him, of course.  The M.P. would bustle about but he had
given them the slip all right and they would never find him in Paris.
Paris for awhile and then a new land where no questions would be asked.
Curiously enough the only human being he seemed to think about, to
regret, in what he had done, was Moira.  His thoughts continually
reverted to the expression on her face the night that Jim had surprised
them in the studio.  Its agony, its apprehension, so nearly depicted the
very terrors that had been in his own soul.  He remembered hazily too,
that she had been kind to him when Quinlevin had left him there to watch
her and he had finished the bottle of Irish whisky.  Then, too, again in
the morning she had awakened him and started him upon his way back to
his post, while the expression of her face had shown that she was trying
to do her duty to him even when her own heart was breaking. She had had
a thought that even at this last moment he still had an opportunity to
"make good."  He felt that Moira, his wife in name only, would know the
pain of his failure.  Quinlevin would sneer, Jim would shrug, but Moira
would weep and pray—in vain.

He had cared for Moira in his strange selfish way, permitted Quinlevin
to use him for his own purposes, hoping for the fortune that would bring
ease and luxury for them all, and with it a glamour that he might turn
to his own account and win the girl to a fulfillment of their marriage
vows.  But Jim had dashed the cup from his lips, Jim—his hero
brother—now like himself an outcast!  So there were to be two of them
then after all.  "It served him right—D—n him!"  Harry Horton found a
malicious pleasure in the situation.  If _he_ wasn’t to have her, Jim
shouldn’t either.  He wasn’t going to give his brother the pleasure of
reading _his_ death notice in the morning paper.  He, Harry Horton,
would just go on living whatever happened, and he knew that without the
evidence of his death, Moira would never marry again.

He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the
Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira’s consent to go with
Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night.
But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew
nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking.  It
looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission
was dubious.  And yet Quinlevin might succeed.  If he did there would be
enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the
world.  This was the price that they would pay for immunity—and Harry
would go.  He knew now that Moira was not for him. She had settled that
matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue
Charron.

He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old
haunts.  There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the
awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would
it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes?  He
would have to sober up. Things weren’t bad at all now.  What difference
did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became?  It
was his own life to do what he pleased with. And it pleased him to do
what he was doing with it.  He laughed at the amusing inversion.  Good
joke, that!

But he would have to go down to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes and
talk things over.  No use quarreling with Quinlevin.  Everything amiable
and friendly. No. 7 Rue de Tavennes.  If Moira wasn’t there, he’d go in
and wait.  Her studio ... his too.  Perhaps a little of the Irish whisky
and a doze....




                             *CHAPTER XXI*

                           _*THE PETIT BLEU*_


The road to Paris was long by the way Jim Horton and Piquette had
chosen, but without mishap they came through Geneva and Lyons, reaching
their destination at the end of the second day.  Of the further
adventures of Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and his apostle Tricot they had
learned nothing, though they had scanned all the newspapers upon their
way for any echoes of the adventure at the Hôtel de Paris.  Jim Horton
had spoken little of Moira, but as they neared their journey’s end, the
birth certificate and other papers still secure in Jim’s inner pocket,
he was sure that however difficult and painful his decision to desert
Moira at the critical moment, Piquette’s counsel had been wise.  Moira
had fled from him and he knew now that her convictions had laid a
barrier between them which no further effort that he could make would
ever pass.  Pity he felt for her, deep and abiding, for she was so
helpless and now more than ever alone.  But he had done his duty as he
had seen it, drawn Quinlevin’s sting and opened Moira’s eyes to his
perfidy, throwing a light along the path into which that perfidy was
leading her.

He and Piquette had tried to picture events in the hotel at Monte Carlo
after their flight: The helpless men lying in the dark, awaiting the
morning, Moira’s probable return with Nora Burke and their liberation.
As to what Moira would do after that, they could not decide.  Her flight
to Paris without money seemed impossible, and yet for her to remain with
her spurious father after this awakening seemed also impossible.
Piquette had related to him parts of her conversation with the girl and
Horton had listened, aware of Piquette’s motives and the hopeless
impediments to the success of her efforts.

Piquette spoke no more of love, nor did Jim Horton revive the topic
which had given him a more awkward half an hour than he had ever spent
in his life, but he showed her by every act a consideration that touched
her deeply and made the friendship that she asked of him a sacred thing
to them both.  What the future held for him was yet to be fully
revealed, but as yet he could not see it clearly.  With the collapse of
Quinlevin’s scheme it was probable that all the vials of his wrath would
be turned upon Horton, who would be denounced to the military
authorities, no matter what happened to his unfortunate brother Harry.
It was necessary therefore, until the birth certificate and the evidence
of Horton and Piquette was all placed with Monsieur de Vautrin’s legal
representative, that Horton remain hidden and that Piquette avoid all
contact with her friends of the _Quartier_. It seemed also the part of
prudence for Piquette to remain for awhile away from her apartment,
keeping in touch with her maid who would bring her clothing and letters
to a designated place.

"It would have been much more sensible to have killed Tricot," laughed
Horton when they were established in rooms in his obscure lodging in the
Rue Jean Paul.  "He’ll come poking about with a brand new knife and
revolver, and then we’ll have the devil to pay all over again."

"I’m not sure," said Piquette.

"We’ll take no chances.  And when this business is finished, if Monsieur
de Vautrin doesn’t do his duty by you I’d like to take you away from
Paris, Piquette."

"Where, _mon_ Jeem?"

He shrugged.  "To America.  Where else?"

But she shook her head like a solemn child.

"No, _mon petit_.  You will not wish to be taking me to America.  One
cannot change one’s destiny like dat.  You s’all not ’ang me like a
millstone aroun’ your neck.  My place is ’ere, in Paris, where I am
born, an’ if de _bon Dieu_ will, where I s’all die.  As for you, _mon
ami_, all will be well.  De _vrai gamine_ is born wit’ de what you
call—secon’ sight.  It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."

He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words
and manner.

"How, Piquette?" he laughed.

She shrugged.  "I doan know, but I believe you s’all be ’appy yet."

"With her, you mean?" he asked.  "Not a chance, Piquette.  That’s done.
But if I can help her——"

"Yes.  You s’all ’elp ’er, _mon ami_.  I know."

He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe.

"You’ve got Cassandra beaten by a mile, my little Piquette."

"Cassandra?"

"The greatest little guesser in all history.  But she guessed right——"

"An’ I guess right too, _mon ami_.  You see."

He smiled.  "Then I wish you’d guess what’s happened to your silly
friend de Vautrin."

"Silly!" she laughed.  "Dat’s a good word, _mon ami_" and then shrugged.
"’E will come one day——"

"In a week—and here we sit cooling our heels with our evidence all O.K.,
burning in our fingers.  If he doesn’t arrive to-morrow I’m going to
find his _avocat_."


They had examined the birth certificate with a magnifying glass and
there was not a doubt that the final "a" of "Patricia" had been added to
"Patrice," also that the word "male" had been changed to "female" by the
addition of the prefix.  With Nora Burke as Quinlevin’s only witness and
Horton and Piquette to oppose her, there would not be the slightest
difficulty in disposing of Barry Quinlevin’s pretensions.  But Horton
still worried much about the fate of Moira, for it was difficult for him
to conceive of her resumption of the old relations with the Irishman.
And yet it could not be long before Quinlevin returned to Paris, and
what would be Moira’s fate unless she accompanied him to the Rue de
Tavennes?  Perhaps she was there now.  Already four days had elapsed
since the flight from the Riviera and of course there had been ample
time for Quinlevin and his illy-assorted company to return.  Horton
wanted to go to the Rue de Tavennes and try to learn what had happened,
but Piquette advised against it.  Until the responsibility for the
papers was shifted to de Vautrin, she did not think it wise for him to
take any risk of danger.  Jim Horton demurred, but when he saw how much
in earnest she was, he consented to remain in hiding a few days longer.

And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having
returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened,
for Piquette’s maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement)
brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was a
_Petit Bleu_ addressed to Jim Horton.  He picked it up gingerly in his
fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the
envelope.  It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people
knew so readily where he was to be found.  De Vautrin perhaps——? Or——

He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder.
It was in French, of course, and he read,

"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight.  Forgive and don’t fail.
MOIRA."

He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and
stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance.  "Forgive."
That was the word that stood out in black letters.  What had come over
her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which
she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with
him for sanctuary?  Or was it help that she needed?  Whatever the real
meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton’s mind as to
where his duty lay.

But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.

"When did this _Petit Bleu_ arrive?"

"Not an hour ago, Madame."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, Madame, positive.  I myself received it from the messenger."

"Very well, Celeste.  You will return to the apartment and if any other
message arrives, be sure to bring it at once."

"Yes, Madame."

"And be sure to take the roundabout way and be sure that you are not
followed."

"Yes, Madame."

When the woman departed, Piquette took the blue slip from Jim Horton’s
fingers and sat by the gas-light, rereading it slowly and thoughtfully.

"I must go, of course, Piquette," said Jim quietly.

"Yes, _mon ami_, you mus’ go.  An’ yet there are some t’ings I don’
on’erstan’."

"What, Piquette?"

"It is strange, dis sudden change of min’ of Madame ’Orton," she
replied.

"She wants me,—needs me," said Jim, unaware of the pain he caused.

Piquette shrugged.

"I could ’ave tol’ you dat at Monte Carlo," she said dryly, "but to ask
you to come to ’er—it’s different, dat."

"And yet she has done it——"

"De character of Madame ’as change’ a great deal in a few days, _mon_
Jeem."

"Something must have happened.  Her position! Think of it, Piquette."

"I do.  It is mos’ onpleasan’.  But I t’ink you would be de very las’
person she would sen’ for."

"Who then——?  Piquette, I——"

She rose, and handed him his message.  "You mus’ go," she said with a
shrug, "an’ dere is not much time.  But wit’ your permission, _mon_
Jeem——" she added firmly, "I will go wit’ you."

"You, Piquette!" he stammered dubiously.

But she smiled at him.

"Ah, _mon vieux_, I s’all not intrude.  You know dat, _n’est-ce pas_?
But Madame ’Orton and I, we on’erstan’ each oder.  Per’aps I can ’elp
’er too.  An’ where could she go onless to de Boulevard Clichy?"

Jim Horton stood speechless for a moment and then, slowly, "I hadn’t
thought of that," he muttered.

They dined and then Piquette went to her room to put on her hat, while
Jim Horton sat watching the clock which ticked off the minutes before
their departure.  Of course Moira’s appeal for forgiveness was only the
weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment—a cry for sanctuary from
the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself
to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy
that he would find in doing her a service.  What he hoped was that at
last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin.
With that he would be content—must be content—for the thing that
separated them was stronger than her will or his.  "There’s no divorce
but death."  Her words came to him again, the weary tones with which she
had uttered them, and he realized again that there was no hope for her
or for him.  Even if his will were stronger than hers, he must not use
it to coerce her.

When Piquette joined him they went forth by a circuitous way toward the
Rue de Tavennes.  To be certain that they were not recognized they
avoided the populous streets and chose narrow by-ways, shadowed and
unfamiliar, their coat collars turned up, their hats pulled well down
over their eyes, while Horton strode beside her, saying nothing.  To see
Moira, to speak to her, to take her away from the rogue who had for so
long held her in his thrall....

As they turned into the Rue de Tavennes Horton glanced at his watch.  It
was some moments before the appointed hour.  Under a gas lamp, he
glanced at Piquette.  He thought that she seemed pale, that her dark
eyes burned with a deeper intensity, that she was compact of suppressed
emotions, as though she were driven forward upon her feet by a power
beyond her to control.  And something of her tenseness seemed curiously
communicated to him.  Was it that Piquette knew that the spell that
bound her to him was to be broken to-night, that the strange and
wonderful friendship that she had found was to be dissipated by a new
element.  Why had she chosen to come with him—insisted on it even?  And
the rapt, eager, absorbed look he had seen upon her face made him almost
ready to believe that she had in her something of the seer and
prophetess at which he had been pleased to jest.  He knew that she was
"game," physically, spiritually, and that she could walk into the face
of danger and suffering to do him a service.  It almost seemed as though
she had chosen to come with him to-night because it was her final act of
self-abnegation, to bring Jim and Moira together—to help the woman he
loved to security if not to happiness.

As they neared the familiar gate of Madame Toupin, Horton was conscious
of a sense of grave responsibility. It was the same feeling that had
come to him there in the trench before the advance upon Boissière Wood,
the imminence of great events, the splendid possibilities of success,
the dire consequences of failure, a hazard of some kind, with happiness
or misery for many as the stake.

