Harry had risen, glowering.
"And you think I'm going to slink off to-night to my kennel and let you
go back to the studio. You in my uniform--as _me_--to Moira."
Jim Horton thought deeply for a moment and then rose and coolly
straightened his military blouse.
"Very well," he said, "we'll go back to her together."
He took out some money and carelessly walked toward the bar in the front
room. But Harry followed quickly and caught him by the arm.
"Jim," he muttered, "you won't do that!"
"We'll tell her the truth--I guess you're right. She ought to know."
"Wait a minute----"
His hand was trembling on the officer's sleeve and the dark beard seemed
to make the face look ghastly under its tan.
"Not yet, Jim. Not to-night. We--we'll have to let things be for
awhile. Just sit down again for a minute. We've got to find a way to
straighten this thing out--to get you back into your old job----"
"How?" dryly.
"I--I don't know just now, but we can work it somehow----"
"It's too late----"
"You could have been captured by the Boches. We can find a way, when
you let me have my uniform."
Jim Horton grinned unsympathetically.
"There are two wounds in that too, Harry," he said. "Where are yours?"
And he moved toward the door.
"Listen, Jim. We'll let things be as they are for the present. Barry
Quinlevin mustn't know--you've got to play the part. I see. Come and
sit down a minute."
His brother obeyed mechanically.
"Well," he said.
"I'll do what you say--until--until we can think of something." He
tried a smile and failed. "I know it's a good deal to ask you--to take
my place--to go out into the world and be what I am, but you won't have
to do it. You won't have to. We'll manage something--some way. You go
back to the studio----" he paused uncertainly, "You're not----?" he
paused.
Jim Horton read his meaning.
"Making love to your wife? And if I was, it would only be what you
deserve. She doesn't love you any too much, as it is."
Harry frowned at the floor, and was silent, but his brother's answer
satisfied him.
"All right. You go back--but I've got to get some money. I can't
starve."
"I don't want you to," Jim fumbled in his pockets and brought out some
bills. "Here--take these. They're yours anyway. We'll arrange for
more later. I've an account at a bank here----"
"And so have I--but I don't dare----"
"Very good. What's your bank?"
"_Hartjes & Cie._"
"All right. I'll get some checks to-morrow and you can make one payable
to yourself. I'll cash it and give you the money. And I'll make one
out at my bank for the same amount, dated back into October, before the
Boissiere fight, payable to bearer. You can get it cashed?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"A woman I know."
Jim shrugged. "All right. But be careful. I'll meet you here
to-morrow night. And don't shave."
Harry nodded and put the bills into his pocket while Jim rose again.
"You play the game straight with me," he said, "and I'll put this thing
right, even if----"
He paused suddenly in the doorway, his sentence unfinished, for just in
front of him stood a very handsome girl, who had abandoned her companion
and stood, both hands outstretched, in greeting.
"'Arry 'Orton," she was saying joyously in broken English. "You don
seem to know me. It is I--Piquette."
The name Quinlevin had spoke in the hospital!
Jim glanced over his shoulder into the shadow where Harry had been, but
his brother had disappeared.
*CHAPTER V*
*PIQUETTE*
She wore a black velvet toque which bore upon its front two large
crimson wings, poised for flight, and they seemed to typify the girl
herself--alert, on tip-toe, a bird of passage. She had a nose very
slightly _retrousse_, black eyes, rather small but expressive, with
brows and lids skillfully tinted; her figure was graceful, _svelte_, and
extraordinarily well groomed, from her white gloves to the tips of her
slender shiny boots, and seemed out of place in the shadows of these
murky surroundings. For the rest, she was mischievous, tingling with
vitality and joyous at this unexpected meeting.
Horton glanced past her and saw a figure in a slouch hat go out of the
door, then from the darkness turn and beckon. But Jim Horton was given
no opportunity to escape and Harry's warning gesture, if anything,
served to increase his curiosity as to this lovely apparition.
"Monsieur Valcourt--Monsieur 'Orton," she said, indicating her companion
with a wave of the hand. And then, as he shook hands with her
companion, a handsome man with a well-trimmed grayish mustache,
"Monsieur Valcourt is one day de greatest sculptor in de world--Monsieur
'Orton is de 'ero of Boissiere wood."
"You know of the fight in Boissiere----?" put in Jim.
"And who does not? It is all in _le Matin_ to-day--an' 'ere I find you
trying to 'ide yourself in the obscure _cafe_ of Monsieur Javet."
She stopped suddenly and before he realized what she was about had
thrown her arms over his shoulders and kissed him squarely upon the
lips. He felt a good deal of a fool with Monsieur Valcourt and the
villainous-looking Javet grinning at them, but the experience was not
unpleasant and he returned her greeting whole heartedly, wondering what
was to come next.
And when laughing gayly she released him, he turned toward Monsieur
Valcourt, who was regarding her with a dubious smile.
"For all her prosperity, Monsieur 'Orton," Valcourt was saying, in
French, "she is still a _gamine_."
"And who would wonder, _mon vieux_! To live expensively is very
comfortable, but even comfort is tedious. Does not one wish to laugh
with a full throat, to kick one's toes or to put one's heels upon a
table? _La la_! I do not intend to grow too respectable, I assure
you."
