"The other--who was here with me yesterday, who was ill in the hospital
at Neuilly, wounded--the hero of Boissiere wood?"
"Moira," he said, rising, "this is serious. There has been no other
here."
"Yes," she repeated doggedly, "the other has been here--your twin----"
The word seemed born of her necessity. "Your twin," she repeated.
He winced at the word and she saw the change in his expression.
"Tell me the truth of this thing," she went on quickly, "_he_ said
yesterday that something was to come between us. It was _you_." And
then, as he made no reply, "For God's sake, speak----"
He turned away from the light.
"I'm your husband," he muttered hoarsely.
"Show me your wounds," she gasped suddenly, reasoning with singular
directness.
He glanced at her once, then bent forward. There upon the left side of
his head in a shaved spot was a cross of adhesive tape. She touched it
aimlessly with her fingers and then suddenly, before he could rise, with
a quick deft movement tore it away from his skull. And quickly as he
straightened she had seen enough.
There was no wound.
"What's this deviltry?" he muttered, his face an angry red.
But the look that he met in her eyes pierced all subterfuge.
"You have not been wounded," she gasped.
He leaned forward in his fury as though to strike her, but she stood up
to him resolutely until the color faded from his face and he
straightened slowly.
"Well," he muttered with a shrug, "I haven't." And then, folding his
arms he found her gaze. "What of it?" he asked shortly.
She glanced down at the slips of adhesive tape and then let them fall
through her fingers.
"I'm glad," she said coolly, "that you've decided not to carry on the
lie----"
He laughed again. "Well, it looks as though it were hardly worth
while."
Already all her thoughts were beyond him.
"Who--who is the other?" she asked at last, with a cold precision that
might have come from a disembodied spirit.
He waited a moment before replying and then his tone matched her own.
"I can hardly wonder at your interest after the warmth of your greeting
when I came in."
The shot told and she colored painfully.
"Who--who is he?" she repeated with an effort.
He smiled. "There's no harm in your knowing, since you've guessed the
rest. He's my twin brother, Jim Horton."
"Jim," she gasped below her breath.
"We met in the confusion on the battlefield," he went on. "I had been
shell-shocked and he put on my uniform to lead my men----"
"Shell--shock----"
"Yes. He took my uniform. It was a fool proceeding. When I came to,
everything was in confusion. He would have been courtmartialed and shot
if I had turned up, so I went back to the lines and came to Paris----"
"While he won you the Croix de Guerre. And you're going to step into
his shoes----"
"They're _my_ shoes. It's not my fault----"
"And he--what's to become of him?"
"That's his lookout. He merely disappears from the scene."
She leaned heavily against the mantel shelf, breathing fast. But she
had no reply, and so he went on unpleasantly.
"Now, perhaps you would like to explain."
"I have nothing to explain."
"Not the joy in your eyes when I came in? The kisses you gave me that
you thought were for him?"
"I ask no forgiveness," she said in a hollow tone.
"Of course you thought he was your husband. And he let you think so."
"Yes. He let me think so," she repeated, parrot-like.
And all the while her horror of her situation increased--her anger at
"the other" who had dared to place her in this false position.
She saw her husband's bony fingers clasp the chair arm.
"You were easily deceived," he went on. "It's hardly flattering to me.
I would like to know----"
He stopped suddenly, his question in abeyance before the challenge in
her eyes, aroused by the tone of his voice. She read his thought and
answered him.
"He came here from the hospital night before last. He wanted to go to a
_pension_ but I would not permit it----"
"That was kind of you. But I'm not blind. And your kisses for him were
warm on your lips when you greeted me."
She paled and drooped in her shame.
"What have you to say about that?" he went on tensely. "Do you think
that I'm the kind to stand by idly and see a man take my wife's kisses?"
"No. You're not," she answered slowly. "You've already answered me."
And then, with a painful effort, "What have you done with him?"
He sank into the armchair with a laugh. "With _him_? Nothing. He has
gone. That's all."