At the corner Piquette suddenly caught him by the elbow and held him.

"Wait, _mon ami_," she whispered.  "Wait!"

He looked down at her in surprise at the sudden pause in her eager
footsteps.

"Why, Piquette?" he asked.

"I—I don’ know, _mon_ Jeem," she muttered breathlessly, one hand to her
heart.  "I don’ know—somet’ing tell me to wait——"

"Do you want to go back?" he asked.

"No, no——"

"What then——?"

"I can’t tell you.  Jus’ a feeling dat you should not go.  I am not
sure——"

"But I don’t understand——"

"Nor I, _mon_ Jeem," she laughed.  "’Ave I not tol’ you de _vrai gamine_
’ave secon’ sight?  Forgive me.  You t’ink I am foolish.  But it is ’ere
in my ’eart——"

"You do not want me to go to her, Piquette?" he asked.

"Yes.  To ’er, _mon_ Jeem.  _C’est bien_.  Is it not for dat which I
come?"

She hesitated for another long moment, Jim watching her, and then raised
her head like some wild creature sniffing at the breeze.

"_Allons_!" she said.  "We shall go now."

He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further
protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a
moment.  The _loge_ was dark and the gate was open.  This was unusual,
but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty
daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood.  Two men were
chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own
affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the
building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so
suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever
known.  Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of
his overcoat.  They met no one.  A light showed beyond a transom on the
second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound
of a voice softly singing.  There was no other studio-apartment on the
third floor but Moira’s, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe,
peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would
proclaim occupancy.  But they could see no light but the reflection of
the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and
outlined the rail and baluster.

"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself
seemed no more than a whisper.

"I can’t see any yet," muttered Jim.  And then, as his head came in line
with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed.

"Ah!  _Elle est là_," she gasped, falling into her native tongue
unconsciously.

Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply.
He knocked more loudly.  Silence again.  Then he put his hand on the
knob and turned it.  The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering
curiously over his shoulder, and around the room.  The gas-light, turned
low, cast a dim light over the room.  The corners ware bathed in shadow,
and Horton’s gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there.
The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its
canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had
seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty.  With
Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette.  It
was locked and the key was in the door.  It had been fastened from the
studio side.

"That’s curious," muttered Jim.  "She may have gone out for a moment."

"Perhaps," said Piquette.

Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his
companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch.

"We’re a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered.

"I will go down, _mon ami_, and ask when she come back," she ventured.

And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them.  But Jim
Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door.

"I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered.  "Eight
o’clock.  I don’t understand——"

"Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis.  I am afraid——"

She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her
lips.

"Some one is coming," she murmured.  "It is——" she paused, listened, and
then caught him by the arm.  "It is not a woman,—it is a man.  Listen."

He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly.  The
footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor
below creaked heavily.

"A man!  Who?" he muttered.

"It is what I fear’.  We mus’ ’ide—somewhere—quick!"

The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them.  Tiptoeing
over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob.  It yielded
and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that
they could look out.  The man was now climbing up the stair and reached
the landing.  If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they
were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim
Horton’s, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat.  And while
they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and
then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully
behind him.  Jim Horton had felt Piquette’s fingers clutch his arm and
questioned in a whisper.

"What is it, Piquette?"

"Your broder—’Arry," she gasped.

"Impossible.  He’s at camp——"

"I would swear it——"

"In civilian clothes?  He knows better than that."  He laughed gently.
"You’re nervous, Piquette——"

"It’s ’Arry, I tell you," she insisted.  "I am not mistake’——"

"H-m.  It did look like him—but what——?"

"I doan know.  Its strange what I t’ink——"

"But why should Harry come here when Moira sent me——"

"An’ what if she did not send you de _Petit Bleu_?"

"You mean——?"

"I doan know——"

"That Harry sent it?  Why would he want to meet me?" he shrugged.  "But
it’s queer, Piquette.  If he’s here to worry her again I’ll break his
head."

"Sh——," whispered Piquette, calming him.  "She mus’ go wit’ me, _mon
ami_."

He nodded.

"But she isn’t there.  I don’t understand."

"We mus’ wait ’ere."

And so they stood at the door, listening for sounds from below.
Silence.  And then a strange commotion close at hand.

Suddenly Piquette clutched Jim’s arm.

"Jeem!" he heard her whisper in sudden terror.  "What is it?"

He had heard the same thing too, a faint sound, like a cough, followed
by a groan as though some one were struggling for breath.  Another pause
while they listened again.  There was no mistaking it now.  Jim Horton
had heard the same sounds before from the throat of one of the Engineers
who had been horribly gassed.  Another groan, then the impact of a heavy
body falling.


Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw
himself against the studio door. It was locked.  He assaulted it again,
again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into
the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette
close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.

In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man,
quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body.
And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering
gas-jet was that of his brother—Harry.


"_Sainte Vierge_," came from Piquette in an awed tone. "’E ’as kill’
’imself."

But Jim was bending over the body.

"Impossible.  A knife under the arm—in the heart. It’s murder!"

He straightened, keenly alert, and searched the room quickly, weapon in
hand, thoroughly, aware of its possibilities for concealment.  A chair
was overturned but the lay figure, the draperies, the easel were
undisturbed, and the door into the kitchen was locked, _the key on the
outside_, as before.  The thing was unbelievable, and the mystery
deepened as he searched.  Moira was not here—had not been here—he was
sure of it now.  This trap, super-natural it seemed, had been set to
catch Jim Horton and Harry—God knows how or why—Harry had walked into
it.

As Piquette bent over to examine the dead man, Horton hauled her away
quickly.  He had just wits enough left to know how dangerous was his own
position.

"Don’t touch anything—this is a case for the police. Come."

And he led the way down the stairs to the second floor, shouting
incoherently for help, while Piquette, her tongue loosened, now ably
seconded him.  And in a moment, it seemed, the entire household appeared
in the hallway, while people from the court and from the street came
crowding up.

Horton, who knew that there was no possibility of the murderer’s escape
by the window, stood at the stair on the second floor, guarding it,
still bewildered by the mystery, trying to explain while the crowd
surged up and a police officer who had been passing, forced his way
through.  To him Piquette, gathering her courage, explained, telling him
briefly what had happened while they had watched from the room upstairs.
The police officer went up with Horton and Piquette, and entered the
studio, the crowd following to the door, where the policeman commanded
them to stop.  Then while he questioned Piquette he lighted all the
burners and examined the body, then the closet, the windows and with
drawn weapon approached the door to the kitchenette. It was still
locked, the key still in the door.  He turned the key—then locked it
again.

"You say you tried this door when you first—entered the room?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette promptly.  "We thought that Madame Horton
might be inside.  But finding it locked we did not go in."

The policeman drew back muttering.

"Most extraordinary!" he said.  "There is a door from these other rooms
into the hallway outside?"

"Yes."

The policeman pushed a way through the crowd and tried the door from the
outside.  It, too, was locked.

He turned to the crowd.

"No one came out of this door?"

"No one, no one, Monsieur."

"And this other door?" indicating the hall room.

"There was no one there," said a man who seemed much at home.  "One of
us went in when we came up the stair and came out saying it was empty.
Look!  You may see for yourself."  And he threw the door open while the
officer investigated.  He came out more puzzled than ever, rejoining
Horton and Piquette at the door of the studio, summoning the man and one
or two of the others, with Horton and Piquette, as witnesses, taking the
names and addresses carefully.

"This is a case for the _Commissaire_," he said to them. "You will
please wait."




                             *CHAPTER XXII*

                               *MYSTERY*


The sudden extraordinary turn of events and the inexplicable horror of
his brother’s death had so bewildered Jim Horton that he stood awaiting
the arrival of the _Commissaire de Police_ in a kind of stupefaction,
looking down at the huddled form of the man upon the floor, unable to
think with any clearness.  The officer requested him not to move or
touch anything, and Piquette stood beside Jim as though to give him
courage. But the policeman kept an eye on Horton and remained by the
door, watching outside and in as though guarding it against his possible
escape.  Horton noticed this but remained immovable, aware that the
fellow was only doing his duty, and that further explanations must await
the arrival of the _Commissaire_, who had been telephoned for.

The furniture of the studio, each object of which possessed for Jim some
poignant association, seemed strangely familiar, yet unreal.  The
chairs, the rugs, the hangings, had suddenly become merely a background
for the body lying among them, a part of it, linked in a horrible
conspiracy of silence, Moira’s plain furniture, her easel, which still
bore the placid portrait of the indomitable Parisienne who had refused
to be a _froussarde_; the arm chair by the fireplace in which Moira had
sat, the table from which they had supped; the lay figure in its old
costume, felt hat and draperies; the couch by the window; the brass bowl
on the mantel, full of Moira’s brushes—all of them spoke so eloquently
of her.  And Moira....

He frowned as he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  The
knife in his brother’s side had been intended for him.  There was no
doubt of that, and the motive for the crime was obvious....
Quinlevin....  Tricot? Yes.  But how?  His glance passed over the room
again and again, seeking in vain the answer.  His guardian had preferred
to await the arrival of his superior before examining the kitchenette
and bed-rooms, but with the door locked upon the outside there was no
hope that the solution of the mystery would be found there.

Meanwhile, Jim Horton’s mind became slowly impregnated with the
realization of his own position which must become more dubious when he
answered the questions of the _Commissaire_, for answer them he must,
telling the whole of his story if it were necessary, without thought of
consequences to himself or others.  The future became at each moment
more ominous.  Horrible as the thought was, they might even suspect him
of this crime and even if he escaped that disaster, with the publicity
which must follow, the Provost Guard awaited him.  But at his side was
Piquette, who had seen what he had seen and who knew what he knew and he
felt her fingers clasp his with a valiant touch that gave him courage
and assurance.

And in a short while the _Commissaire_ entered, followed by his
secretary, several Agents and newspaper men.  The _Commissaire_,
Monsieur Matthieu, was a man of medium height strongly built, with small
sharp eyes, and reddish hair.  He went about the affair with a
business-like mien, exchanging a few words with the policeman who had
first come, glancing quickly at Horton, Piquette, and the other
witnesses.

"Let no one enter the room," he said in his sharp staccato, when he had
selected his witnesses.  "Let no one leave it."

Then quickly he questioned Horton and Piquette as to their visit and the
exact circumstances of their discovery of the body.  Horton was at a
loss, but Piquette spoke rapidly and in a few moments had given the
_Commissaire_ a complete narration of their experiences from the moment
they had climbed the stairs to the studio of Madame Horton.

"You say that you and this monsieur came to this room by appointment to
meet Madame Horton at eight o’clock?" questioned the _Commissaire_.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"That you came up the stair and as the door was unlocked, you entered
this room, finding it empty?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And the door to the apartment yonder was locked from this side and the
key was in the lock as it is at this moment?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"The rooms beyond, then, have not yet been entered?" he asked of the
policeman who had come up at the first alarm.

"No, _Monsieur le Commissaire_."

"_Bien_.  Then we shall enter at once."

He nodded significantly to the two _Agents_, who took their places by
Jim and Piquette, and with his secretary and the policeman following
him, M. Matthieu unlocked the door into the kitchenette and investigated
the kitchen and bedrooms.

When he reappeared some moments later his face was puzzled.  But he went
to the big studio window and examined the catches.

"These windows you say were also locked?" he asked of Horton suddenly,
in excellent English.

"They were—all of them," said Horton.

"Then you did not know that one of them was open?"

"Open!"  Horton crossed the room eagerly.  "I could have sworn——"

"You observe——?" said the Frenchman, and touching the window, it swung
open noiselessly.

"That’s strange," muttered Horton, "I thought the catch was on.  But
even so," he added, "there was no chance for the murderer to have
escaped there.  As you will see, Monsieur, it is a blank wall of full
three stories in height."

The _Commissaire_ peered out.  There was a broad wooden ledge or sill
just outside, but the ledge led nowhere and he could see that what
Horton had stated was true. It was sixty feet to the flagging of the
court below and a drop meant death or injury to any one who dared
attempt it.  Nor was there any sign of a rope or ladder.

"H-m.  We shall wait for daylight for that.  In the meanwhile——" he
relapsed into silence, gazing about the room with great care, examining
each object and coming at last to the body.

"It has not been touched?" he questioned of the policeman.

"No, Monsieur."

