"Where is he now?"
"I think he has gone to find his wife."
"His wife!"
Piquette sank into her chair, took out a cigarette and smoked rapidly
for a moment. And then,
"What were you going to do with this--this twin brother?"
"I?" Pochard gave a gesture of abnegation. "Nothing. I am through.
That is the affair of Monsieur 'Orton."
"All, _mon ami_, but you can't wriggle out so easily. You've received
money--blood money----"
Pochard put his hands deep in his pockets and extended his long legs,
frowning at the floor.
"I am sorry now. It is a bad business----"
"The man is safe?"
"So far, yes----"
"But Tricot?"
"He waits for orders."
Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with an
air of decision.
"This American must be liberated at once!"
Pochard rose and faced her. "It's too late," he growled,
"No. It's not too late. I know the sort that Tricot is--with the river
just there--at his elbow."
"I can do nothing. That's what worries me. Tricot and _Le Singe_ will
look after their own skins now."
"You mean," she paused significantly. "The Seine----"
He nodded somberly.
"It is the solution of many problems."
She caught him by the shoulders and shook him.
"But not of _this_ problem. You understand. It will not do. I will
not have it."
"You," he laughed. "What can you do?"
"You shall go with me now--and liberate him----"
He took her hands from his arms roughly and turned away. "No," he
growled, "not I. Have I not told you that I am through?"
"Yes. You will be through, when the police come to find out what you
know about the matter."
"They will not find out."
"Don't be too sure. 'Arry 'Orton is a fool when he drinks. He will
betray you----"