"I don't believe you."
"That's your privilege. He has gone. He thought he had gone about far
enough. And I'm almost ready to believe that you agree with him."
"No," she stammered, pleading against her own will, against her outraged
pride. "There was a reason for what he did--an honorable reason. There
must have been."
"The marks of it are not very clear to me. If you can see anything
honorable in trying to steal the love of one's brother's wife----"
He paused, for he saw the danger signals flying in her eyes, and tried
to shrug his anger off. "What's the use? I'm no fool. Whether he tried
to win you or not, it's clear that neither of you was over-scrupulous
about me."
She didn't reply at once and when she did speak her words came slowly
and with dignity.
"I don't know why it is that he should have kept silent about you. He
has done me a hurt--irreparable. When I visited him in the hospital, it
was _you_ that I visited, _you_ that I went to cheer, to take my place
by your side. I thanked God when I saw you that you had grown to
be--what you were, what I had wanted you to be. And I loved you for
what you had suffered."
He started up from his chair.
"Moira----"
"Wait a moment," she insisted, still struggling to give her thoughts
expression. "I want you to understand. I thought that it was you who
had come back to me--as I wished you to come back--in honor and pride of
your service of your country. And instead of you I find--another--with
your wounds, your honors--if it was your brother--in spite of the false
position he's placed me in--I honor him for those wounds as I would have
honored you--and I honor him still more--because he has thought enough
of his honor and of mine--to give up everything that he has won and gone
out into the darkness--alone."
At this, Harry Horton's fury relaxed in a laugh. He poured himself out
another drink.
"You can spare him these new honors."
She glanced at him keenly but he was too angry to notice.
"He went--away--because he had to," he muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. It was getting too hot for him."
The meaning under his words came to her slowly. She watched him for a
moment curiously, leaning toward him, studying the ugly lines at lip and
brow that he no longer took pains to conceal. And then she guessed at
the truth.
"What have you done with him?" she whispered.
"N--nothing."
"You lie." She knew no fear of him now, and leaned forward, clutching
at his shoulder. "You've dealt unfairly with him--you've----" She
halted in terror of her thoughts.
"He got what he deserved," he muttered sullenly.
"What have you done?" she repeated.
"Put him where he won't mess in _my_ affairs again. See here, Moira,"
he caught her wrists and held her, "I'm just about fed up with this.
I've been patient about long enough. You're my wife. And I'm going to
keep you. Do you think after all I've suffered I'm going to stand for
this kind of treatment now?"
"Let go my wrists--you're hurting me----"
"No----" Instead, he drew her closer to him. "I don't care about this
foolishness with Jim. I think you can see that you've made a fool of
yourself and of me. But I'm willing to forget it, if you'll do the
square thing. I'm back here and I'm back to stay--and I'm going to make
you love me whether you want to or not."
"Let me go, Harry."
"Kiss me."
"No." She struggled in his arms, but he only held her the more closely.
"Moira. I want you. You're mine. You belong to me by every law----"
"No--no."
But he mastered her, pressing her throat back and kissing her upon the
lips. She lay quiet in his arms, weak from the struggle. He took her
immobility for acquiescence and caught her more tightly in his arms.
"Let me go," she gasped. "Do you hear?"
A saner man would have caught the warning note. But Harry Horton was
beyond warnings. She fought with renewed strength and then, all else
failing, struck him full in the face with her clenched fist.
His arms relaxed in astonishment and she sprang away, putting a small
table between them.
Breathing rapidly, she saw him put his fingers to his cheek and then
look at them in a bewildered way.
"I see," she heard him muttering to himself, "so that's the way of
it----"
The blow brought him to his senses, and he stared at her for a moment as
though at a person he had never seen before. Her eyes burned like a
blue flame in the pallor of her face and the hand that clutched the
table trembled violently. And yet it was not the fear of him that made
her tremble, but the fear of herself and of the sudden dreadful
awakening at the edge of the chasm that yawned between them.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*THREATS*
The silence seemed endless and yet she dared not trust herself to speak.
