Jim Horton read the letter through furtively with a growing sense of
intrusion. It was like listening at a confessional or peering through a
keyhole. And somehow its ingenuous frankness aroused his interest.
Harry had been married to this girl who didn't love him and she had
consented because her father had wanted her to. He felt unaccountably
indignant on her account against Harry and the father. Pretty
name--Moira! Like something out of a book. She seemed to breathe both
youth and hope tinged horribly with regret. He liked her handwriting
which had dashed into her thoughts impulsively, and he also liked the
slight scent of sachet which still clung to the paper. He liked the
girl better, pitied her the more, because her instinct had been so
unerring. If she had thrown herself away she had done it with her eyes
wide open. A girl who could make such a sacrifice from lofty motives,
would hardly condone the thing that Harry had been guilty of. A
coward....
There was another letter, of a much later date, in a masculine hand.
Jim Horton hesitated for a moment! and then took it out of its envelope.
"Harry boy," he read, "so far as I can see at this writing the whole
thing has gone to the demnition bow-wows. Suddenly, without a
by-your-leave, the money stopped coming. I wrote de V. and cabled, but
the devil of a reply did he give. So I'm coming to Paris with Moira at
once and it looks as though we'd have to put the screws on. But I'd be
feeling better if the papers were all ship-shape and Bristol fashion.
You'll have to help. Maybe the uniform will turn the odd trick. If it
don't we'll find some way.
"I feel guilty as Hell about Moira. If you ever make her unhappy I'll
have the blood of your heart. But I'm hoping that the love will come if
you play the game straight with her.
"Meanwhile we'll feather the nest if we can. He's got to 'come across.'
There's some agency working against us--and I've got to be on the scene
to ferret--_instanter_. Moira got some portraits to do or we wouldn't
have had the wherewithal for the passage. As it is, I'll be having to
make the move with considerable skill, leaving some obligations behind.
But it can't be helped, and Moira won't know. The world is but a poor
place for the man who doesn't make it give him a living. Mine has been
wretched enough, God knows, and the whisky one buys over the bar in New
York is an insult to an Irishman's intelligence, to say nothing of being
a plague upon his vitals.
"Enough of this. Come to the Rue de Tavennes, No. 7, in your next
furlough, and we'll make a move. By that time I'll have a plan. Moira
sends her love.
"Yours very faithfully,
"BARRY QUINLEVIN.
P. S. There was a pretty squall brewing over the Stamford affair, but I
reefed sail and weathered it. So you can sleep in peace.