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 Cafe 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 cafe 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 _a 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 Cote 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 honnete_, 'E would not make a _gamine_. _C'est la destinee_."

"Don't, Piquette. I know."

"Mos' men are _si bete_--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 bonnete_. _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 Hotel 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.

"_Sacre_----" 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....

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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Boissiere 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 Hotel Ruhl in Nice, or would he perhaps have deposited them downstairs in the strong-box of the Hotel 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 _deshonneur_. 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 metier, 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 facade 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 Chateau 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 Boissiere 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 Boissiere 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 Hotel 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 Boissiere 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 la_," 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 Hotel 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 _dejeuner_. 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 cochere_ 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 mache_ 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 Boissiere 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."

"Emile 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.

"_A 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