Her throat closed and it seemed that the blood from her heart was
drowning her. And yet she watched him tensely, aware of the crisis,
aware too of the revelations that seemed to have laid her heart bare to
all the world.
Her husband reached the large table and poured out what remained of the
whisky. Then she heard his laugh again, and saw him leering at her over
his glass.
"Lucky dog, I am. Pretty little devil to come home to. Love tap!" He
shrugged and raised his glass. "To our better acquaintance!"
She made no sound, but while her eyes watched, her mind was working
rapidly. His air was braggart, but she could see that he wasn't any too
sure of himself. He had thought to come here and by the ruse of the
adhesive plaster merge his identity into that of his brother Jim. The
lapse of time since she had seen him and the illness had deceived her in
the hospital. And so he had figured on the remarkable resemblance to
his brother to help him carry off this situation with a careless hand.
But he hadn't reckoned with the alertness of her woman's intuitions,
or--God help her--the tenderness of yesterday, which held the image of
the brother so close to her heart. Something of what was passing in her
mind seemed to come to him.
"So you've fallen in love with my pretty brother?" he muttered.
"No."
"Complaisant husband--_mari complaisant_. You wanted Jim to take you in
his arms--and you only had _me_. You don't care for my kisses. Why
not? We're just alike--as like as two peas in a pod. What's the
difference? Come now. Tell me. I'll be a good sport."
"We--we've got to come to an understanding----" she gasped at last
desperately.
"Exactly--an understanding. That's what I'm getting at----" he laughed
and sank into a chair by the lay figure. "Oh, don't be disturbed. I'm
not going to try to kiss you again. It's too dangerous."
She watched him intently while he took out a package of cigarettes and
lighted one. And then, with a wave of the hand, "An understanding--by
all means. Fire away."
"It isn't necessary to go into the past, except to say what you know
already--that our marriage was a horrible mistake. But we did have an
understanding then--that you were to wait--that you were to--to make
good--and that I was to try to--to care for you."
"Quite so. And we've both failed?"
"Thanks. We--we have both failed," she repeated. "I can't say I ever
really believed we should succeed until----"
"Until you went to the hospital."
She bent her head. "The main thing is," she went on more evenly as she
gathered courage, "that whatever my hopes were for you, now at least
you've forfeited all claim to consideration."
"Why? Because I take a fancy to my own uniform--my own personality?"
"Because you----" she paused to catch her breath, "because you've
stooped to something--something unworthy--something vile and terrible,
perhaps--God knows, to get rid of a man--your own brother,--who did you
a service; and because you'll dare to receive honors that don't belong
to you." And then, as he started up, "One moment. I don't know what
happened on the battlefield. If you were injured, it was a
glorious--foolish thing Jim Horton did for you. But whatever he did and
whatever his motive, it deserves something of you--something different
from what you've confessed. Tell me what you have done with him and
I'll try to believe you."
"He's quit, I told you," he protested. "There wasn't anything else for
him----"
"Where is he?"
"What does it matter? He's out of your life--out of mine."
"No--not out of your life----" she paused.
"What do you mean?"
"Merely that the truth of this thing must be told."
"Impossible. It would ruin us both."
She gave a little gasp of relief.
"Tell me where he is."
"He's safe----"
She deliberated a moment.
"You've got to prove it to me. He said he was coming back to the studio
to-day. Instead, you came--in the uniform he wore. He didn't give it
to you willingly----"
"Yes," he lied sullenly. "He gave it to me. There wasn't anything else
to do when I turned up. He realized he couldn't stay here--with you."
And then, "Oh, he was square enough about it."
There was a long pause. He didn't ring true. She had almost forgotten,
as he had, what he had said in the fury of his jealousy. She was aware
that he had risen unsteadily from his chair and was approaching her.
