"Where?"
"At Javet's." And then, in a meaning tone, as she looked him in the
eyes, "Him--or another."
He glanced at her, his face, which still showed traces of great beauty,
twisted unpleasantly, and then beckoned her to follow him through a door
nearby into his office. And when they were seated, "What did you mean,
Piquette?"
"What I said," put in Piquette, lighting a cigarette. "Him--or another."
And then, as Gabriel's frown deepened, she shot straight at her mark.
"There are two 'Arry 'Ortons, Gabriel Pochard," she said coolly.
The effect of her words on Gabriel was not lost on her. He looked around
him furtively and caught her by the wrist.
"Who told you this?"
"It's true, then?" asked Piquette.
"Who told you?"
"My own eyes. The visitor at Javet's had no twisted little finger."
"And no one else has noticed?"
"Not so far as I am aware."
Gabriel Pochard gave a great gasp of relief.
"_Ma foi_, child, but you have sharp eyes!"
"If they weren't sharp, _mon vieux_, I would still be selling flowers
outside the Cafe Soufflet. Tell me the truth of this thing, Gabriel,"
she said, settling herself in her chair with the air of one who has come
to stay, "it is what I came here to find out."
He glanced at her, then frowned at the floor and shook his head.
"Oh, yes, _mon vieux_, you will tell me that it is none of my business,"
she said firmly. "_Eh, bien_, it is my business--my right to know."
And then, as he remained silent, "You are aware that I am not one to be
refused."
Gabriel rose from the chair at the desk and paced up and down the narrow
apartment, but still he did not speak. And then at last, "What devil put
it into your head to come here inquiring of this matter?"
"The devil himself--I----," she said with a gesture. And then, with a
little shrug and a sober mien, "You may trust me, Gabriel."
He stopped and sat in his chair again.
"_Eh, bien_! As you have said. It is your right. But it is no matter
to be breathed outside this room."
"It will not be the first time I have kept your secrets."
"I should not tell you."
"Speak----"
Gabriel Pochard shrugged. "Last night, late, a man came in here to see
me, a man wearing old clothing and a three weeks' growth of beard. It
was Monsieur 'Orton. He was very much excited and told me a remarkable
story that rivals the tales of Monsieur Hugo."
"Yes, I understand. Go on."
"He said he was wounded upon the battlefield at night, when out of the
darkness appeared just beside him the very image of himself. It was his
twin brother, whom he had not seen for five years, a brother with whom
he did not speak."
"Ah--it was what I thought----"
"The brother took from Monsieur 'Orton his uniform and went on, leading
his men to victory. It was the fight of Boissiere Wood. You have
heard?"
Piquette nodded.
"This interloper took Monsieur 'Orton's uniform, his rank and identity,
and now comes back to Paris--to Monsieur 'Orton's own apartment, and
Monsieur 'Orton's wife----"
Piquette had started to her feet, her fingers grasping the shoulder of
Gabriel.
"His _wife_!" she broke in.
"_Parfaitement_, his wife," repeated Pochard. "You did not know?"
"He never told me," she stammered. "Who----?"
"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," said
Pochard with a shrug.
"You're sure?"
"As certain as I sit here, _ma petite_."
Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.
"Go on," she muttered.
"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur 'Orton
demanded of his brother to relinquish his identity. He refused.
Monsieur 'Orton came to me. It was an act of injustice. Monsieur
'Orton was outcast. Something had to be done. I helped him. _Voila
tout_."
Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while. As
Pochard finished, she searched his face keenly--her frown deepening.
"There's something at the back of this, Pochard. Tell me the rest."
Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder. "I do
not like it, you understand. It has worried me all day--an American--a
soldier. One cannot tell what would happen if the police----"
Piquette understood at once. Her fingers closed again over the arm of
Pochard.
"What have you done with him?"
Pochard bent forward, whispering. "He lies in the house in the Rue
Charron by the river. A knock on the head--_c'est tout_--and
chloroform."
Piquette was silent, staring at the wall. Then she fixed her wide gaze
on the conspirator.
"Bah! You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch you
sure. How much?"
"Two thousand francs."
"And you get half," contemptuously. "Who did it?"
"Tricot and _Le Singe Anglais_."
"Tricot!"
Piquette got up and paced the length of the room, turning quickly.
"You are an idiot, Pochard," she stormed at him furiously. "An
American! Don't you know what you have done? It is the hero of
Boissiere Wood that you have struck down. An American--who has risked
his life for you and me----"
"But Monsieur 'Orton----"
"He has lied to you. I do not believe----" She broke off, caught
Pochard by the arm again and shook him. "When did this happen?"
"L-late last right----"
"And 'Arry 'Orton?"
"Was here--this afternoon----"
"Drunk----?"