"You can't be too sure."
"I can't. But I must trust to luck."
Piquette stamped her foot.
"I've no patience with you." And then, "You will not liberate him?"
"No. I refuse to have anything more to do with the matter."
"You will regret it."
"Perhaps. That will be my own lookout."
She stared at him in a moment of indecision, and then with a shrug,
turned toward the door into the cafe.
"You are an idiot, Gabriel."
Pochard grunted as he followed her.
"You will say nothing?"
"_Naturellement_," scornfully. "I am not an informer. But I should like
to knock you on the head too."
She put her hand on the knob of the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To the Rue Charron."
He caught her hand away from the knob and held her.
"You----! Why should you intrude in this affair?"
"It amuses me."
"I warn you that you will run into danger."
"They will not harm me."
"You must not go."
"Yes. I shall save you from the results of your cupidity--since you
will not save yourself."
"I will not permit it----"
"You have nothing to say in the matter--since you've washed your hands
of it."
She threw his hand off and opened the door.
"Piquette!" he called, but she went rapidly into the other room before
he could intercept her, ran quickly out into the street and disappeared
in the darkness.
She was throbbing now, deep with purpose. It was only in moments like
these that life ran swiftly in her veins. The excitement of the venture
was like a tonic, and she went on rapidly toward the _Boule' Miche'_.
As she walked she went over in detail the conversation she had had last
night in the Cafe Javet. It was not surprising that she had not guessed
the truth last night, for the new Harry Horton's information as to his
brother's affairs had blinded her to the physical differences such as
there were, between them. Perhaps it was the glamor that his heroism
had thrown about him, perhaps it was his gravity, or perhaps the depth
of his voice or the penetrating quality of his steady gaze, but she had
not been able to deny all day a new and extraordinary appreciation of
the newcomer, whose virtues, half guessed at, seemed to bring Harry
Horton's deficiencies into higher relief. And the mystery of his sudden
appearance and the strange tale of Gabriel Pochard provided the added
touches to stimulate her interest in him. As she had told Gabriel,
there was something back of this mystery of dual identity, and she meant
to discover the truth. As to one thing she was resolved, the beautiful
young soldier of the Cafe Javet should not die, if there was anything
that she could do to prevent it.
Tricot was a bad one. So was _Le Singe Anglais_. Either of them was
capable of anything. She was acquainted with them both, but she did not
fear them, for she knew the freemasonry of their evil calling and had
even been in the little room of Gabriel Pochard when they had discussed
their business affairs. But this matter concerned a human being in whom
she was interested. No harm should come to him. It could not be. She
wanted him for herself.
And so at last, having decided that she must move with caution and leave
the rest to chance and opportunity, she went toward the house in the Rue
Charron. She had been there before some years ago with Gabriel Pochard,
when the boat-load of champagne from up the river had been smuggled in.
Thus it was that she knew the secret of the old passage to the river
bank, hidden from the opposite shore by a barricade of old timber. So
instead of approaching the house by way of the Rue Charron she went down
toward the river and turned in to the Quai des Augustins. There were a
few people about but she watched her opportunity and when she reached
the steps descended to the boat landing, where she found herself alone
and unobserved, hidden from the lights above by the shadow of the
retaining wall. Here she paused a moment to think and plan. According
to all the rules of the underworld the prisoner would be in the cellar
of the house in the Rue Charron. But if Tricot or _Le Singe_ were
taking turns guarding him there, her problem would be difficult.
Because it meant a scene in which her persuasions and promises of
immunity might fail, and Tricot could be ugly. Money? Yes, perhaps, if
everything else failed. But she had a sense of pride in the belief that
with luck favoring her she could accomplish this rescue alone.
At any rate she meant to make the attempt--and so, she found the end of
the tunnel and with some difficulty and damage to her gloves and
clothing, wrenched at the boarding. The timbers were old and rotten, as
she knew, and it was not difficult to make a passage. It was so easy in
fact that she began to believe that Tricot had more wisely kept his
prisoner upstairs, but as she moved forward cautiously, one hand
steadying her progress over the rough masonry, she caught the first dull
glimmer of yellow light. As she came to a turn in the passage she
paused a moment and then stole forward quietly, to the foot of the
steps, peering up into the cellar.
At first she could see nothing but a litter of boxes, bottles and waste
paper, and then coming up one step at a time, she searched the recesses
of the cavern one by one. A smoke-stained lantern burned dimly near the
foot of the flight of steps, leading to the floor above, but there was
no sign of any one watching. And so she emerged cautiously from the
dark hole and stood up. In a moment she found what she was looking for.
Huddled in the corner to her right, she made out the contours of a human
figure. With another quick glance toward the steps and a moment to
listen for any sound above, she approached noiselessly. He was trussed
with a rope from head to foot, his hands tied behind him. But he was
the man she sought. She bent over him, noticing his heavy breathing and
the odor of the drug. At the touch of her hand he stirred slightly and
she saw the blood upon his face.
"Monsieur!" she whispered quickly, "it is I--Piquette--and I have come
to help you."
He stirred again and tried to move, but the drug was heavy in his blood.
So she shook him furiously, trying to arouse him.
"It is Piquette," she whispered again.
His lips moved and his eyelids fluttered open. "Piquette----!" he
muttered, and then breathed stertorously.
This was encouraging. She shook him again and again, fighting the
lethargy. He moved and groaned. It seemed almost certain that his
guardians must hear him.
"Sh----," she whispered, "Silence!"
Meanwhile she was struggling with the knots of the cord that bound his
wrists. At last she managed to get his arms free and moved them
backward and forward with all her strength, trying to restore his
circulation. Then she unfastened the cords at his feet and pulled his
knees up, thumping him from time to time and whispering at his ear.
"Wake up, Monsieur! You mus' get out of dis wit' me----"