And she did, with a friendly frankness, upon the mouth.
It was a very pleasant sanctuary, this, into which fortune had thrown
him, but deep in his heart Jim Horton knew that Piquette had read him
truly. He was no panderer to women's caprices, and he could not forget
the tragedy of the woman he loved, which might almost be laid at his
door.
"You do not mind my keesing you, _mon petit_?" she asked.
"No. I like it," said Horton with a laugh.
But Piquette knew. Life in the streets of Paris had given her a sense
of the fourth dimension. And curiously enough her prescience only
quieted her, made her a little graver, matching her mind--her mood to
his. He provided a new sensation, this outcast hero who owed her his
life and yet was to pay her only in gratitude.
* * * * *
Jim Horton was penniless, for with an irony not lost on him, the money
he had gotten from the bank had gone to pay Tricot and _Le Singe_ their
price for his knock on the head. The clothing he found himself in had
been none too good when Harry had worn it, and the incarceration in the
filthy cellar had done nothing to improve it. Outcast he might be, but
he meant while he had money in bank at least to look presentable. So
Piquette got him a blank check from the bank which he made out and
Piquette cashed, and the next day when he was able to go out, he bought
himself a suit. He came back in the afternoon and with much pride
exhibited his purchase.
She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.
"An' now, _mon_ Jeem, you will be going away, _n'est ce pas_?"
"Is it not better, Piquette? I have not the honor of Monsieur de
Vautrin's acquaintance."
"Oh, _ca_!" she said with a quick gesture. "_Il est bete_. He would
never know."
Jim Horton put his hands on her shoulders and made her look in his eyes.
"That's not the way, Piquette. You are too fine not to see. I can't be
an object of your charity any longer--because it's _his_ charity. I owe
you my life. I want to pay--but not like this. I want you to see my
gratitude in my eyes, the depth of my friendship, I want you to know
that what you've done for me has given a new meaning to courage and
unselfishness."
She turned her head away as he paused, and then gently took his hands
from her shoulders.
"I can pay, Piquette," he insisted quietly. "You do not love the Duc de
Vautrin. Come away from here with me. I have a little money. I can
get more from America. We will find you a place in the _Quartier_ where
you will be happy until you have the home you deserve----"
"And you----," she faltered.
"What I do doesn't matter. An outcast----"
She started.
"You will leave Paris?"
"I do not know."
She released her fingers quickly and went to the window, looking over
the rooftops in a long significant moment of silence.
"And de oder woman----"
She spoke the words distinctly, and yet he thought he must have
misunderstood.
"Piquette, I----"
"What 'appens between you an' your brother's wife?" she asked quietly.
He had no reply and while he hesitated she turned slowly and faced him.
"I know, _mon petit_," she said with a smile. "I 'ave known it from de
firs'. You love 'er. _C'est dommage_. It is a pity. She is ver'
beautiful, dey say."
"I am a fool, Piquette."
"You are not de firs' in de worl'----"
He sank on the edge of the bed, wondering at his own confession.
"I was sorry for her--for her innocence, married to a man like that.
She was kind to me. I played the part and kept silence. They were
going to use her--palm her off as de Vautrin's child----"
He paused and looked up at Piquette, aware that the topic that he had
not dared to broach now suddenly loomed between them.
Piquette faced him gravely.
"Yes, _mon ami_," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.
"I do not know what you wish to do, Piquette, and it is not for me to
say. But before I was hurt, I had planned to find out all the facts of
this conspiracy and tell both Harry's wife and the Duc de Vautrin. You
have given me the facts. Do you want me to use them?"
Piquette was silent a moment, regarding him with a smile.
"Well, _mon ami_, 'as anyt'ing 'appen' to make you change your mind?"
He looked up at her in wonder.
"Piquette, I thought----" he began. But she broke in lightly.
"You s'all do what you wish, but it is a difficult game you play an'
_dangereux_. You do not know Monsieur Quinlevin. If Tricot is de wolf
an' Emile Pochard de fox, it is Barry Quinlevin who is de tiger. 'Arry
'Orton knows. 'E is afraid--what you call--eat out of his 'and."
"I've got to beat him, Piquette."
"Eh, bien! But remember, 'e is not a man to be easily vanquished. 'E
is ver' quiet, ver' cool, _le vrai gentilhomme_, but 'e 'as sharp claws,
Jeem 'Orton."