"So here, Moira," he said in an ingratiating tone. "I'm not a bad
sort--really I'm not. I--I was out of my head awhile ago--the way you
came up to me, thinking I was him. I guess I wanted to hurt you--the
way you had hurt me. I'm sorry. I won't touch your fingers even, if
you don't want me to. I was a rotter to try to kiss you. I ought to
have known you didn't want me to--when I--I had had one or two too many.
I've been worried too--devilish worried about the whole thing. Let's
forget it and talk the thing over sensibly. There may be a way out. I
don't want any honors that don't belong to me, but I don't want to be
dismissed from the service, either, or shot--on Jim's account. But
we've got to keep this thing quiet."
She understood his drift. The facts in her possession made her
dangerous.
"It can't be kept quiet, so long as Jim Horton is in danger."
"Who said he was in danger? I said he'd quit----"
"But you lied. He hasn't quit. He isn't the quitting kind. He was to
have come to me to-day, and told me the truth--I didn't know what it all
meant then. But I do now. He has got to have his chance."
She saw him glare at her somberly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Take me to him--to-night."
"That's impossible. I couldn't find him."
"Yes. You can find him. Or he would have found me."
He smeared out the ash of his cigarette in a receiver and rose, his face
livid.
"You seem very sure of him--and of yourself. And if I don't find him
for you, what are you going to do?"
"I shall tell what I know to the proper authorities."
He stood for a moment balked and then before she knew what he was about
he stumbled to the studio door and turning the key in the lock put it in
his pocket. She was frightened by the significance of the action, and
ran quickly toward the door of her own room. He turned and moved to
intercept her but awkwardly and she slammed the door in his face,
catching the bolt on the inside.
She was frightened now, desperately frightened, but resolved to escape
and tell what she knew. The brother--Jim--was in danger--a prisoner
somewhere--otherwise he would have come to her. Much as his silence had
injured her, deeply as her pride was hurt at the position in which he
had placed her, she knew now that he had intended to tell the truth from
his own lips and warn her of Harry's return before he left her and went
away alone. He loved her.... It was his love that had sought to spare
her the humiliation of this very knowledge that had come to her.
Shell-shock! There was another reason for the substitution. What? But
whatever it was, there seemed little difficulty in choosing between
them. The other--Jim--the man she loved ... she acknowledged it in
every impulse ... would have come to her. She had to find him. Just
what she meant to do she didn't know, except to get away from Harry. He
was hammering on the door now--pleading with her. But she didn't
answer. Catching up her hat and a heavy coat, she went quietly to her
own door into the hall, and, while he still hammered and pleaded, fled
quickly down the stairs and into the lodge of the _concierge_.
Madame Toupin, aroused suddenly from her doze, started up in amazement.
"Madame Horton, what is it?" she asked in French.
"It is a game we play, Madame Toupin. You shall hide me in your closet.
And when Monsieur le Lieutenant comes you shall say that I have run out
into the street. You understand?"
"_Parfaitement, Madame. Ah, les jeux d'amour. Entrez vite_." And she
opened the door of the closet which Moira entered quickly.
Then Madame Toupin with a smile of wisdom composed herself to read her
paper. And in a moment a clatter of boots upon the stairway and the
sound of footsteps upon the paving of the courtyard announced the
approach of the officer. Through a crack in the door Moira listened to
the conversation which Madame conducted with her amiable smile, and
presently Harry Horton withdrew frowning and went out hurriedly into the
Rue de Tavennes.
But while she stood upright in the closet listening, Moira had
formulated a plan. It was clear from the tone of Harry's voice and his
haste to go that her escape had frightened him. For his judgment was
not amiss when he decided that Moira was fully capable of carrying out
her threat to tell the whole story to the military authorities. But
instead of clinging to her original intention, a new idea had come to
her.
If she followed him, she could perhaps get a clue to the mystery of Jim
Horton's disappearance. She couldn't understand yet--couldn't make
herself believe that this man that she had married could be capable of a
thing so vile. But the evidence--his own words stammered in his fury,
were damning. The familiar formulas seemed to have no bearing now. The
war had made men demi-gods or devils and Harry.... It did not seem very
difficult to decide to-night what Harry was.