He walked around the corpse dictating quickly to the man with the
note-book and then drew the knife from the wound.  It was a two-edged
affair at least six inches in length, a weapon evidently intended for
just such a deadly business.

"He was struck below the left arm and from behind," Piquette heard him
dictate, "the direction of the weapon in the body indicating without the
possibility of a doubt that the wound was not self-inflicted.  A case of
murder," he finished, looking up at Horton, who had followed his motions
with intense interest.

Then he moved the body so that it lay flat upon the floor, throwing a
pocket light full upon the face, starting back in amazement.


"Monsieur!" he gasped to Horton, and then threw the light suddenly into
Jim Horton’s face.

"Monsieur Horton, did you know——?"

"It is my brother," said Jim quietly.

"_Nom d’un chien_!  I could swear it was yourself."

"My twin brother, Monsieur," repeated Horton.

Monsieur Matthieu’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at Jim. "The case becomes
more interesting.  H-m.  You will now tell me, please, what happened
when you went out of the studio into the hallway."

Horton nodded.

"We thought of going away and returning when Madame Horton, my
sister-in-law, should return."

"The wife of the murdered man?" broke in the _Commissaire_.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Jim.  "As we were about to go down to the court
below we heard the footsteps of some one coming up.  But it was not
Madame Horton.  We knew that by the sounds.  It was a man’s step—so we
withdrew into the little hall room and watched."

"The facts are curious, Monsieur Horton," put in the _Commissaire_ with
sudden interest.  "Why did you wish to conceal yourself from the other
visitors of Madame Horton?"

The question was pertinent and there could be no evading a reply.  So
Jim told briefly of Quinlevin, Moira and Harry and his unfriendly
relationship with his brother.  As he did so he heard the gasps and
whisperings among the listeners which gave him an unpleasant realization
of their conception of the affair.  And the testimony of Piquette, who
grew angry at the sounds from the auditors, did nothing to improve his
situation.

"I see, Monsieur," said M. Matthieu sagely.  "It is wise that you see
fit to tell us the truth now since it must all come out later.  There
was bad blood between you and your brother and between you and Monsieur
Quinlevin—so that you feared a plot in the _Petit Bleu_ which meant to
do you violence?"

"Not when I received the message, Monsieur.  I came here with Madame
Morin in good faith to try and help Madame Horton—to take her away from
a situation in which she was most unhappy."

"And your relations with your sister-in-law?" asked the _Commissaire_.

Horton flushed angrily, but he realized that the man was within his
rights.  As Piquette cried excitedly, "Madame ’Orton was on’appy wit’
’er ’usband, Monsieur——"

"Madame Horton and I were the best of friends——" broke in Jim quietly.

"Evidently," said M. Matthieu dryly.

The changed manner of Monsieur Matthieu, his sudden air of intense
interest in Jim himself, and the keen appraisal in his eyes did not
augur well for the result of the investigation.

"You will please go on with the rest of the story, Monsieur," he added,
and then with a glance at Piquette, "And you, Madame, will be pleased to
remain silent until I question you.  You say that you realized that the
visitor coming up the stair was a man and that you and Madame withdrew
in the darkness into the little hall-room and waited?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And you both saw the man come up the stairs to the studio door.  What
happened then?"

"He turned the knob and entered."

"Had you recognized him as your brother at that time?"

"I hadn’t.  I thought that my brother had joined his regiment."

"Ah—a soldier!  And do you know why he is here in civilian’s clothes?"

"I do not."

"Did Madame Morin recognize him?"

"Yes.  But I didn’t believe it was he—even then."

Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged.  "And you didn’t realize how much
alike you were in your dark overcoats and soft hats?"

"No."

"And after your brother went in at the studio door, how long did you and
Madame wait in the hall room?"

"I don’t know exactly—a matter of four or five minutes, when we heard
sounds in the studio and the falling of a body."

"And you rushed out to the studio door and went in?" asked the
_Commissaire_ craftily.

"The door was locked," said Jim.  "I put my shoulder against it and
broke it in."

"Ah.  You broke it in?  How long did that take?"

"Perhaps half a minute."

"And when you entered the room, Madame was with you?"

"Yes—just behin’ heem," broke in Piquette eagerly.

M. Matthieu glanced at Piquette with a frown which silenced her.

"And what did you see, Monsieur?"

"What you saw, Monsieur—my brother lying there—the chair upset—but no
sign of any one in the room.  It was very mystifying."

"Yes, it must have been," dryly, "miraculous, in fact. And then what did
you do?"

"I examined the room thoroughly—I was bewildered, Monsieur.  I couldn’t
understand any more than you can, because the only door by which the
murderer could have escaped I found to be locked—as you found it,
Monsieur."

"Most extraordinary!  And what is your theory as to the escape of the
murderer?"

"I haven’t any.  The more I think, the more astounding it seems.  I
couldn’t believe, unless I had seen all these things with my own eyes."

"And you, Madame?" he asked at last in French, turning to Piquette.

"What Monsieur tells is the truth, _Monsieur le Commissaire_.  I swear."

Monsieur Matthieu laughed.

"Come now.  What you two ask me to think is beyond belief.  I come to
this room and find a man murdered by a dastardly blow dealt by a man of
great muscular force."  Here he ran a careless glance up and down Jim
Horton’s long figure.  "The only door by which he could have escaped is
locked, exit by the window is impossible, and you and Madame guard the
stairs until the crowd gathers. Do you think you will get me to believe
that the murderer flew up the chimney?"

"I don’t ask you to believe anything," said Jim, trying to keep his
nerve.

"But I must believe the evidence of my observation. There is no way in
which the man could have passed you on the stair?"

"None," said Jim helplessly, "until I came up with the policeman no one
went down."

"That is true," added Piquette.  "Monsieur ’Orton was armed.  No one
could have passed him."

Here the _Commissaire_ was puzzled, for what had seemed clearer a moment
ago was lost in the frankness of this confession.

"Where are the other witnesses in the case?" he asked of the policeman.

"Here, Monsieur," indicating one of the men he had detained.  "This man
was in the hall with the crowd. These others too are willing to
testify."

The secretary took the witness’s name, Paul Joubert, his address, and M.
Matthieu questioned him.

"You have heard the testimony of Monsieur Horton?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"It is true?"

"In every particular.  I and these others," indicating the men beside
him, "came up the stairs to the landing and entered the studio."

"How many were there in the crowd?"

"Eight—ten—a dozen," he replied, while the others confirmed him.

"Did you know them all?"

"Ah no, Monsieur.  I live in the Court at the rear. Some of them were
strangers who ran in from the street."

"There was no one in the upper hall?"

"No one."

"And in the hall-room?"

"One of the men who had rushed up examined the room and said it was
empty.  I went in myself also and saw that this was so."

"Is the man who first went into the hall-room here?"

"No, _Monsieur le Commissaire_.  I do not recognize him, the light from
the doorway was dim and——"

"All right," said Matthieu.  "No matter."

And then,

"And the other door from the apartment to the hallway remained locked
all the time?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur.  No one came out of there.  We tried it many times."

"H-m.  And you have no theory as to how any one could have escaped from
the room under the circumstances?"

"No, Monsieur.  It is nothing less than a miracle."

The other witnesses shook their heads in confirmation of the testimony.

"That will do, Monsieur Joubert."  And then turning to Horton.  "Now,
Monsieur Horton, what did you think when you found the body of your
brother, when you had positive proof that unless the murderer had jumped
from the window to death, he must at that moment have been in the room?"

Horton had courage but he couldn’t deceive himself as to the intent of
the question.  The cord was tightening. He felt it in the looks of those
around him, in the frightened breathing of Piquette and in the steady
gaze of his questioner, which he met with more and more difficulty. But
he managed to answer calmly.

"Think!  Why, I couldn’t think, Monsieur.  I was bewildered, dazed,
stupefied with astonishment and horror."

"But you must give me credit for some intelligence," protested the
_Commissaire_.  "Since the murderer couldn’t have gone out of the door
while you say you were breaking in, he must have been in the room all
the while."

"There was no one in the room.  I searched it."

"That is true," almost screamed Piquette in her excitement.  "I was wit’
’im.  There was no one."

"Quietly, Madame," said M. Matthieu reprovingly. And then, "Monsieur
Horton, when you searched the room, what did you do?"

"What _you_ would have done, Monsieur—I rushed down the stair and gave
the alarm, watching the stair and waiting for the police.  I am as
mystified as you.  If I could tell you any more I would do so."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eye-glasses thoughtfully and it was a long
time before he spoke.  And then,

"Where is Madame Horton?"

"I don’t know."

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"I don’t know."

"You have no means of helping me to find them?"

"If I had I would tell you."

A pause.  And then the _Commissaire_ cleared his throat in an important
manner.

"I have a feeling that you are keeping something back, Monsieur Horton.
I warn you that you will not make things easy for yourself in making
them difficult for me."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Jim, sure that his position and
Piquette’s had now grown desperate.

"Merely, Monsieur," said the _Commissaire_ with a glance at the dead
man, "that blows such as this are not struck by spiritual agencies, that
when there is a murdered man there must also be a murderer.  Your
testimony and that of Madame Morin agree, but then I cannot neglect the
possibility that you may have some object in agreeing."

"You believe that I——" Horton broke in in horror.

"I believe nothing until it is definitely proved.  I admit that there
are many phases of this case which seem favorable to a belief in your
story.  But there are also some points which from your testimony seem to
be—er—incredible. We do not live in an age of miracles.  Murders are not
committed by spirits who vanish.  There was bad blood between you and
your brother.  You yourself have admitted it.  Madame Morin had a
suspicion when he came up the stair that the _Petit Bleu_ you received
was a trap intended for you——"

"Which my brother fell into," said Horton, in a last desperate effort to
clear himself.  "Why, Monsieur, you yourself can see how like we are.
The blow was intended for me——"

"You are fortunate, Monsieur," said the _Commissaire_, with a shrug.
"And you will have every chance to prove your innocence.  But I cannot
take the grave responsibility of liberating you.  The case must go to
the _Prefet_ and will be heard in its entirety, including the many
details which have been suggested as to Madame Horton and Monsieur
Quinlevin.  I am only sent here to investigate the case in its physical
aspects.  And the result of the investigation is to place you and Madame
Morin under arrest."

Horton straightened and glanced around at the others in the room.  They
had ceased to have personalities. They looked like wax images—staring at
him in wonder, in curiosity, as though he were already condemned.  From
them his glance found Piquette.  Her face was white and she was staring
at the _Commissaire_ as though she could not believe the evidence of her
ears.

"Why, Monsieur, have we not told you——?" he heard her begin, when the
officer silenced her.

"You will have every opportunity to testify to-morrow, Madame."

She sent one glance at him, the _gamine_ in her terrified at the Law as
represented in the man before her, and then bewildered, rushed to Jim
and caught him by the hand.

"Courage, _mon ami_," she gasped.  "You ’ave on’y to speak de truth."

"I’m not frightened," he said, "but you, Piquette—a prison——"

"It’s not’ing——" she said bravely, but he saw that she was on the point
of breaking.

"And now," broke in the _Commissaire_, who had watched this byplay with
some interest, "I am sorry that we must be off.  Come."

And giving some instructions as to the witnesses to one of the _Agents
de police_ who had accompanied him, and taking the revolver which Horton
silently offered him, he led the way down the stair, with Piquette and
Horton following, policemen at their elbows.

A great crowd had assembled in the street and courtyard below.  Horton
caught a glimpse of the white cap and whiter face of Madame Toupin at
the door of her _loge_, and then was hurried by a policeman into a
carriage which was awaiting them.  He saw poor Piquette put into another
one and they drove off in the direction of the _Prefecture de Police_,
where he was shown without ceremony into a cell alone to await a further
investigation upon the morrow.

He sank down upon the cot, buried his head in his hands and tried to
think.

Quinlevin was at the bottom of this—Quinlevin—Tricot. One of them had
done this dastardly thing, believing to save their skins and thinking
that they were killing him.  But how had the murderer gotten away?  How?
How?