"A thief----"
"And de Vautrin?" she broke in. "Monsieur le Duc is no better dan he.
He did not care 'ow 'e got de money."
Horton paced the room slowly, in deep abstraction, but in a moment
stopped before her and caught her hands in his.
"Piquette," he said gravely, "you were in this thing--I don't know why
or how, because a woman with a soul as big as yours oughtn't to be
stooping to this kind of rottenness."
For a long while she made no reply, but she turned her head away and
looked out of the window.
"I can't change de way I was born, Jeem 'Orton," she said quietly.
He was silent, aware of the false situation, and thinking deeply.
"I've got to tell her the truth, Piquette," he said at last.
Another moment of silence and then Piquette turned toward him, both arms
outstretched.
"You are right, _mon petit_ Jeem. You s'all go to 'er and tell 'er----"
"Piquette----!"
"_Je ne me fiche pas_. Go. It's nothing to me."
Jim Horton had risen and put his arms around her, turning her face up to
his and kissing her gently. She made no resistance, but she did not
return his caress.
"You are too good for him, Piquette."
She stirred uneasily in his arms and then released herself.
"Go, Jeem----", she said. "Go."
"Will you meet me to-night at Javet's?"
"Yes. _Au revoir, mon brave_."
She watched him go down the stair and then turned in at the door of her
own apartment.
* * * * *
Jim Horton was no squire of dames, but he couldn't be unaware of the
attractions of this lovely pagan. Like her he was an outcast and their
ways perhaps lay along the same paths to oblivion, but before he started
down that road he had a duty still to perform, a wrong to set right, and
he meant to do it without delay. If Harry had succeeded in ingratiating
himself with Moira he knew that she must despise him for his betrayal of
her credulity. But he meant to seek her out just the same and tell her
the truth about Barry Quinlevin as he knew it. He wanted to see her
again--just this once, in order to try and justify himself in her eyes
for his imposture, and then he would go--he didn't much care where.
But he realized as he crossed the river that it was not going to be an
easy matter to reach her unobserved. He knew that Harry must be passing
some uneasy moments and it was better that Harry didn't see him just
yet. But there was the watchful Madame Toupin to pass and it was still
half an hour until dusk when he hoped to slip through the gate and up
the stairs. Meanwhile he found himself a lodging in an obscure street
and then with his hat-brim pulled down walked into the Rue de Tavennes
and boldly approached the familiar gate.
"Madame Horton?" he asked.
"_Oui, Monsieur_. She is in. Do you know the way?"
Nothing could have been more simple. Madame Toupin had pulled the latch
without even looking up at him.
*CHAPTER XI*
*CONFESSIONS*
It all seemed like a horrible dream to Moira--the revelation of Harry's
vileness--the prison by the river, the police, the escape of Jim Horton
with the unknown woman, the homeward ride with the police officer, and
the night in the studio-apartment with locked doors, waiting--listening
for Harry's return, until at last through sheer exhaustion of mind and
body she had fallen asleep. And then, the visit the next day of the
police officer, the questions that she had to answer. But he got
nothing from her beyond the mere skeleton of the tale which she had
given the night before. She wouldn't tell how she got to the Rue
Charron, some instinct still sealing her lips as to her husband's share
in the adventure, and inventing a tale that seemed to satisfy the
requirements of the interview. No crime had been actually committed
though all the circumstances were suspicious. The officer told her that
a search would be made for the man named Tricot and that Madame Horton
should hold herself in readiness to appear against him, if necessary, at
some future time.
The return of Harry Horton, her husband, the next afternoon, contrite
and humility itself, was unpleasant, but they reached an understanding,
pending the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. She kept the secret
of her visit to the house in the Rue Charron and her knowledge of the
escape of the prisoner. She saw that her husband was worried and
furtive and she had no difficulty in exacting from him a promise not to
molest her. In return she promised silence, and he departed with every
protestation of friendship and good will, somewhat reassured as to her
intentions.
As to Jim Horton, the twin brother who had worked such havoc in her
life, Moira was very much troubled and disturbed. The hurt to her pride
was grievous but the joy she had in the very thought of him seemed to
assuage all wounds. She knew now that if he had died in the house in
the Rue Charron that night she would have worshiped him all her life as
a martyr to their unfortunate affection. And the memories of Jim
Horton's tenderness on the day of their parting, the gentleness of his
abnegation, his struggle against the temptation of her nearness--all
these thoughts of him obliterating the horrors that had followed,
returned and engulfed her with pity. Their love had seemed so perfect a
thing! But now--a mockery!