She slipped on her heavy coat and the hat she had brought and with a
word of explanation and caution to Madame Toupin, she went out into the
street. Far down upon the opposite sidewalk she saw a tall figure
striding away into the darkness. She followed, keeping at a distance,
her coat collar turned up and her broad-brimmed hat pushed well down
over her eyes. She hurried along, keeping in the shadow of the opposite
side of the street, trembling with the excitement of her venture and
wondering what was to be its outcome, but sure from his gait that the
situation she had created had developed in Harry Horton's hazy brain
some definite plan of action. She noticed too that he no longer swayed
or stumbled and that he glanced furtively to left and right at the
street corners, peering back toward her from time to time. But she
matched her wits to his, crouching into corners as he turned and then
running forward breathlessly in the dark places, keeping him in sight.
He turned into the narrow reaches of the _Rue de Monsieur le Prince_,
past the _Lycee_ and the _Ecole de Medicine_, and crossed the Boulevard
St. Germain into the network of small streets in the direction of the
river, twisting and turning in a way which confirmed her belief in the
dishonesty of his purposes. It was now long after midnight, and the
streets into which they moved were quiet and almost deserted. From the
direction of the _Boule' Miche'_ came a rumble of vehicles, the glare of
lights, the distant grunt of an automobile-horn, the clatter of a cab
horse down an echoing street. The neighborhood was unfamiliar to her, a
part of old Paris near the _Isle de la Cite_, where the houses, relics
of antiquity, were huddled into ghostly groups, clinging to one another,
illumined fitfully by murky bracket-lamps which only served to make
their grim facades more somber and fantastic. Dark shapes emerged from
darker shadows and leered at her--evil figures, bent and bedraggled, or
painted and bedizened, the foul night-creatures of the city, the
scavengers, the female birds of prey, the nighthawks, the lepers. Twice
she was accosted, once by a vile hag that clutched at her arm with
skinny talons, and again by a man who tried to bar her way, but with a
strength born of her desperation she thrust him aside and ran on, her
gaze seeking the tall figure that she followed.
More than once she lost sight of him as he plunged deeper and deeper
into the maze and she paused trembling in the shadows, not knowing which
way to turn, but gathering courage again hurried on to catch the glint
of a street light on his brown overcoat in the distance.
Above the roofs, almost hanging over her, she caught a glimpse of the
grim towers of Notre Dame, the sentinels of a thousand years of time,
and the sight of them gave her courage in this region of despair. With
an effort she threw off her terror of the evil that seemed to hang in
every shadow, trying to remember that this was Paris, her Paris, with
familiar places close at hand; and that this man whom she followed was
no creature of the middle ages, but Harry, her husband; that this was
the Twentieth Century, and that here was the very heart of the
civilization of the world. But the facts that had come to her were
amazing, and Harry's confessions damnable. It was clear that his
position was desperate and his intentions none less so. Here somewhere,
hidden, she believed, Jim Horton lay, helpless and injured, if not by
his brother's hand by that of some one in his employ. It was the only
answer to the riddle of his failure to come back to her. She must find
him--before they took him away--before they ... Her thoughts terrified
her again. Harry wouldn't dare. He was a coward at heart. She knew it
now. Besides, there must be some spark of decency and manhood left to
restrain him from so desperate, so terrible an expedient to save
himself.
She crept cautiously to the corner of a small street into which Harry
Horton had turned. It was scarcely more than an alley-way--a vestige of
the old city, hedged in by squat stone houses with peaked roofs,
deserted it seemed and unoccupied. Beyond she could see the _Quai_, the
loom of the Hotel Dieu and Notre Dame. The house at which he had
stopped was but a few yards from the river front. She stole into the
blackness of an angle of wall and watched. He was knocking upon the
door--three quick taps followed by two slower ones. For awhile he
waited impatiently and then, as no one answered the summons, he tried
the window and then started up a small passage at the side not twenty
feet from where she crouched.