                            *CHAPTER XXIII*

                                *ESCAPE*


The events in the Hôtel de Paris at Nice, the revelation in Monsieur de
Vautrin’s rooms, the confession of Piquette Morin and the startling
events that immediately followed it were all bewildering.  From
affection for Quinlevin, Moira had passed through the stages of
incredulity, doubt, and reassurance, and then at Nora’s downfall, dismay
at her own position, and after Quinlevin’s brutal treatment of her,
aversion and terror. When he turned the key of her door and went with
Piquette into his own room, she threw herself into her chair, aware of
her dependence upon him, and yet ready to run away and throw herself
upon the mercy of the first stranger that she could find.  But the
sounds that came from behind the closed door fascinated her, the murmur
of conversation rising and falling, and then the strange noises, heard
indistinctly yet frightful in their significance.  The silence that
followed, still more suggestive. She shrank upon her bed in terror,
shutting her ears with her fingers.  Then the renewal of the commotion,
as she raised her hands, her terror inquisitive for the worst—the sound
of blows, the grunts of men in struggle, and then the falling of a body.

Tricot and Quinlevin—they were killing each other.... That was the chief
thought in her mind—that and the imperative need of escape.  She got up,
trembling, and went to the door, shooting the brass bolt, then turned,
catching up her coat and gloves.  The door into the corridor was locked
but she could still go out through Nora’s room.  She tried the other
door, but found it locked on the outside.  She called Nora softly, then
more loudly, and heard the woman answer.  Presently, by dint of wild
persuasion, she prevailed upon her old nurse to open the door.  Nora was
red of face, disheveled, and bewildered.

"What is it ye want, alanah?"

"I must go—you must go with me," she stammered.

"For why?  Isn’t it enough I’ve been through this day widout——"

But Moira pushed her way past the woman.

"Something dreadful has happened—in there," she stammered, her face
white, "I can’t stay——"

"What then——"

"A fight—Mr. Quinlevin and Tricot——"

The woman tried to restrain her but Moira flung herself away and
unlocked the door.

"Ye’ll not be lavin’ me here alone," gasped Nora.

"Come then.  Quickly."

And she fled out into the corridor, the woman following, down the
stairway and into the night....  The memory of those dreadful hours of
wandering with Nora along the roads was like a dream in a fever, but
after awhile the physical exercise made her more calm and she was able
to explain to the frightened Irish woman what had happened.

Her first impulse had been to flee from it all—to escape anywhere—but
without money where should she go?  With the return of reason came
courage.  And with courage a resolve to go back and do what she could
for Piquette Morin.  They would not have dared to kill her.  It was
impossible.  An impulse to tell the people of the hotel what had
happened came to her again, but as she turned toward the gardens,
followed heavily by the frightened Nora, she resolved to go upstairs and
face whatever was in store for her.

What she found was rather terrifying at first, but when she summoned
nerve enough to turn on the light, she saw two swaddled figures
squirming to be free.  Madame Morin had vanished.  With the help of
Nora, who came out of her state of coma when the facts were made
obvious, she liberated the two men and questioned eagerly.

"W-why didn’t you—come before?" was Quinlevin’s reply.  He was not
pleasant to look at.

"I was frightened at the sounds.  I ran away.  What has happened?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" mumbled the Irishman, spitting out a fragment of the
cotton towel from his dry throat.

"Jim Horton!" gasped Moira.

"The same—damn him."

"And Madame?"

"Need you guess?" he sneered.  "They’re well on the road to Paris by
now."

"Thank God," said Moira fervently.

He glanced at her but said nothing.  His feelings were too deep for
words.

                     *      *      *      *      *

But the day following, Moira was to learn her dependence upon him.  He
took little pains to conceal the change of his feelings towards her, the
suddenness of which proclaimed only too insistently the fact that his
years of kindness were only the device Jim Horton had proved them to be.
On the way back to Paris he was for the most part silent and morose,
remaining much of the time with the abominable Tricot, leaving Moira to
the tender mercies of her old nurse, who now shared with her the
Irishman’s displeasure.  It was indeed a sisterhood of consolation and
she saw that with the failure of the great plan, Nora was much chastened
by her experience, for she sat and wailed in a most discomfiting manner,
confessing at last her share in the conspiracy and throwing herself upon
Moira’s mercy.

Moira was sorry for the woman who had brought her safely through her
baby diseases and acted as guide, counselor and friend until it was time
for her to go away to boarding school.  And so, mingled with the
contempt that Moira felt for her, there was a little pity too, and a
leaven of the old affection.  In those moments of rapprochement and
confession, Moira learned in astonishment the secret of her birth.  Jim
Horton had not been mistaken.  She was not the daughter of Barry
Quinlevin, but his niece, posthumous daughter of his younger brother,
whose widow had died in childbirth.  Barry Quinlevin’s own wife, an
invalid and bedridden, had acquiesced in the plan of adopting the
daughter of her sister-in-law, but had not known in the few years before
her own death of the deception that was to be practiced upon Monsieur de
Vautrin.  The community in which the families lived was sparsely
settled, the neighbors ignorant and illiterate.  If Monsieur de Vautrin
had taken pains to make inquiries at this time he must surely have
discovered the ruse, but he had apparently taken all things told him for
granted, or was too enwrapped in his own selfish pursuits to give the
case attention.  So long as he was left to the enjoyment of his fortune
by the paying of the tribute Quinlevin demanded, he was satisfied.  And
so Quinlevin managed things in his own way, paying Nora for her silence
and keeping Moira in ignorance as to the source of their income.

If Quinlevin guessed the nature of the conversation that passed between
the two women upon the train he gave no sign of it, but when they
reached Paris and returned to the studio, he seemed to experience a
change of heart toward Moira, did what he could to restore the breach in
their old relations, admitting the truth of Nora’s confession and
shrugging off his failure as a matter that was ended.  Apparently taking
Moira’s forgiveness for granted, he treated her, in their new relation
of uncle and niece, with marked consideration, and planned in his
grandiose way for the future.  He seemed to have plenty of money and
spent it upon her generously, but he did not leave her for a moment.
And when he proposed a trip to Fontainebleau, a spot which in former
years she had loved to visit, he asked her to accompany him.  Her
reasons for acquiescence were logical enough.  Until she decided upon a
definite plan of separation from him, she thought it wisest to assume an
attitude of forbearance. She wanted to go away somewhere where she could
think and she wanted to hide herself where Jim Horton couldn’t find her.
For she was sure that he would not be content to let their affair remain
as she had desired it.  He would come pleading with her and then—God
knows what she would do.  Alone, helpless—she was afraid—of herself.

The little inn in the Forest where they stopped was not far from the
house of some friends of Moira’s, and thither if the opportunity
offered, she could go for sanctuary. But here again she felt the
constant supervision of her indomitable foster-father and uncle.  He
recovered some of his old spirits and his old affection as he seemed to
be trying to obliterate from her memory the last few weeks which had
been so disastrous to them both.  But she accepted these marks of his
regeneration with reserve, enjoying the rest and recuperation and trying
her best to forget the man she loved, praying for strength and guidance
and planning the struggle for existence which must begin when this brief
interlude came to an end.  And so in a few days she lulled him into a
sense of security and convinced him of her spirit of resignation.

She wandered off alone into the forest, and sometimes did not see him
for hours at a time, but she did not attempt escape.  She was thinking
deeply.  She was still afraid that an escape from Quinlevin meant the
other—the greater danger to her soul.

It was upon her return from one of her solitary pilgrimages through the
dripping woods (for the early morn had been foggy), that she learned
that Barry Quinlevin was still in bed.  She smiled as she thought how
easily her acquiescence had disarmed him.  But when she sent up a
message that she had returned he sent down word that he would join her
at _déjeuner_.  Something of the old attraction toward him still
remained in spite of her knowledge of his villainy.  She had not yet
been able to obliterate from her mind the many years of his
encouragement in her work, his gentleness and the many marks of
affection.  In his strange way he loved her, and the fact that she now
felt contempt for him did not disguise the fact that she felt a little
pity too.  But she knew that she must decide very soon what she would
do.  There were so many years to set in the balance against the present.
Rogue?  Yes.  But full of consideration and a lively appreciation of the
creature that he had made her.  To cut him out of her life—root and
branch—much as she had learned to despise him, was not easy.  But she
must do it—for her own self-respect—to-morrow—the next day....

As she thought of her problems she sank into an arm chair by the fire
and picked up a copy of a morning paper, which a new visitor had just
brought in from the city.  It was part of Moira’s purpose in hiding
herself from the world to hide also the world from herself.  But she
picked up the _Matin_ and in a moment was absorbed in the account of the
projected Peace Conference.

But as she turned the page, her glance fell upon a familiar name—many
familiar names, and in a moment, her eyes starting from her head, she
read the dreadful headlines:

                  "MURDER IN A STUDIO IN THE QUARTIER.
              Captain Horton, U.S.A., killed under strange
                            circumstances."


Then the news which followed, describing briefly (for space was
valuable) the known facts regarding the mystery, the arrest of an
American, James Horton, and a French woman, Piquette Morin, pending a
further investigation of the mysterious crime.  Apparently all the facts
in the possession of the police were given, which, unless some other
details of the mystery were discovered, pointed the finger of suspicion
at the American, who was the twin brother of the dead man.

Moira read with growing horror the familiar address, the names of Madame
Toupin and the other tenants, her own name and Barry Quinlevin’s, whose
absence had added to the mystery.  The type danced before her eyes like
the shifting colors in a kaleidoscope and then became merged and
incomprehensible.  Was she dreaming?  With an effort, she focused again
upon the damnable page, aware of this new crisis that had sought her out
from the depths of her retreat.

Harry—dead——! murdered——!  What had he been doing at the studio?  There
must be some mistake.  Harry was at camp a hundred miles away—And
Jim—Jim Horton—his murderer.  The thing was impossible!...

She got up, paper in hand, and scarcely aware of what she was doing,
went to her room and quickly put on her hat and coat, coming down stairs
a few moments later and taking the road in the direction of the Railroad
Station.  She had no definite plan except to escape her uncle and get to
Paris as quickly as possible.  But she was aware that some instinct was
guiding her.  She inquired of the Station Agent when the Paris train was
due.  She was lucky.  There would be a train in half an hour.  She
bought a ticket out of the slender means in her possession and waited,
going over and over in her mind the terrible phrases which seemed
already to have burned themselves indelibly upon her memory.  The motive
for the crime? There seemed to be none—"except that the two brothers had
not been friendly."  Motive!  Harry—her husband—and Jim——!  Holy Virgin!
She leaned against a tree by the roadside and wordlessly prayed.  Not
that motive—not that!  And Jim Horton—whatever the things he had
suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through _her_,
he was not the man who could have done this thing.  When she raised her
head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was on her lips, a
new smile of confidence and faith.  She had tried him. She knew the kind
of man he was.  He could fight, in the open, as a brave man should, but
not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his own brother in the
dark.

When the train came in she was calm again and resolved. Whatever skill,
whatever intelligence she had, was to be dedicated to solving this
mystery, and clearing Jim Horton of all complicity in the murder.  Her
name was mentioned.  The police required her presence.  She would go to
them and tell her whole story, neglecting nothing, whatever it cost her.

She stared at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing.  But there
was a frown at her brows and her lips were drawn together in a firm
line.  She was beginning to see with an inner vision, to turn over one
by one the events of the last few weeks and the motives of all those
concerned in them.  The police did not know who had committed this crime
if Jim Horton were innocent. The circumstances were such as to preclude
the possibility of any one escaping from the room.  _And yet some one
must have been there and some one, somehow, must have escaped_.

Out of her own knowledge emerged a motive for a murder—not of Harry, but
of his brother—a motive that had already been the cause of two abortive
attempts upon his life.  Somehow this thought emerged with photographic
distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment more definite and
more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps two lives, one of
them Jim Horton’s, hung upon the keenness of her vision and
intelligence.  If Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire_, whose name had
been given in the _Matin_, was balked in getting at the truth, she would
help him.  There were many things he did not know, many things that she
could tell him, such as would perhaps open new vistas for investigation.

Quite calmly now she took out the paper and re-read the details, her
imagination catching at neglected clues, her instinct groping, and her
horror grew—not at the thought of Jim in his prison, but of other
suspicions that rose from every known fact and confronted her—pointing
accusing fingers.

She passed between the white columns of the entrance to the Palais de
Justice, through the iron and gilt barrier and then paused, but not in
any fear, for her mind was made up and her courage had come back to her
with a rush that put to shame her days of uncertainty.  So she
approached one of the palace guards and asked to be shown to the office
of the _Prefet_.  The _Prefet_, she was informed, was not in the
building.  Would any one else do? Was it upon a matter connected with
the administration of justice?  She replied promptly that she came upon
a matter in connection with the murder mystery in the studio at No. 7
Rue de Tavennes and the man pricked up his ears, conducting her promptly
up a long flight of stone steps to the left, where he told her she would
find the _Juge d’Instruction_.  And when in reply to his question as to
what name he should announce, she told him that she was Madame Horton,
his interest and activity were intense.  With a word to the _greffier_
who stood near, he disappeared through a door and in a moment returned
with two gentlemen who hurried forward to meet her, introducing
themselves as Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d’Instruction_, who had taken
charge of the investigation, and Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire de
Police_ for the District in which the crime had been committed.