Jim Horton laughed. She had spoken partly in English, partly in French,
translating for both, and then, "Let me assure you, Madame," said
Valcourt with a stately bow, "that you are not in the slightest danger
of that."
But she was already turning to Horton again.
"A 'ero. The world is full of 'eros to-day, but not one like my 'Arry
'Orton. _Allons_! I mus' 'ave a talk with you alone. Lucien," she
said sharply, turning to Valcourt, "I will come to de studio to-morrow.
Monsieur le Duc t'inks I am gone away, but now I would be a poor
creature not to give my brave soldier a welcome."
"If Monsieur will excuse me----" said Valcourt, offering his hand.
Jim Horton took it, wondering where the adventure was to lead. She was
a very remarkable person and her _elan_ had already carried him off his
feet. Taking his hand in hers, with a charming simplicity, she led him
into the room at the rear, now occupied by a number of persons of both
sexes, and bade Monsieur Javet himself serve them. And when they were
seated at a table, her hand still in his, she examined him with a new
interest.
"It is indeed you," she said gayly, "and yet you seem different--more
calm, more silent. What is it?"
"I've had two months in the hospital."
"And you're quite strong again?"
"Oh yes. And you have been well--Piquette?"
"Well--but _so_ ennuyee. It is why I come back here to de _Quartier_ to
get a breath of fresh air. I've been posing for Monsieur Valcourt--_La
Liberte_. He says my figure is better than ever. And Valcourt knows."
"I'm sure you are very lovely."
"_La, la, mon vieux_, but you are the _grand serieux_. Of course I am
lovely. It is my business. But you do not _show_ me 'ow lovely I am,
for you are so quiet--so cool----"
Jim Horton laughed and caught her fingers to his lips.
"You are--Piquette. That is enough."
"_C'est mieux_. But you are change'. One does not look deat' in de
eyes wit'out feeling its col' touch. Oh, but I am glad that you are
come back to me. You s'all be 'ere long?"
"I don't know--when I shall get my orders."
"But until then--t'ings s'all be as dey were wit' us two, eh, my little
one? An' I s'all 'elp you now in de great affair? But Monsieur de
Vautrin becomes more onpleasant. He is a very tiresome ol' man...."
Jim Horton started unconsciously. Then remembered that it was in
connection with de Vautrin that Quinlevin had mentioned this very girl
Piquette. He understood better now the reason for Harry's gesture from
the outer darkness. The meeting had been a stroke of Fate. Perhaps she
held the key to the riddle.
"Tiresome, yes," he said slowly, "all old men are tiresome----"
"And _difficile_," she mused, sipping at her glass. "While I am pretty
he likes to have me nearby. But I know. He cares not'ing. He will
leave me not'ing. I am not content. So I say I want to help in de
great affair. You have planned somet'ing in the hospital--you and
Monsieur Quinlevin?"
"Er--nothing definite."
"Monsieur le Duc still pays?"
Horton meditated for a moment.
"No," he said, "he has stopped paying."
Piquette Morin leaned further over the table, frowning.
"Ah! Since when?"
"For--er--three months or more."
"Then you t'ink he suspects somet'ing?"
"I don't know. It looks so, doesn't it?"
"Yes, perhaps." She paused a moment and then, "I make him talk about de
past, as you ask' me to. I am no saint and de _bon Dieu_ has taught me
to look out for myself. I shall continue. If he tries to get rid of me
de way he did wit' his wife, he will find me troublesome."
Horton laughed. "I don't doubt it." And then, carefully, "You heard
how he got rid of her?" he questioned.
"It was 'er riches, of course. 'E spent 'er '_dot_' in a few month
gambling at Monte Carlo, and den when 'e came to 'er for more 'e abuse
and beat 'er." She paused and her dark eyes snapped viciously. "'E
would not have beaten me," she finished.
"And then?" he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.
"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland----"
"To Ireland----" he muttered eagerly.
"Of course," she said with a glance at him. "And when 'e got enough
money 'e sail 'round de worl' enjoying himself. Even now sometimes 'e
is a beast. It is den I come back to de _Quartier_ where I am born and
bred--to be merry again." She sighed and then laughed gayly. "But
to-night we mus' not talk of dis tiresome matter. It is your night,
_mon vieux_, and we s'all make it 'appy."
He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficulty
concealing his curiosity.
"But the child of Monsieur the Duc----" he urged after the moment of
_badinage_. "He said nothing----?"
He paused as though in doubt.
She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.
"Monsieur is cautious. 'E spoke not'ing of de child, except to say dat
it died wit' de mother. De money came to 'im. Dat was all 'e cared
about, _mon_ 'Arry."
To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn. And how to question without
arousing the girl's suspicions was more that he could plan. But he
remembered Quinlevin's uncertainty in the hospital--his thought that
Harry might have talked to this girl. So he took a chance.
"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"
"No. I t'ink not. And yet I remember once 'e ask' me if I know
Monsieur Quinlevin."
"And what did you reply?"
"Of course, dat I never heard of 'im."
He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frowned
and imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.