She felt very friendless in the big studio, very much alone. And
yet--could she confess to her father her love for this brother who had
come in and taken Harry's place? The hurt to her pride burned again
angrily. Her father, like herself, had been deceived by the brother at
the hospital and what sympathy could she expect from him? He would be
furious at the deception that had been practiced upon them both, and
would perhaps take Harry's part against her.
Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of the
fireplace. If it was to be war, she would fight. She had married Harry
in a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but the
understanding had been definite. And now she would rather run
away--even from her father--than to fulfill the terrible vows she had
taken. Jim Horton--she wanted to hear his side of the story. Reviving
faith in him made her sure that if he were alive he would come to her
and tell her everything....
A cautious step on the stair outside--a knock. She went over quickly,
turned the key in the lock, opened the door, then stood staring, unable
to speak.
"It's I, Moira," said Jim Horton gently.
"You--," she faltered.
"I said that I would come back, but I--I was detained," he said coolly.
If he had expected her to be surprised at his appearance out of uniform
she gave no sign of it. She opened wide the door and stood aside.
"I--I know," she murmured.
"I won't stay long, but there were some things I wanted you to
know--some facts in extenuation of my conduct, that may make you think
less bitterly of me----"
"You look ill," she said, staring at him. "It is all too horrible to
think about----"
"Horrible, if you like," he said slowly, misinterpreting her meaning,
"but done in a weak moment with a good motive----"
"Oh, not that. I mean, what they did to you--the danger you passed
through----"
"You know of that?"
"Yes. I followed Harry, and got the police----"
"It was you? Good God!"
"It was the least that I could do--after I found out--from him--what had
happened."
He stared at her in incomprehension.
"You mean that he confessed to you?"
She nodded and then laughed nervously.
"I don't know why I should be keeping you standing on the
door-sill--like a model. If you've much to say you'd better say it
sitting, Jim Horton."
He started and stared at her, but she had closed the door behind him and
led the way with an assumption of carelessness to the chairs by the dead
fire, as though aware of its symbolism.
"You know--the truth?"
She shrugged. "What Harry--what my husband--has told me, no more--no
less."
He marveled at her ease, at the cruelty of her chosen phrases. And yet
he could not cavil at them. It was clear that she meant that there were
to be no further misunderstandings, that she was shifting the burden to
his shoulders where it belonged. The sense of his culpability weighed
upon him and he did not look at her, and so he missed the quick, anxious
sensitive glances that searched his face for the truth in his heart.
But he bent his head forward and stared into the ashes that had glowed
so warmly a few nights ago.
"I have come to speak the truth," he began, his voice deep, resonant and
trembling with his emotion. "A visit of confession and
renunciation----"
"It's rather late, isn't it?" she said in a hard little voice that he
scarcely recognized as her own. He knew that he deserved this of her
and more, but it cut him none the less.
"I will tell you the truth," he went on firmly. "And then you shall
judge for yourself. I owe it to you to tell the facts, but I owe it to
myself, too."
She nodded and sat. And so, quietly, neglecting no detail, he told her
of Harry, from the moment of their meeting on the battlefield until they
had met outside in the Rue de Tavennes. He heard Moira gasp at the
mention of Harry's cowardice, but he went on to the end, without pause.
"Something of what followed, you know," he went on quietly. "I tried to
tell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn't Harry Horton. They
didn't believe me. They thought I was still out of my head. And so I
lay there for a while, silent. I think I must have been pretty weak."
He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.
"There were some letters to Harry. I had no right to read them. But I
did. A letter from you to him--about your marriage--showing what a
farce it was. A letter from Barry Quinlevin----" He paused and
frowned. "It was an invasion of your privacy--and his--but you were
nothing to me--then. I was sure that I would never meet you. I thought
that I would wait a few days before I tried to tell the officers of the
hospital who I was. It was a hard thing to do--because it meant that I
would have to pay the penalty of a military crime."
"But sure, after what you'd done," Moira's voice broke in clearly, "they
couldn't be punishing you----"
"Disgraceful imprisonment--and for Harry--the penalty of desertion in
the face of the enemy. You see there were two of us to consider."
"Yes, I understand."