Her pulses were throbbing violently, but the terror of her surroundings
had passed. And she tried to convince herself that she did not fear
Harry.... And yet she hesitated to confront him, fascinated by her
discovery.... The brother--Jim--was here--she was as sure of it as
though she had seen him. She knew that she must intercede in some way,
but she was very helpless. How many were there in this house? And if
she revealed herself, would not the warning give them time to carry out
whatever plan they had in mind? And so she crouched watching,
breathless and uncertain.
She saw him go back to the door and repeat the knock more loudly,
cursing under his breath and, calling a name at the key-hole.
"Tricot!" he called. "Tricot! Tricot!"
And in a moment she heard a sound at the door, which was opened a few
inches.
"_C'est moi, Tricot_," she heard Harry say, and then the door was opened
wide, giving her a glimpse of a short man with tousled hair and a
diabolic face, holding a lantern.
"_Oh, Monsieur_----" growled the man with the lantern, stepping aside as
Harry Horton entered. And just as Moira sprang up, her husband's name
on her lips, the door was closed and bolted. She ran to it and then
paused in uncertainty, trying to plan what it was best to do. She felt
very small, very helpless, for the sight of the villainous looking man
with the lantern frightened her terribly. He seemed to typify all the
evil in all the world--to explain in a glimpse all that was sinister and
terrifying in the disappearance of Jim Horton. An ugly creature of the
world of underground, an _apache_! There were others like him here.
And Harry....
There was no time to be lost. Her thoughts seemed to clear, her courage
to return as she cautiously returned by the way that she had come--out
into the wider street, up which she hurried, turning in the direction of
the _Boule' Miche'_. Her one idea now was to find a policeman,--any one
with a vestige of authority. Men she met but she shrank away from them
as she saw what they were and what they thought she was. Ten--fifteen
minutes of rapid searching without result and she turned toward the Quai
and, failing there, over the _Petit Pont_ to the Island and the
Prefecture de Police. It was curious that she had not thought of it
before. The buildings were dark but she found at last a man in uniform
to whom excitedly she told her story. He listened with maddening
politeness and at last took her to an office where several other men in
uniform were sitting around a stove. More alarmed than ever at the
passage of time, she told her story again. Here she seemed to make some
impression at last, for an older man, who sat at a desk, finally aroused
himself and gave some orders. And in a few moments with two of the
policemen she was leading the way back to the _Quai St. Michel_. She
was almost running now in her eagerness so that the men had to take
their longest strides to keep up with her, but more than ten minutes had
already passed, it seemed an eternity to Moira, and there was still some
distance to go.
"What was the name this man spoke at the door?" asked one of the
policemen.
She told him.
"Ah, Tricot! _Parbleu_! I think perhaps, Mademoiselle, that there may
be some reason in your anxiety."
"You know----?"
"An _apache_ of the old regime, Mademoiselle. We would do well to find
him."
And so, explaining her fears, but not yet revealing all the reasons for
them, she led the way down the streets by which she had come and to the
house which Harry Horton had entered.
The older man knocked loudly upon the door. There was no response.
Again. Silence. The other man went up the alley way on the side and
called to them. There was a shutter and a window open. Without
hesitation, he drew a weapon and crawled over the sill, the other man
following, leaving Moira alone. She listened, as they moved about
inside, saw the glint of an electric torch and then heard the bolts of
the door shot back and the police officer calling to her.
"Enter, Mademoiselle," he said, when she had come around. "You are sure
that this is the house?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"There is no one here. The house is deserted. It is a street of
deserted houses."
"That is impossible----" she stammered. "With my own eyes, less than an
hour ago, this Tricot met the other at the door."
"_Allons_! We will search a little further, then."
She followed them up the rickety stairway and then they found evidences
of recent occupation--two pallets of straw--some food--a bottle
containing absinthe.