She followed them through the door from which they had emerged and
answering their questions told her story without hesitation, from the
moment of her visit to Jim Horton at the hospital at Neuilly until she
had read in the morning paper of the crime.

"I came, Messieurs, because it was my duty to aid you in clearing up
this mystery, and because I know that whatever the evidence you hold
against him, Monsieur Horton could never have been guilty of this
crime."

Monsieur Simon wagged his head sagely and plucked with slender white
fingers at his dark beard.

"We are greatly indebted to you, Madame.  Our agents have been looking
for you.  No doubt they would have found you in time, but it was wiser
for you to come—much wiser.  Your story is interesting and may do much
to help Monsieur Matthieu in his investigation, but——"

"But you must admit, Madame," broke in the practical _Commissaire_, who
had a reputation at stake, "that instead of tending to clear Monsieur
Horton of suspicion, you have only added one more thread to the net that
already enmeshes him."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?"

"His love for you—his dislike for your husband——"

Moira flushed painfully.  "I have told you the truth of this matter
because I believe that only by knowing the whole truth will you be able
to solve this mystery.  If Monsieur Horton tells you that the studio was
empty, he tells you what he believes to be the truth.  Why, otherwise,
would he lie about a situation which must surely condemn him?"

"We have thought of all that, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "and I am
willing to admit that there are several points in his testimony which
are very puzzling.  We have only finished his examination and that of
Madame Morin, which have lasted the greater part of the morning.  Both
he and Madame Morin have repeated without the slightest divergence the
testimony taken in the preliminary examination at the scene of the
crime.  I am glad to say also that their statements confirm in a general
way your own in regard to what has happened in the affair of the Duc de
Vautrin.  The entire department of Police is now upon a search for
Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and the man named Tricot, who will, of course,
be given the opportunity to explain where they were last night at eight
o’clock.  An agent goes at once to Fontainebleau.  But that does not
exonerate Monsieur Horton or Madame Morin.  A man has been killed in a
room from which the murderer could not have emerged without detection.
The door to the sleeping apartments was locked, the key on the outside,
the window was sixty feet from the stone flagging below.  The window and
wall were carefully studied this morning after daybreak.  The murderer
could not have climbed down.  It is impossible. Monsieur Horton admits
that he did not escape by the stair.  How then did he escape?  The doors
have been guarded.  He is not there now nor did Monsieur Horton discover
him either before or after the murder——"

"And yet he was there, Monsieur Simon——" said Moira, her voice gathering
strength and clearness from the depth of her faith and conviction.  "He
was there, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," she repeated, "all the time.
Nothing else is possible."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eyeglasses upon the palm of his hand.

"I should be very willing to believe you, Madame," he said, with polite
scepticism, "had I not ocular demonstration that there could have been
no one in the room at any moment between the arrival of Monsieur Horton
and Madame Morin and the alarm given by Monsieur Horton himself.  I have
not yet exhausted every avenue of investigation, but I need not conceal
from you the extreme danger of the position in which Monsieur Horton
finds himself.  We have a motive for the crime.  Even you, Madame, have
only added testimony as to that.  With his brother dead, there was no
obstacle to your unfortunate affection——"

"Monsieur——!"  Moira had drawn back from him in dismay, her face
blanched again.

"If I seem cruel, I only speak with the cold logic of the professional
analyst of human motives.  The fact that you are a Catholic and opposed
to divorce only provides another reason why your husband should be
removed from the path of Monsieur Horton——"

Everything that Moira had said seemed to be weaving more tightly the
skein of evidence around the man she loved.  And this thinking machine
in the eyeglasses, grasped only at the threads that seemed to
incriminate him.  And what of the other evidence that she had
presented—would they disregard that?  She was trying to think clearly,
connectedly, and presently managed to put her thoughts into words.

"Have you discovered how or why Monsieur Jim Horton happened to be at
the studio and why if he was bent upon the murder of his own brother he
took Madame Morin as a witness——"

"Or accessory——" put in Monsieur Matthieu sharply.

"That is absurd——" broke in Moira with some spirit, "and you know it."

Monsieur Simon nodded approval.

"I am glad you have made that point, Madame.  It is our trade to make
our witnesses uncomfortable that they may controvert themselves.  But
you have probed quite straight.  And instead of answering your question,
permit me to ask you another.  Did you send a _Petit Bleu_ to Monsieur
Horton requesting him to come to your studio last night at eight
o’clock?"

The expression upon Moira’s face showed so genuine an astonishment that
there could be no doubting the sincerity of her reply.

"I?  No, Monsieur Simon.  I was at Fontainebleau. Why should I ask him
to come to the studio when I was not there?"

The two men exchanged glances of new interest.

"Both Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin testify that Monsieur Horton
received such a message."

Moira started forward in her chair.

"What did that message say, Messieurs?"

Monsieur Simon took the blue slip from a packet of papers and laid it
before her.  With eyes dilated, she read the message that was signed
with her name.  Then for a moment frowned deeply, staring at this
confirmation of her suspicion.

"What do you think, Madame?" asked Simon.

Moira was silent for a moment, struggling for the mastery of her
emotions.  And then in a suppressed tone, barely audible,

"It is as I supposed, Messieurs.  Monsieur Jim Horton was lured to the
studio by this message and—my husband—was killed by mistake in his
stead."

"By whom, Madame?" asked the Judge quickly.

Moira made a nervous gesture of recantation.

"I—I do not know.  It is horrible to suspect without further proof.  I—I
cannot say."

"Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"That’s impossible.  He was at Fontainebleau."

"Then who——?"

"That’s for you to find out.  I did not come to accuse—but to liberate.
Search!  Find!  Let their own words convict them," she said wildly.  "I
cannot.  I only know that Monsieur Horton did not kill my husband.  That
is impossible."

Monsieur Matthieu, who had listened for most of the while in silence,
now rose and took a pace or two before her, tapping his glasses quickly
against his palm.

"Madame Horton, let us confine ourselves to the physical evidence that
confronts us.  _No one could have been in that studio between the moment
when Monsieur Jim Horton and Madame Morin say they left it until they
say they returned some moments later_.  That is the fact. I know.  It is
my business to neglect nothing.  I _have_ neglected nothing.  Therefore
I tell you that no matter whom you suspect to have committed this
murder, no matter whom Monsieur Simon or I might believe to have had a
motive in committing it, the fact remains that he could not have entered
the studio or departed from it during the short period in which this
crime was committed.  And I say to you now that _no human being except
Monsieur Horton could have been present to commit this murder_."

"And yet," said Moira desperately, "a human being other than Monsieur
Horton killed my husband."

Monsieur Matthieu shrugged and smiled.

"You have not investigated as I have done, Madame," he said.

"No, Monsieur.  But I am right," she said firmly.

"You are persistent."

"It is my duty to find the truth of this matter."

"And mine—but not to achieve the impossible——"

Monsieur Simon, whose nervous fingers had been caressing his dark beard,
while his small deep-set eyes followed the changing emotions in Moira’s
troubled face, now broke into the discussion with some spirit.

"It is not safe, _Monsieur le Commissaire_, to disregard the intuitions
of a woman.  In this case, since we have weighed all immediate evidence,
perhaps it would be wise to give Madame Horton the opportunity of
confirming to her own satisfaction the results of your investigation."

Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged again.

"_Volontiers_, Monsieur, if you think it worth while."

"At least it can do no harm.  Madame Horton is familiar with her own
studio.  Perhaps she may notice something that has escaped your eye."

"As you please."

"It is that which you desire, Madame?" asked the Judge.

"Oh, thanks, Monsieur," uttered Moira gratefully.  "I could not be
satisfied, even after the skill of _Monsieur le Commissaire_, unless I
had probed this mystery with my own eyes."

"Come, then, Madame.  There is still time.  We shall go at once."




                             *CHAPTER XXIV*

                               *THE CLUE*


The body of Harry Horton had been removed from the studio and this it
seemed made Moira’s task less painful.  But she was now armed with a
desperate courage which even the sight of Harry’s mangled body would not
have dismayed.  And the thought that her keenness of perception, her
intelligence, her woman’s instinct were the only weapons she had with
which to combat the scepticism of this skillful detective and save Jim
Horton from the perils of impending indictment for murder, gave her a
sense of responsibility which keyed her faculties to their utmost and
drove from her heart all terrors of her situation.  She _must_ succeed
where Monsieur Matthieu had failed.  Instinct would guide her, instinct
and faith.  Monsieur Matthieu, if not her enemy, was prejudiced in favor
of a pre-conceived idea which every bit of evidence justified, and yet
there must be other evidence—clues neglected, trifles overlooked—and she
must find them out.

The burden of the testimony against Jim Horton would fall if she could
prove it physically possible _for some one to have been in the studio
while Jim Horton and Piquette had waited outside_.  This was her
object—nothing else seemed to matter.

On the way to the Rue de Tavennes in a cab Monsieur Simon replied
politely to her questions, giving her all the information she desired,
while Monsieur Matthieu sat opposite.  How she hated the man!  His smile
patronized, his reddish hair inflamed her.  She could see that in his
mind Jim Horton was already convicted.  But when they reached the _porte
cochère_ of Madame Toupin, Monsieur Simon handed her gravely down and
Monsieur Matthieu led the way up the stair to the studio where a
policeman was still on guard.  Moira followed the _Commissaire_ closely
and stood for a moment on the threshold of the room while Monsieur
Matthieu unbent enough to show her where the body lay and to indicate
the locked door and the chair which had been overturned.  To Moira these
matters were already unimportant, since she saw no reason to deny the
testimony of the many witnesses on these points.  She entered the room
slowly, with a feeling of some awe, and for a moment stood by the
fireplace, glancing from one object to the other, thinking deeply.  A
dark stain on the rug, just before her, gave her a tremor, but she
recovered herself immediately and walked slowly around the room,
examining each object as though she had never seen it before.

"Does Madame wish to look in the apartment or the kitchenette?" she
heard Monsieur Matthieu’s voice asking.

But she shook her head.  The answer to the mystery lay here—in this very
room.  She was already satisfied as to that.

"Is this room in the precise condition in which it was found when the
police first arrived?" she asked coolly.

"Yes, Madame, except for the removal of the body, nothing has been
disturbed."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am, Madame.  It is for this reason that a policeman has been always
on guard."

"And you yourself, Monsieur,—you have moved no object—no drapery—no
chair?"

"No, Madame.  Nothing.  I climbed upon the couch to look out of the
window.  That is all."

She nodded and passed around the lay figure which she was regarding with
a new interest.

"And the gray drapery on the shoulder of the lay figure—you say it has
not been touched?"

Monsieur Matthieu looked up with a smile.

"I examined the figure carefully, Madame.  I may have raised the
drapery—but I restored it as I found it."

"Then things are not precisely as they were," she said keenly.

"No, Madame.  Not the gray drapery," said Matthieu amusedly.

"You did not touch the bolero jacket?"

"No, Madame."

"Nor the skirt?"

"I am quite sure of that," said the _Commissaire_.

She removed the hat from the head of _papier maché_ and examined it
minutely, then took off the head itself and stared into the painted eyes
as though asking the mute familiar lips a question.  And then suddenly,
as the _Commissaire_ and Monsieur Simon watched curiously,

"It is a pity that you moved the draperies, Monsieur Matthieu," she said
slowly.

"Why, Madame?"

"Because you have disturbed the dust."

"I can’t understand why——"

"I was away for a week.  Some dust would have accumulated, upon the
draperies—the figure has been touched.  It is not as I left it."

"Of course, Madame, I made a thorough investigation——"

"And what did you learn from it?" she asked quietly.

Monsieur Matthieu glanced at her once and then shrugged.

"Nothing, Madame.  A lay figure is a lay figure."

"True," said Moira carelessly, but the _Commissaire_ found himself
regarding her with a new appraising eye. What did she mean by this
question?

But she moved past him quickly as though with a definite purpose, and
approached the north window.

"Which of these sashes was unlocked, Monsieur?"

"The one to the right, Madame."