"Then you came--suddenly--without warning." His voice sank to a deep
murmur and he bent his head. "It was a moment for a decision. I hadn't
it. I was weak. I let you believe that I was your husband. It--it
seemed the easiest way just then. God knows I meant you no harm. And
God knows I've suffered for it."
He rose and leaned upon the mantel, his face turned away from her,
summoning courage for the harder thing that he still had to say. "And
there's something else, that made me do what I did----" he began.
"Something more?" he heard her question. "What do you mean?"
He paused a moment.
"It's hard to tell you--but I must." And then, "Have you ever heard of
the Duc de Vautrin?" he asked.
"Yes," she uttered in bewildered tone, "the name is familiar to me. But
what----?"
"Mr. Quinlevin--has mentioned him?"
"Yes, I think so. A man he met many years ago in Ireland. But why do
you ask?"
"Because his life and yours are bound up in each other----"
"Mine?"
He paused painfully.
"Moira, perhaps I'm breaking all the ties in your life that you had
thought most sacred, but I've got to tell you what I know."
"I don't understand--you frighten me----"
"God knows I've given you pain enough already. I'm a bird of ill-omen.
But I'm going to go on, if you'll let me."
She sat motionless, her strained white hands gripping the chair arm.
"Under the cover of the dressing table, in the room there, where I
slept, are the two letters that I read in my bed in the hospital--the
one from you--the one from Barry Quinlevin. I left them there when I
went away. Unless some one has removed them, they should be there
now----"
In obedience to the suggestion, she rose and went quickly out into the
hall and into the deserted room. Harry had not entered it nor had she
even told him of the valises containing his impedimenta that had been
sent down from headquarters. The letters were there. Trembling with
uncertainty she found them and glanced at the familiar handwriting, her
own and her father's, and then came back to the door of the studio.
There she stood a moment, weighing the letters in her hands. Jim Horton
stood as she had left him, leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his gaze upon
the extinguished fire. It seemed that lost in his own gloomy reverie he
had already forgotten her. Never in all the weeks that she had known
him, not even when he had lain in his hospital bed--had he seemed a more
pitiful figure than now--needing her as she--God help her--needed him.
What did it matter what this letter contained? In her heart she knew
that the only thing that mattered to her was the love that this man bore
her. She had recognized it in the deep tones of his voice, which had
thrilled her again, and in the attitude of submission which had
anticipated the change in her sentiments.
It was a moment for decisions, like his moment in the hospital. She had
only to tell him to go and she knew that he would have obeyed her. But
like Jim Horton, she no longer had the strength. Some instinct told her
that here in this outcast soldier--this splendid outcast--was a rock
that she could cling to....
She glanced over the stair and then entering the studio quietly, slowly
approached him, letters in hand.
"You wish me to read----?" she asked.
"Yes, please, Moira."
She glanced at him and then sank into the armchair and opened Barry
Quinlevin's letter. For a long while there was no sound but the rustle
of the paper in her fingers. At last he heard her stir slightly and
glanced up at her. Her face was deathly pale.
"My father--de V--'The money has stopped coming'--What does it all
mean?" she asked. "And what are those papers? What is the agency
working against him? And what does he mean by putting the screws on?"
"It means that Barry Quinlevin is--is blackmailing the Duc de
Vautrin--has been doing so for years," he said in a suppressed tone.
She rose and faced him, her breast heaving.
"Blackmail! My father----"
He bowed his head.
"Unfortunately it's the truth. He spoke to me of it in the
hospital--thinking I was Harry----"
She raised the letter again and read.
"I can't believe--I can't----," but her words trailed off into silence
as she read again the damning phrases.
His heart was full of tenderness and pity for her and he caught her by
the hand. "Moira, dear," he murmured, "I wouldn't have spoken of
this--but _you_ are involved--I couldn't understand for a long while.
They're using you as a cat's-paw--a snare--a stool-pigeon. Perhaps you
don't even know the meaning of the words--it's too hideous!"
"Using _me_?" She seemed unaware of her fingers still in his. "How can
they use _me_? I know nothing whatever of this affair."
He led her to her chair again and made her sit. "Listen," he said
gently, "and I will tell you all that I've found out about it----"
"I can't believe--Who has told you?"
"Piquette Morin----"
"Piquette--?" Her brows drew together----
"A friend of--of your husband's," he said. "It was she who first
discovered our dual identity in the Cafe Javet--a friend of Harry's--who
took pity on me."