"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin. We've got to do something."
"_Parfaitement_," said Piquette carelessly. "De time 'as come to
produce de girl Moira and de papers."
Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of
bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes. But she heard him
gasp and turned again toward him. But by this time the missing pieces
of the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly.
It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead
child who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for
years with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and now
the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." And
Piquette knew all. Blackmail it was--of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself.
And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."
"It mus' be manage' carefully. You are sure de papers are all correct?"
"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."
"Ah, I see--we mus' wait until 'e comes back. But I s'all 'elp you,
_mon ami_. You will rely upon me, _n'est ce pas_?"
"Yes, I will."
His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent
and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on. The
charm of the chance encounter was gone. _Gamine_ she might be, and
irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was
not for him. He had a standard to measure her by.
"You are so _triste_, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly. "I do not t'ink I
like you so _triste_. What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le
Duc an' 'is money? To be young an' in love----"
She caught both of his hands across the table and held them. "You are
not yet well, 'Arry. I can see. It is dat for so long you do not know
comfort an' 'appiness. _Allons_! I s'all make you laugh again, until de
_triste_ look come no more into your eyes."
He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy
her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led
into the bar.
"Your frien' who was wit' you--'e 'as come back again," she whispered.
"Ah----" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.
"'E wants you to come? _C'est embetant_! Sen' 'im away."
"I'm afraid I----" He rose uncertainly and turned. "Wait," he said,
"I'll see." And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinately
awaited him.
"I've had enough of this," growled his brother. "You come out of here
with me or I'll----"
"Don't be a fool. You could see that I couldn't help it."
"You can help it now----"
"All right. We'll have this thing out, you and I--to-night. You meet
me at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes. I'll get rid
of her."
And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind made
up.
"I'm sorry," he said to her, "but I've some urgent business with this
man. It can't be put off. But I must see you soon----"
She pouted and rose.
"I can't explain--not now. You won't be cross----"
"It is not--anodder woman----?" she asked shrewdly.
"Another----? How can you ask? No. There are no other women in Paris,
Piquette."
"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.
"No. It is a matter of importance. Will you let me have your
address----?"
"No 82 Boulevard Clichy--de same place."
"Good. To-morrow I will write you."
Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, looking
about curiously for her enemy of the evening. But Harry had
disappeared. She said nothing and they went out into the street where
Jim Horton found a cab and put her into it.
"Mechant!" she whispered softly.
"It is not my fault, Piquette. Soon----"
He gave the address to the _cocher_ and she was gone.
Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating
_fiacre_ as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowly
back, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities of
his masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control.
Moira--innocent--the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals!
How much did she know? How could Quinlevin have carried the deception
out all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something? And if, as
it seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told? His own duty
seemed very clear. Every impulse of honor and decency urged that he
find this Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth. But there was Moira
... his first duty was to her. But telling her meant revealing the
secret of Harry's disgrace and his own part in it. That would be a
difficult thing to do, but he would have to do it. He would tell her
to-morrow.
As for Harry--he would make short work of _him_. He went with long
determined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with a
threatening air.
"What the Hell has she been saying?" he muttered.
Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his own
physical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit and
cowardice, built in his own image. If earlier in the evening he had had
his moments of pity for his brother's misfortunes, if he had planned to
make restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing,
he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.
As he didn't reply, his brother continued angrily. "You've gone about
your limit, I tell you. What did she tell you?"
"Everything. I've got the whole story. And I'd like to tell you before
we go any further that you're just about the crookedest----" He broke
off with a shrug.
"What's the use? The worst thing I could say would be a compliment.
But you've come to the end of your tether. I don't know why I hoped
there might be a chance of getting you to go straight--for her--but I
did. The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed the
impression. The money you took from the estate, your questionable deals
in America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but the
blackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon----"
Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struck
viciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it,
tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall where
he fell and lay motionless. But he was unhurt--only bewildered by the
result of his own incapacity.
"Get up!" Jim ordered. "Somebody will be coming along in a moment and
we'll both be going with the police."
Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, still
trembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued. The place they
had chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one was
about, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted street
before he resumed his interrupted remarks.
"I don't want any man's uniform when it's been defiled. You ought to
have known that. I'm going to take it off and give it back to you."
He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry's face and raised
his hand in warning--"But not yet. First I'm going to tell your wife
the truth and then I'm going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."
Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of his
venture setting in with the terror of this information.
"Jim!" he whispered, clutching at his arm. "You wouldn't do that, Jim.
My God! It's ruin to me--and you too."
"I'm prepared for that----"
"Don't, for God's sake don't! Wait. I've met you half way, haven't I?
I'll do anything you say. I'll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing.
It was his idea--not mine. And he wouldn't have thought of it if the
old man hadn't shut off the allowance----"
"Tell me the truth," Jim broke in sternly. "How much money did
Quinlevin owe you?"
"Twenty thousand dollars----"
"And that was Moira's price----" contemptuously.
"I wanted her. I loved her. I swear to God I did. I love her now.
I'd give anything to be able to go to her to-night----"
"You----! You forget what I know."
"It's the truth."
"How much were you to get of this money of the Duc's?"