"I see.  You say it was closed but not fastened?"

"That is correct."

"That is strange."

"Why, Madame?"

"Because I fastened it with great care before I left for Fontainebleau."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive.  It has an awkward catch.  You see?"

And she demonstrated how easily it came unlatched unless pressed firmly
down.

Monsieur Matthieu came forward smiling.

"You only indicate, Madame, that it will slip easily out of place."

Moira met his gaze firmly.

"Try to make it slip, Monsieur," she said, "since I have fastened it."

He tried by tapping—by shaking the window, but the catch held.

"It is a matter of little moment," he muttered, "since it would be
impossible for the murderer to have escaped by this way."

"Perhaps," said Moira.

But while she spoke she unlocked the catch, then slipped it insecurely
into place and stood aside, studying it keenly.

"What is it that interests you, Madame?" asked the _Juge d’Instruction_.

"The catch, Monsieur," she replied quietly.  "It is an old one.  The
edges are worn quite smooth."  And just then as a breeze came from
without, the French window swung gently open.

Monsieur Matthieu started back a pace and glanced at Monsieur Simon.

"You found this window open, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," said the Judge.

"That is true," replied the _Commissaire_ confidently, "but it is
possible that Monsieur Horton may have disturbed it when he examined it
before the murder."

Moira turned quickly.

"The window was securely locked.  I left it so. Monsieur Horton found it
so.  You make nothing of this, either, _Monsieur le Commissaire_?"

Monsieur Matthieu shook his head and pointed toward the opening.

"My answer to your questions, Madame, is yonder," he said with a grin.
"Explain to me how any living man could have descended from that window
and I will surrender to you my position and my reputation as
_Commissaire de Police_."

Moira made no reply.  She had climbed upon the couch and was already
half out of the window, examining the broad ledge outside, while
Monsieur Simon, somewhat alarmed lest she should lose her balance, had
caught her by the skirt of her dress.

"Be careful, Madame," he warned, "you may fall."

"Have no fear, _Monsieur le Juge_," she said with a smile.  But she had
lowered herself to her knees upon the ledge outside and clinging to the
jamb of the window was carefully examining every inch of the sill and
tin gutter.

Monsieur Matthieu, inside the room, had lighted a cigarette and was
puffing at it contentedly, looking on with an amused tolerance at the
solicitude of Monsieur Simon, who as he knew was more easily swayed than
himself from the paths of his duty by a pretty face or a well-turned
ankle.  Through the panes of glass he saw that the girl had bent forward
at the edge, her eyes near the tin gutter, the fingers of one hand
touching the edge, while Monsieur Simon held her other arm and besought
her to return.  This she did presently, standing for a moment upright in
the open window and looking down at them intently, a challenge in her
eyes for the _Commissaire_.

"Did you discover anything, Madame?" he asked politely enough.

Though his professional manner may not have indicated it, Monsieur
Matthieu was sorry for her.  She had attempted the impossible.  Her
lover was doomed.  But she was handsome—with the fine color that had
come into her face from her exertions, and the new gleam of hope that
had come into her eyes—handsome, but her effort was futile, so futile to
hope to find clues where he, Matthieu, had failed.

She didn’t reply and accepting the hand which the gallant _Juge
d’Instruction_ offered her, stepped down to the couch and so to the
floor.

"You see, Madame," ventured the _Commissaire_ more kindly, "that it
would be quite out of the question for the murderer to have descended
from the window."

"I have never thought that he did, Monsieur," said Moira dryly.

The _Commissaire_ stared at her for a moment in astonishment.  What was
the meaning of this sudden assurance in her tone?  Could it be possible
that this girl had noted something that he had overlooked?  That she had
evolved a theory out of some intangible bit of evidence that had escaped
him?  Impossible.  And yet curiously enough, he experienced a slight
feeling of uneasiness which might have been discomfort had he not been
so sure of himself.

"You have perhaps happened upon something that has escaped my eye?" he
asked frankly.

"I do not know what your eye saw or what it did not see, Monsieur," she
said quietly, "but I have learned nothing to make me change my opinions
as to this crime."

"I hope that you will be able to confirm them," said the _Commissaire_.
"If there is anything that I can do——"

"Yes, Monsieur," broke in Moira with precision.  "If _Monsieur le Juge
d’Instruction_ will grant permission," with a flash of her eyes at
Monsieur Simon, "I would be obliged if you will summon for me Monsieur
Joubert or any others in the building who followed Monsieur Horton up
the stair."

She glanced at Monsieur Simon, who bowed his head in agreement.

"By all means," said the Judge, "if Madame has reason to believe——"

"I ask it, _Monsieur le Juge_, not as a favor, but as a necessary step
in the administration of justice in this case."

"It is little enough.  Go, Monsieur.  Here are the names.  Madame Toupin
will direct you."

Monsieur Matthieu hesitated.  He did not wish to leave the room.
Something had happened to change the manner of this woman.  Her eyes
glowed—she was authoritative—inspired.  He was beginning to believe that
after all...

"You will please go at once, Monsieur," the voice of the Judge was
saying.  "Madame and I will await your return."

And so with a backward glance, Monsieur Matthieu went out.

"You think you have found a clue, Madame?" asked Monsieur Simon with an
air of encouragement.

"I don’t know, Monsieur—a hope—perhaps a vain one. But you are friendly.
You shall see."

And crossing quickly in front of him she went directly to the lay figure
and examined it minutely.

"This old skirt, Monsieur, as you will observe, is fastened by buttons
and is somewhat twisted to one side."

"Yes, Madame."

"This was the first thing that attracted my attention. But one button
holds it, and it is fastened at the wrong button-hole."

"And what does that signify?"

"Merely that it has been tampered with—I did not fasten it in this way,
Monsieur," she said positively.

"You are sure?"  Monsieur Simon was now as eager as she.

"Absolutely.  I am a leisurely person.  I have done all the cleaning in
this studio myself.  I am careful in small matters.  It would have been
impossible for me to have fastened these buttons as you see them."

"_Sapristi_!  Madame—And you think——?"

He paused as Moira unbuttoned the old skirt and slipped it down while
she moved eagerly around the partially disrobed figure.

"Monsieur!" she gasped in sudden excitement as she pointed to the cotton
covering of the mannikin.  He looked where she pointed and saw a stain
of dirt and dust which extended the full length of the thigh.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"The lay figure has been moved from its iron bracket——"

"And even so, what——?"

But she had fallen on her knees before it and didn’t even hear him, for
she suddenly bent forward with a little cry and put her finger into a
small tear in the cotton cloth on the outside of the right calf.

"I have it," she muttered excitedly, as though half to herself.  "I have
it—new—clean on one side, soiled on the other——"

"What, Madame—what?" asked Simon, catching the fire of her eagerness.

"The hole in the leg, Monsieur," she cried.  "Don’t you see?  A piece
torn out against some rough surface——"

"Yes, but——"

"And here is the cloth that was torn from it," she gasped, exhibiting a
small piece of cotton cloth.  "You see?  It fits the tear exactly."

Simon took it from her hands and scrutinized it through his glasses.
The torn piece was of the same material as the cotton skin of the lay
figure, soiled upon one side and clean upon the other.

"Where did you find this piece of cotton, Madame?" he asked in a
suppressed tone.

"Outside the window—hanging below a torn edge of the tin gutter, where
it must have escaped the eyes of _Monsieur le Commissaire_."

"_Mon Dieu_!  Then the lay figure must have been outside on the ledge——"

"Exactly.  Outside.  The stain of dust upon the leg shows how it lay——"

"_Magnifique_, Madame——"

"But the skirt and the jacket were first removed," she went on
breathlessly.  "Isn’t it obvious?  Otherwise there would have been no
stain of dirt upon the leg.  There is no mark of dirt upon them."

"Quick, Madame.  The jacket——"

And with his own hands the Judge helped her remove the Spanish jacket,
taking from his pocket a small magnifying glass with which he examined
the figure intently.

"By the armpits, Monsieur Simon.  It is there the hands would have
caught."

Simon obeyed while Moira lifted the arms.

"There’s something," he muttered softly.

"A stain," broke in Moira quickly.  "I can see it with the naked eye."

It was a faint smudge, of a brownish color like rust.

"The print of a finger?" she mumbled.

"It shall be analyzed.  It looks like——"

"The murderer’s fingers—stained——"

"If it is blood, Madame——"

"Yes, yes——"

"Then the murderer carried this figure back—_after_ the murder——"

"Exactly.  And he——"

She paused and then was suddenly silent, for Monsieur Matthieu, the
_Commissaire_, appeared at the door of the studio.  He came quickly
forward, glancing at the denuded mannikin in the absurd pose of
gesticulation into which they had put it.  It seemed to be making a
ribald gesture at the astonished _Commissaire_.

"You have left nothing to the imagination, I see, Madame."  And then,
"You have discovered something?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Moira briefly.  "You have been able to find some of the
witnesses?"

"Yes, Madame.  The most important.  But it would give me pleasure to
know——"

"In a moment, Monsieur.  I am intent upon this problem. Perhaps we shall
learn something.  It is Monsieur Joubert that I wished to see
particularly.  He is a carpenter and lives in the court at the rear——"

"It is he I have found, Madame."  And turning aside, Matthieu beckoned
toward the corridor, and Monsieur Joubert entered.  He was well known to
Moira and saluted her, his brow troubled.

"_Bon jour_, Monsieur Joubert," she said, trying to control the beating
of her heart and the labor of her breathing, for here she knew was to be
the test of the worth of her discoveries.  Everything that she believed,
would stand or fall by the testimony of the people who had followed Jim
Horton up the stair.

"_Bon jour_, Madame ’Orton," said the carpenter politely.

"Where were you, Monsieur," she began, "when you heard Monsieur Horton’s
cry of alarm?"

"In the court below, Madame.  I was standing with Monsieur Lavaud, the
pastry cook, at the angle of the wall just inside the _Loge_ of Madame
Toupin——"

"And when you heard the cries what did you do?" asked the girl.

"I waited a moment in fear and then with Monsieur Lavaud went toward the
entrance."

"Were there some others there?"

"_Oui, Madame_.  A number of persons came running into the court.  They
seemed to spring from the earth as if by magic."

"And were you among the first to rush up the stair?"

"_Oui, Madame_.  There were but two or three before me."

"And whom did you find on the second landing?"

"Monsieur ’Orton and a lady who told us that a murder had been
committed."

"And you went with him up the stair?"

"Yes, Monsieur.  A policeman had come rushing in, and we all mounted to
the third floor."

"Was it dark out there on the third floor landing?"

"Not dark, but dim.  The studio door was open and threw a light
outside."

"And what did you do then?"

"Some rushed into the studio.  We were all greatly excited.  I stood in
the hallway.  Some went to the small hall room, the door of which was
partly open."

"It was dark inside the hall room?"

"_Oui, Madame_—dark."

"You have testified that one of the crowd went into the small hall room
and came out saying that no one was there."

"_Non, Madame_.  No one was there.  I and Monsieur Lavaud went into the
room, made a light and verified the statement of the man who had come
out."

Moira clasped and unclasped her hands nervously, and when she spoke
again her throat was dry with uncertainty.

"Monsieur Joubert, you will please listen very carefully to my question
and try to answer very accurately."

"_Oui, Madame_."

"You say that one of the crowd who had come up the stair with you
examined the room.  Did you see him come out of the door?"

"_Oui, Madame_.  I saw him come out."

She paused significantly, and then, with emphasis,

"Did you see him _go in_, Monsieur Joubert?"

Joubert stared at her stupidly for a moment, and Monsieur Matthieu and
the Judge leaned forward, aware of the intent of the question.

As the man did not reply, it was the _Juge d’Instruction_ who broke the
silence impatiently.

"Yes, yes, Monsieur Joubert," he questioned sharply, "_did you see him
go in?_"

"The truth—Monsieur Joubert," gasped Moira.

Joubert scratched his head and snuffled his feet awkwardly.

"No, Madame.  I can’t really say that I did."

"Did any of the others see him go in?"

Here Monsieur Simon broke in quietly.  "Pardon, Madame! But that is a
question the other witnesses must answer."

Moira glanced at him and then at Monsieur Matthieu.

"Perhaps you can inform me, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," she said.  "Have
any of the witnesses who testified to seeing this man come out of the
door also testified to seeing him go in?"

"Many persons went into the room, Madame——"

"_Later_, Monsieur," she broke in quickly.  "_Later_, after this man who
had come out had mingled with the crowd and gone down the stair."