"The woman--who--who--helped you to escape?" she gasped, awakening.
"Yes. She shared the secrets of this intrigue. And when they knocked
me out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and went
in through the passage from the river. It was she who took me back to
her apartment and nursed me."
"Oh," she faltered. "I--I see. But what reason have you to believe
that she speaks the truth?"
He had taken his place by the mantel again. "Unfortunately--I had
already proved it by the mouth of Harry himself." He broke off and met
her piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn't have cared what they did, if
they--if you hadn't been a part of the plan. I would have told you who
I was the other night and gone--away.... But it was too cruel. Barry
Quinlevin is a strange man. He loves you--perhaps. He wants to see you
rich--happy--but he became desperate when the source of his income was
cut off----"
"The Irish rents----?"
"There were no Irish rents, Moira. The source of his income, all these
years--and yours--has been--the Duc de Vautrin--hush money paid to keep
a secret----"
"Holy Virgin--! Then I----?"
She paused, bewildered by the very terror of her thoughts.
"Listen, Moira. You must know it all. As nearly as I can get it, the
story is this. Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an
Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with
her her immense _dot_, with the provision from her father's will that if
any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of
the mother's death."
"Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself. "Athlone!"
"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran
away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her--Mary
Callonby dying in childbirth." And then softly, "Do you follow me,
Moira? It's very important."
"I'm trying--to follow you," she murmured painfully.
"When Mary Callonby left the Duc, de Vautrin went upon a voyage around
the world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware of
the death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who was
cared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke----"
"Nora Burke!" Moira had started up suddenly in her chair, her eyes wide
with sudden comprehension.
"You remember her----" he said.
"My old nurse----!"
"Yes. It's here that the story involves your fortunes and--and Barry
Quinlevin's. The infant daughter of the Duc de Vautrin died at the end
of a few months, without his being aware of it--without his even being
aware that a daughter had been born. The death of this child was kept a
secret----"
"But why? Why?" pleaded Moira, a glimmering of the intrigue coming to
her.
Jim Horton turned away again.
"Because it was necessary that the Duc de Vautrin should remain in
ignorance of it."
"Holy Virgin! You mean that Nora----?"
"Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. You were of the same age as the child
of the Duc de Vautrin. There were few neighbors. Your mother had also
died in childbirth. Nora Burke came into Barry Quinlevin's house as
nurse."
"Oh, it is impossible!" gasped Moira. "I can't--I can't believe it."
"It is what I'm to help you to prove."
"But there must be papers--birth certificates--witnesses----"
"Perhaps. I don't know, Moira. All of these things seem uncertain.
The idea is that Barry Quinlevin, taking pity on the fatherless child of
the Duc, and mourning his own child that had died, had brought the
little girl into his own house to keep her until the Duc's return----"
"Oh! It is infamous!"
"That was the way Nora Burke came into the house of Barry Quinlevin, and
that was the way you became the daughter and heiress of Mary Callonby."
"I--her heiress?"
He nodded.
"I do not know all the facts, but it seems that when the Duc de Vautrin
returned to Paris, he was met by Barry Quinlevin with proofs of his
daughter's existence. It was to the Duc's interest to keep the matter
secret, since the income from the Callonby fortune which he enjoyed
would of course go to the child. And from that day to this the matter
has been kept a secret and Barry Quinlevin has been paid for keeping
it."
Moira had risen and was pacing up and down the length of the studio.
"It is too horrible--it bewilders me. Who told you all this?"
"Piquette Morin--Harry told her."
"And--and Harry--?"
"His interests and yours were the same."
She buried her face in her hands for a moment. "Wait," she gasped. "I
must think--think."
So Jim Horton was silent, watching her anguish with pity and anxiety.
But at last she grew calmer and sank into the chair, reading Barry
Quinlevin's letter to Harry again.
"And yet this might refer to something--something else--" she pleaded,
catching at any straw that would save her from this disgrace.
He shook his head.
"I wish I could reassure you--but I can't. The facts are too clear."
She was silent a moment, breathing hard.
"It was terrible for _you_ to have to tell me this."
"Yes--but you understand that I had to, don't you?"
She bowed her head and he went on.
"And now I only want you to tell me how I can help you--how I can make
things easier----"
"What shall I do? What can I----" She halted again, intimidated at the
thought of her father. And then--
"If I were only sure.... Of course the Duc de Vautrin must be told at
once."