"Mademoiselle, you are right. This bottle is not yet empty. There's
something suspicious here."
And now moving with more rapidity they explored the house thoroughly,
descending at last into the cellar, with, weapons drawn, Moira,
half-hoping, half-fearing, following just behind them, her gaze
searching the shadows. The place smelled of the earth and the walls
were damp to the touch, but a quick examination with the torch showed
the marks of many foot-prints in the earthen floor. The astonishing
feature of the cellar was its size, for it seemed to extend under two
houses, and its vaulted ceiling of rough stone of great antiquity was
upheld by huge piers, that might at one time have supported the walls of
a great edifice. At first they could make out nothing but a litter of
papers, bottles and packing cases, but as the torch of the police
officer searched the shadows in a distant corner, they heard his
exclamation of astonishment. There was another pallet of straw here
covered with rags and quite distinctly there came to their nostrils the
odor of chloroform. Moira peering over the shoulders of the man with
the light saw him bend over and pick up a rag and examine it carefully.
There were dark stains upon it. And then with another exclamation he
picked up some pieces of rope.
"Some one lay here but a short while ago," he muttered positively, "tied
hand and foot. The bed is still warm."
"They can't have gone far then----"
"But the door was bolted on the inside----"
"The window----"
"There would hardly have been time, is it not so, Mademoiselle?"
"I don't know," whispered Moira in dismay. "Is there no outlet to this
place? There must be. The light, Monsieur--yonder, in the corners
beyond the stone-work----"
The man with the torch, his professional instincts now thoroughly alive,
obeyed. They sounded the walls, first one side and then on the other,
coming at last, in the further corner, toward the river, upon a stone
arch over some steps leading into a dark opening. The man who held the
light suddenly extinguished it and a warning sound came from his lips.
"Listen," he whispered.
Scarcely able to breathe, Moira obeyed. From the passage-way at a
distance, there came the sounds of voices.
"Come, follow me, Dupuy! Mademoiselle had better remain."
And with that, turning his light into the dark hole, he descended, the
other following. But the thought of remaining alone in this terrible
house frightened her and she clutched at the hand of the second
policeman.
"I dare not stay here, Monsieur. I must go with you."
"_Bien_. But I warn you it may be dangerous."
And yet what could be more dangerous than remaining in the cellar of the
_apache_, Tricot? With shaking limbs she followed down the passage,
stumbling and clinging to the shoulder of the gallant policeman. The
man who led them disappeared beyond a turn in the passage, but they
reached it and as they turned the corner felt the chill of the night air
beating in their faces. And in a moment they came out on the shore of
the river near a boat landing.
"_Tonnerre de Dieu!_" shouted the man with the light, and started
running toward the steps that led to the Quai above. The other had
reached the boat landing and stared for a moment down into the dark
mists above the river. Then he ran up the steps after his companion.
Frightened and mystified, Moira followed up the steps where after a
moment the two men joined her.
"We have missed them. We were too late----"
"But the captive--the prisoner," pleaded Moira, in an agony of
apprehension.
"That's the point--the prisoner," said the younger man. "Wait a moment,
Mademoiselle."
And he ran down the steps to the boat landing again, peering eagerly
down the stream. Already far away, merely a blotch in the shadows
beyond the Pont Neuf, there was a boat at the Quai du Louvre.
"_Vite_, Dupuy. There may be yet time."
And the two of them started running toward the distant bridge, leaving
Moira to follow as fast as she could.
When Moira reached them on the opposite side of the river, breathless
and almost dead of apprehension, they were questioning a man on the Quai
du Louvre. He reported that a man had attempted suicide by drowning and
that a woman had saved him just as he was about to leap into the water.
She herself had asked his assistance and together they had hailed a
passing _fiacre_ in which the woman had driven away.
"Did you notice anything extraordinary about the rescued man?"
questioned Dupuy.
"Nothing, except that he was very pale. Also that there was an odor of
chloroform on his clothing."
"Chloroform! Are you sure?"