Monsieur Matthieu started.

"Madame!" he gasped.

"Listen, Monsieur Joubert," she went on earnestly, "and answer me
truthfully, for the life of a human being hangs on your replies.  Did
you know some of the people in the crowd who rushed up the stair?"

"As to that—_oui, Madame_," said Joubert more easily. "Most of them I
knew—they are of the neighborhood. Monsieur Lavaud, Monsieur Picard of
the _Lavoir_, Monsieur Gabriel and others——"

"But this man who came out of the door of the hall room," she insisted
clearly.  "You had never seen him before?"

Joubert shrugged.

"Now that you mention it, Madame, I think that is the truth."

"Are you sure that you never saw him in the neighborhood?"

"No, Madame.  I never saw him in this neighborhood."

Moira gasped in relief, aware that the _Commissaire_, from contempt,
from indifference, had been reduced to the silence of consternation.
She saw it in his face and in the eyes of Monsieur Simon, who stood
beside her, listening in admiration and ready to aid her with advice or
question. He was on her side now.  But she was reserving her strongest
stroke for the last and she delivered it with growing assurance, for in
her heart all along she had known through whom and by whom the murder
must have been committed.

"Monsieur Joubert," she asked coolly, "you say the light was dim in the
corridor.  Was it too dark for you to see what the man who came out of
the door looked like?"

"It was dim, Madame.  But I remember him perfectly."

"You could identify him, if you saw him?"

"I think so, Madame."

"Good.  Perhaps I can describe him to you, Monsieur Joubert.  He was not
a large man, he was smaller than you, with broad but bent shoulders,
long arms like an ape’s, which reached nearly to his knees, a thin face,
small black eyes, a nose like the beak of an eagle——"

Joubert had started back in astonishment.

"It is he, Madame!  You have described him——"

"And when he walked he had a slight limp of the left leg——"

"A limp, Madame.  It is true," cried Joubert, "the very same.  He
limped.  I saw it as he came forward——"

"That will be all, Monsieur Joubert," said Moira wearily.

And when the man had gone out she turned to Monsieur Simon with a smile
of triumph.  "Have I made out a case, _Monsieur le Juge_?"

"_Parfaitement, Madame_.  But the murderer——?" he urged.

She grew grave at once.

"The man I have described is Monsieur Tricot."

The two men exchanged glances.

"We have already taken steps.  He will be found, Madame," said the
_Commissaire_.  "All the police of Paris are on his trail."

"I pray God you may find him," said Moira quietly.

"And even if we do not, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "you have created
already a reasonable doubt."  And then, with a mischievous look toward
Monsieur Matthieu, "But I think perhaps it would be as well if you took
_Monsieur le Commissaire_ into your confidence."

Monsieur Matthieu, aware of the position the _Juge d’Instruction_ had
now taken, was silent, but still incredulous.

"I should like to hear the other facts upon which you base this
testimony," he said slowly.

Monsieur Simon waved his hand toward the mannikin, its frozen gesture
now almost prophetic.  "Tell _Monsieur le Commissaire_ what happened in
this room as you have traced it, Madame."

Moira glanced at the _Commissaire_, who bowed his head in an attitude of
attention, which had in it not a little of humility.

"The murderer lay in wait for Monsieur Jim Horton," said Moira.  "There
is no doubt in my mind as to that. The _Petit Bleu_ was the lure, this
studio the trap.  The affair had been planned with skill.  The motive
was vengeance, and a desire to prevent certain papers from reaching the
hands of Monsieur le Duc de Vautrin.  This man Tricot was already in the
studio when Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin arrived.  Perhaps _Monsieur
le Commissaire_ has already guessed where."

"Go on, Madame," said Matthieu gravely.

"He had taken the clothing from the mannikin and put the lay figure out
in the darkness on the ledge outside the north window.  Then he went and
stood in the place of the lay figure.  He had put on the old skirt and
bolero jacket, and slouch hat, and about his shoulders was the gray
drapery.  He had only to remain silent and motionless. He was prepared
to spring upon and stab Monsieur Jim Horton when his back was turned,
but the appearance of Madame Morin disconcerted him.  He had counted on
a quick death without an outcry.  Madame Morin knew him.  He did not
dare to attempt to kill them both.  And so he waited."

"_Saperlotte!_"

"Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin examined the studio in curiosity and
then went out into the hall, now suspicious that all was not as it
should be.  Monsieur Tricot did not dare to go until he was sure that
they had gone.  He was about to take his leave when he heard a man’s
footsteps upon the stair and went back to his position on the model
stand.  The man entered.  He thought that it was Monsieur Jim Horton
come back alone.  But it was not Jim Horton.  It was my husband, Harry
Horton, his twin brother.  The testimony shows that their clothing was
much alike.  Their faces were the same. Tricot saw my husband’s face for
a moment under the low gas light as he came in the door, locking it
behind him.  God knows why my—my husband was here.  I don’t.  He came to
spend the night perhaps—to wait for me."

She paused, breathing hard, her words scarcely audible. But a word from
Monsieur Simon encouraged her again.

"This Tricot is desperate and very strong.  He sprang upon my husband
and killed him.  But there was a sound of struggle and the noise of a
falling body which Monsieur Jim Horton and his companion heard from the
door of the room in the hall.  They came out.  And weapon in hand, Jim
Horton, after several minutes, broke in the door.  But by this time the
murderer had taken his place again as the lay figure, just as he stood
when they had first entered the room.  In their horror at their
discovery they passed him by and rushed down the stair."

"And then, Madame?" nodded the Commissaire.

"He ran quickly to the window, outside which he had put my lay figure,
dragged it in hurriedly, dressed it in its clothing and restored it to
its place, then ran out and hid in the darkness of the hall room,
intending to leap out to the roof below.  But he did not dare it with
his injured leg, resorting to the clever device which I have indicated
to you, of going out when the crowd swarmed excitedly up to the studio
door, and announcing that no one was there.  Then, Messieurs, in a
moment he had mingled with the crowd and was gone."

"And how did you learn this, Madame?"

"By a trifle which even your experienced eyes had overlooked.  This,
Monsieur——"

And she produced the small piece of torn cotton cloth from her pocket.

"It was torn from the mannikin upon a projecting piece of tin and hung
from the gutter outside.  You have only to apply it to the leg of the
mannikin, _Monsieur le Commissaire_."

The bewildered police officer took the small object and turned it over
in his fingers, then went to the lay figure while Monsieur Simon showed
him the stains at the arm pits and upon the thigh, explaining the line
of reasoning the girl had employed.

He raised his head and looked at her, but his voice was that of a broken
man.

"My honor—my reputation, are in your keeping, Madame," he muttered.

But Moira caught him by the hands in an access of generosity.

"I render them to you, Monsieur.  If _Monsieur le Juge_ keeps silent,
you may be sure that I shall do so."

"You are very good, Madame——"

"It is not your fault.  You were not familiar with the studio as I was.
And besides—you were doing your duty, while I—it was my life, my whole
happiness, that was involved."

"And what can I do to repay you, Madame?" he asked.

"Find Monsieur Tricot!" she cried with spirit.

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?" asked the Judge quietly.

Moira glanced at them, then sank upon the couch and buried her head in
her arms, but she did not reply.  She could not.  She had reached the
end of her resources.

Monsieur Simon bent over and touched her kindly on the shoulder.

"You had better be going and getting some rest, Madame.  If you will
permit me.  I am sure that Madame Simon will be glad if you will let me
bring you to her."

Moira looked up at the dark stain upon the floor, the terrible mannikin,
and then rose.  There were tears in her voice as she gave the _Juge
d’Instruction_ her hand in gratitude.

"Ah, thanks, Monsieur, you are very kind.  If it will not trouble you——"

And leaving the theater of her life’s drama to the solitary policeman on
guard, she followed the charitable Monsieur Simon down the stair.

Monsieur Matthieu had already disappeared.




                             *CHAPTER XXV*

                              *CONCLUSION*


Jim Horton passed the night pacing the floor of his prison, and his
interrogation by Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d’Instruction_, with the
assistance of the _Commissaire de Police_ in the morning gave him little
hope of release.  The examination was severe, but his inquisitors had
not been able, of course, to shake his testimony and had left his cell
more puzzled than when they had entered it.  But he had sense enough to
see that unless it were proven possible for some one to have been in the
studio to commit the murder all the evidence must point to him.  And yet
he could not help them, nor could he suggest a line of investigation.
He was still completely in the dark about the whole tragic affair and
could scarcely blame them for their uncompromising attitude toward
himself—and poor Piquette—toward her also.  He sat upon the edge of his
cot for hours after the examination, his head in his hands, trying to
evolve some possible explanation of the mystery.

A more encouraging affair was the visit in the late afternoon of a
captain of the regular army of the United States, representing the Judge
Advocate General’s office, who interviewed him in the presence of an
officer of the _Prefet de Police_.  And in the course of this
investigation Jim Horton learned of Harry’s second defection from the
army which had resulted in his horrible death.

Captain Waring questioned shrewdly, but Jim Horton now needed no
encouragement or threat to reveal the whole truth, for, whatever
happened to him at the hands of the _Prefet de Police_, he knew that
there was nothing left for him but to throw himself upon the mercy of
the Army officials.  And so he told the whole story, from the moment
when as Corporal of Engineers, he had heard the Infantry Major’s
instructions to his brother, of his meeting with Harry, of his effort to
save his brother’s name and position by attempting to carry out the
Major’s orders, the changing of uniforms, the fight at Boissière Wood,
the hospital, and the events that had followed in Paris, leaving out
what references he could to Harry’s wife, and palliating where he could
his brother’s offenses against the military law.

From sternness, he saw Captain Waring’s expression change to interest,
from interest to sympathy, and to Horton’s surprise, when the officer
finished taking the testimony, he extended his hand frankly.

"You have committed a military offense, Corporal Horton.  But your story
has impressed me.  It can be easily verified.  I will do what I can for
you at Headquarters. It was _your Croix de Guerre_, you see."

"Thank you, sir," said Jim, "but it looks as though I’m in a bad
position here.  Do you think I could have done this horrible thing, sir?
Do you?"

"No," said the Captain, "but sit tight, Corporal.  I think you’ll find
that things will turn out all right."

What did the man mean?  Jim Horton followed his neatly fitting uniform
out of the cell with his gaze and then, more mystified than ever at this
mingling of good fortune and bad, sank again upon his cot to try and
think it out.

But he was no sooner seated than the man who had done the most to put
him where he was, Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire de Police_, again
entered the cell.  His manner during the examination by the _Juge
d’Instruction_ in the morning had been aggressive—Horton’s ordeal had
been most unpleasant, the French counterpart of what he had heard of in
his own country as the "Third Degree."  But Monsieur Matthieu’s ugly
face was now almost kindly, its expression quite calm.  And while Horton
wondered what was the meaning of the visit the _Commissaire_ explained.

"Evidence has been introduced into this case, Monsieur, which somewhat
changes its complexion."

"Ah!  You have found Tricot?  Or Quinlevin?"

"No—not yet, Monsieur.  But we have hopes.  The evidence came from
another quarter.  We believe that the _apache_ committed this crime."

Horton couldn’t restrain a gasp of relief.

"It is only what I told you, Monsieur."

Monsieur Matthieu nodded.  "But you will not blame us for not accepting,
with some reserve, the testimony of a person in your position."

"Who has testified, Monsieur?"

"Madame Horton."

And in a few words he described the line of procedure which had resulted
in the discovery of the part the lay figure had played in the tragedy.

Moira had come to the rescue!  Moira—whose eyes, it seemed, had been
keener than his own, keener even than those of this veteran detective.
And amazement at the simplicity of the device, and the ease with which
it had been put into practice, made him dumb.

"It is always so, Monsieur.  The mysteries which seem most difficult to
solve are always the simplest in conception."

"But Tricot did not invent this crime, Monsieur.  The _apache_ is
shrewd, but the brain that conceived this plan——"

"I believe you now, Monsieur.  But I’m afraid that he will not be easy
to catch.  He was at Fontainebleau last night and this morning.  It was
his alibi.  When my men reached there, he had gone."

"And Tricot?"

"It is as to Tricot that I wished to see you.  We have watched the house
in the Rue Charron.  Every haunt of men of his type is under
observation.  I thought perhaps that you might give us a further clue."

"Émile Pochard should know.  Pochard in the Rue Dalmon—under arrest he
may talk——"

"Good, Monsieur.  The help that you give us will make your deliverance
the more speedy."

"I know nothing more."

"You understand, it is not possible to release you until the evidence is
more definitely confirmed.  But I will do what I can for your comfort
and convenience."

"Thanks.  And for Madame Morin?"

"Yes, Monsieur.  She is, I think, now quite contented."

And the _Commissaire_ departed as rapidly as he had entered.  Presently
Jim Horton lay down at full length on his bed—the first time since he
had been shown into the cell.  Everything would be right.  He knew it.
And it was Moira who had come from her retreat at the first news of his
trouble and Piquette’s to help them.  Behind the reserve of Monsieur
Matthieu’s disclosures he had read that it was Moira’s will—her
intelligence that had been matched against that of the _Commissaire_ and
Barry Quinlevin, her instinct—her faith in him that had drawn her
unerringly to the neglected clues.  Where was she? Would she come to him
now?  Or was the hypnotic spell of Barry Quinlevin still upon her?  He
stared into the darkness, thinking of the tragedy of Moira’s life, and
the greater tragedy of his brother Harry’s.  But in spite of the
terrible climax of Harry’s strange career and his own unwitting part in
it, Jim Horton found himself repeating Moira’s wild words, "No
divorce—but death——"

And this was the divorce that neither of them had wished for nor dreamed
of.  But Destiny, which had woven the threads of Harry’s life and
Moira’s and his together for awhile, had destroyed the imperfect
tissue—to begin anew. In a while Jim Horton slept, soundly, dreamlessly.

The morning dragged heavily and no one came to his cell.  It almost
seemed that Monsieur Matthieu had forgotten him and it was not until the
afternoon that he was again conducted to the room in which his
examination and Piquette’s had taken place.  There he was brought face
to face with the _Juge d’Instruction_, who shook him by the hand and
informed him that word had just been received that the _apache_, Tricot,
had been captured and in charge of Monsieur Matthieu was to be brought
at once to confront the witnesses.  Monsieur Simon informed him that a
partial confession having been extracted from Tricot, the case was
simplified and that there seemed little doubt that he would be restored
to freedom in a few hours. While disposing of some other cases, Monsieur
Matthieu showed the prisoner into the inner room, where Piquette had
preceded him.

They were both still technically prisoners, but that did not prevent
Piquette from springing up from beside her guard and rushing to meet
him.

"Oh, _mon_ Jeem!" she cried joyfully.  "I knew it could not be for
long."

"Piquette!  They’re going to set us free!"

"_Oui, mon brave_.  An’ ’ave you not ’eard?  It is Madame ’Orton who ’as
make de way clear?  Dey capture’ Tricot an hour ago in a cellar out near
de _Porte Maillot_.  You may know dat I am ’appy.  Gr——!"

And she made a queer little sound of repulsion in her throat.

"And Quinlevin?"

"Escape’—gone!  Dey cannot find him."

He sat beside her and they talked while they waited.

"What are you going to do, Piquette?" he asked, after awhile.

"Do?  Jus’ go on living, _mon vieux_.  What else?" she replied calmly.

"I want to help you to get away from _him_, Piquette——"

"_Sapristi_!  I need no ’elp for dat.  Don’ worry, _mon ami_.  I s’all
be ’appy——"

"Not with Monsieur——"

She laughed rather harshly.

"Oh, la la!  You are not de on’y man in de worl’——"

And then, as she saw the look of pain in his eyes, she caught him by the
arm again.  "You _are_ de on’y man in de worl’—for ’er—_mon vieux_, but
not for me.  You t’ink of me?  _Eh bien_.  What you say?  Forget it.  I
s’all be ’appy—and free."

At this moment Monsieur Simon entered bringing no less a personage than
Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been apprehended as a witness the moment he
had returned to Paris.  And the details of the affair at Nice having
been set down, Monsieur Simon went out to question Tricot, who had just
been brought in under heavy guard.

The birth certificate and other papers were still in possession of the
_Juge d’Instruction_, but the Duc had been permitted to examine them and
questioned Horton and Piquette eagerly as to what had happened after his
departure from Nice.  And when he learned the facts, his gratitude
expressed itself in a desire to kiss Horton on both cheeks, which
Piquette only frustrated by quickly interposing her small person.

"And I, Olivier?" she asked in French with a spirit of _diablerie_.
"What is my reward for helping in the great affair?"

"You, Piquette!" he laughed, "you are as ever my angelic child who can
do no wrong.  Come to my arms."

But Piquette laughed and tossed her chin.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you are still an angelic child," said de Vautrin. "I shall give
you money—much money."

"And if I refuse that too?" she asked.

He started a pace back from her in amazement.

"You would desert me now, _ma petite_?"

Piquette’s face grew suddenly solemn.

"Yes, _Monsieur le Duc_.  We shall make no more pretenses, you and I.  I
go back to the _Quartier_ where I am free.  Perhaps one day I shall
marry.  Then you shall give me a present.  But now——"  And she extended
a hand, "_Adieu, mon ami_."

He glanced at her and at Horton as though unwilling to believe what he
had heard, then took a pace toward Piquette, his arms extended.  But she
only smiled at him.

"_C’est fini, Olivier_," she said quietly.

De Vautrin pulled at his long mustache and laughing turned away.

"_À demain_, Piquette——" he said confidently.

"_Adieu, Olivier_," she repeated.

The Duc stared at her again and then with a shrug, took up his hat and
stick and swaggered out of the room.

"Piquette," whispered Horton eagerly.  "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, _mon brave_," she returned lightly.  "To be free—free——!"  And she
took a long breath, while she gazed past him out of the big window into
the sunshine.

There was a commotion outside and they turned to the outer door, as two
policemen entered, between them Tricot, securely manacled, and followed
by the _Juge_, the _Commissaire de Police_, Madame Toupin, Moira, Madame
Simon, the carpenter, Paul Joubert, and the other witnesses whose
testimony had already been taken.

Moira’s gaze and Jim Horton’s met for a moment, full of meaning for them
both, and then she turned away to the seat beside Monsieur Simon to
which the _Juge_ directed her.  She was very pale and sat for a while
with eyes downcast during the preliminaries which led to the confession
of the _apache_.

Tricot stood with bowed head, listening to the evidence against him, his
long arms hanging from his bent shoulders, his thin lips compressed, his
small eyes concealed by the frowning thatch of his dark brows.  He was
surly but indifferent as to his fate, and answered the questions of
Monsieur Simon in a low voice, but distinctly, evading nothing.  His
identification by the carpenter Joubert and two others as the man who
had emerged from the room in the hallway when the crowd had surged upon
the upper landing, caused him to shrug.  The corroboration of Madame
Toupin who saw him leave the courtyard after the murder only caused him
to shrug again.

"I did it——" he growled.  "I’ve confessed.  What’s the use?"

"Silence!" commanded the _Juge_.  "You will answer only when questioned.
Are these two persons," indicating Horton and Piquette, "the ones who
first entered the studio?"

"They are."

"And when _Monsieur le Capitaine_ entered the studio, you thought he was
his brother—yonder?" indicating Jim.

"I did.  I made a mistake——"

"And your motive for this crime, Tricot?"

"I was paid," he muttered.

"How much?"

"Five thousand francs."

"By whom?"

Tricot paused, and then gasped the name.

"Monsieur Quinlevin."

"Do you know where Monsieur Quinlevin is now?"

"No."

"Would you tell if you knew?"

"Yes."

"Have you anything further to say?"

"No."

Monsieur Simon waved his hand in the direction of the door.

"Take him away.  The proof is now complete."  And then to the witnesses,
"You will hold yourselves in readiness to attend the trial.  _Bonjour,
messieurs_."

And rising from his chair at the head of the table he came over to Jim
and Piquette and shook them warmly by the hands, while Monsieur
Matthieu, who had taken no part in the proceedings, quickly followed his
example.

"You are now free, Monsieur Horton—Madame Morin, I thank you both, in
the name of Justice, for your indulgence and apologize for the
inconvenience that has been caused you.  Had it not been for the
keenness of Madame Horton yonder, you would still doubtless have been
languishing in your cells."

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Horton gravely.

"Let me add, Monsieur Horton, that before the murderer arrived, I was in
consultation with _Monsieur le Capitaine Waring_ of the office of the
Judge Advocate of the American Army.  I told him what had happened in
the case and he informed me that there was no disposition to make you
suffer for an act which resulted in the _Croix de Guerre_.  He empowers
me to ask only for your parole to report to him to-morrow morning, at
ten o’clock, to comply with the military law.  I should say that in the
end you will have nothing to fear."

"Thank God!" muttered Horton, half to himself.

"And now, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," said the _Juge_, with a smile,
"Madame Simon, Madame Morin, perhaps we had better leave Monsieur the
American to give his thanks to the lady who has helped us to liberate
him—Madame Horton——"

"Piquette——"

Horton turned around to look for her but she had gone.

The others were already filing out of the door and suddenly Jim and
Moira found themselves silent, face to face by the big window in the
sunlight, amazed at the sudden termination of the case, and what it
meant to them.  Their glances met and a gentle flush stole along the
pallor of Moira’s face, suddenly flooding it from brow to chin.
Scarcely daring to believe this evidence of his happiness, Jim stared at
her awkwardly, and then took a pace forward.

"Moira," he whispered at last.

"Thank God," she murmured.

He took her in his arms, gently, as though she were a child, and held
her silently in a moment of wordless communion.  Beyond the river below
them, the city of their tribulations murmured as before, but to them it
held a note of solace and of joy.

"You did this, Moira—you!" he said at last.

"Something stronger than I, Jim.  Faith, Hope——"

"And Charity," he added.

"I knew that I must succeed," she went on quickly.  "I was driven by
some inward force which gave me new courage, and strength.  It was
Faith, Jim, the Faith in you that my blindness had lost in the darkness
of my uncertainty—the Faith that I found again.  I had to succeed where
others had failed.  Faith gave me new vision—just in time," she finished
with a gasp.

"You never believed that I could have——"

"No, never, Jim," she broke in in a hushed voice.  "Not for a moment.
It was too horrible!"

She hid her eyes with a hand for a moment as though to blot out the
stain of the thought.  "I’ve wondered why they didn’t see as I saw.
It’s like a dream—all that afternoon after Fontainebleau.  I hardly seem
to remember why I did _what_ I did.  It seems so easy now that it’s
done.  I only know that I prayed again and again—that you—not he—should
triumph."

"Quinlevin——" he muttered.

She drew closer into his arms.

"He has escaped," she said with a shudder.  "Perhaps it is best."

"Did you find out——?" he began, but she broke in quickly, reading his
thought.

"He was—my uncle—my father’s brother.  Nora told me everything.  You’ve
blamed me in your thoughts, Jim——"

"No, Moira——"

"Yes, I know," she insisted, "but I couldn’t forget the long years of
his kindness—until I knew what—what had happened—the horror of it.  I
ran away—here.  Even then I did not tell them everything.  And when they
went to take him, it was too late.  He’s gone."

"You poor child.  You’ve suffered——"

"I wanted to go to you, Jim—that night when they came to the studio.  I
wanted to—and again at Nice. But I was afraid, Jim."

"Afraid——"

"Of myself—if I had gone to you then ... our love had been so sweet a
thing, Jim—so pure and beautiful. I _couldn’t_ let it be anything else.
I had never known what love was before.  I am afraid," she whispered.

"But not now, dear?"

"No.  Not of myself or of you.  Only afraid that it’s all a dream—that
I’ll wake up imprisoned by vows that may not be broken——"

"You’re released from them now, Moira," he said soberly.

"Yes, Jim."

"And you’ll marry me, dear?"

"Yes, Jim.  But it would be a sin for us to be too happy too soon."

"I can be patient——"

"You won’t be needing to be too patient, Jim," she whispered, her warm
lips on his.

He held her in the hollow of his arm, where she was meant to be, both of
them muttering the phrases that had been so long delayed, while their
eyes looked down toward the sun-lit river, when suddenly Jim felt the
girl’s fingers tighten in his and he followed the direction of her gaze.
Across the _Petit Pont_, just below them, a figure passed, a female
figure in a heavy coat with a small hat that they both recognized, set
rakishly upon a dark head.

"Piquette!" said Moira.

Jim was silent and they watched for another moment. Piquette paused for
a moment on the bridge and then, raising her head quickly, squared her
shoulders and went quickly along the Quai toward the Boulevard Saint
Michel, where she was engulfed in the crowded thoroughfare.




                                  END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47900 ***