"There's no hurry. You must think it over. Verify my statements, when
you can----"
"Yes, yes. I must--or refute them. I see that."
"I want to help you. I'll do anything----"
"Yes. I know--" she paused again. "Whom can I trust now?"
He caught her fingers and pressed them softly to his lips.
"It is a terrible situation for you--but you can't go on as a partner in
this intrigue----"
"No, of course--I must be finding out--speaking to--to him--to my
father--" and then, turning to him, "Whom can I trust--unless it's you!"
He relinquished her fingers and turned away.
"I deceived you, Moira--cheated you----"
"That doesn't matter now--nothing matters----"
"You mean--that you will forgive me?"
He leaned forward toward her, searching her face eagerly.
"Yes--yes," she whispered.
"Moira!"
"God help me! I've the need of you."
He fell to his knees beside the chair and took her in his arms. Her
trouble was so great--the crisis in her life so tragic!
"I've tried to make myself believe I didn't care--," she went on,
whispering, "that everything should be as it was before you came. I
tried----"
"You poor child----"
"But in spite of myself--in spite of everything--my faith in you is just
the same."
"Thank God for that. We must find a way out----"
But she shook her head.
"No. There's no way out--I'm sure of that--for me--and you. It's
wrong--all wrong----"
But she did not refuse him her lips now and he held her close in his
arms.
"Moira," he whispered. "It was meant to be."
"It's wrong--all wrong," she repeated. And then with a sigh, "Its very
sweetness--is--terrible----"
He touched her brow tenderly with his lips and then gently released her.
"Do you want me to go?"
But her fingers still held him.
"No--no--not yet--not just yet, Jim. This is our moment--yours and
mine. And I've been wanting you so----"
"You knew that I'd come back to you, didn't you, dear?"
"I've been praying that you would--you won't be going, Jim--away--as you
said you would?"
"No, dear--not--not if you need me--not if you want me. But I'm a
nondescript now--a deserter--an outcast."
"The cruelty of it! You!"
"I got what I deserved," he said with a smile.
"And Harry? I can't be staying here if he's going to be here, Jim. The
very touch of his fingers ... the sight of him, knowing what I do----"
"He won't dare--I would have him broken----"
"And give yourself up to the Military Police. No. You can't be thinking
of that. I'm not afraid of him--nor of my father. But--they can't be
disgracing you. You must keep in hiding. I see it all now. But you
won't be going away, Jim. Promise me that you won't go away."
"And you'll let me see you?"
"Yes. I _must_ see you. I can't let you go--not yet, Jim. I know it's
wrong. I don't care about the wrong to Harry, but I _do_ think of the
wrong I do myself and you. My love for you has been so clean--so
beautiful, Jim. it can't be anything else--for either of us."
"I love you, Moira dear. I needn't tell you how----"
"Don't you suppose that I know already, Jim? But it's so hopeless----"
"Your marriage--a joke! It means nothing----"
"A hideous joke--but a marriage just the same!"
"You can't be tied to this man always----"
"I _am_ tied to him. Oh, Jim--!" she broke off in her despair. "Don't
be making it more difficult--don't be pleading with me for that--it's
impossible. I'd like to be going with you--away--somewhere just you and
I--but I can't----"
"I'll have patience. Some day----"
"No, dear. That's the worst of it. It can't be, ever. I have
sworn----"
She stopped and they both listened, Moira started--frightened. From
somewhere down the stairway outside came the sounds of a laugh and of
voices in conversation.
"Harry!" she gasped. And with quick presence of mind ran to the door,
turned the key in the lock and then listened. "My father, too--. They
mustn't find you here."
"Yes," said Jim coolly. "I think we'd better have this thing out--here
and now."
"No--no," she whispered tensely. "It would be the end of all things.
Not yet. I must have time to think----"
Already there was a knock upon the door. Moira had caught Jim by the
arm and was hurrying him toward a closet in the corner of the room.
"In here, quickly," she whispered. "You must. My father will go in the
other rooms."
"But, Moira----"
"As you love me--please--," she pleaded, pushing him in, shutting the
door. Then breathless, she turned and faced the door into the hallway.
*CHAPTER XII*
*QUINLEVIN SPEAKS*
A moment longer she waited, summoning calm and resolution, when the
knocking on the door began again and her name was called.
"Coming," she replied, looking around the studio keenly. And then
catching sight of Jim Horton's hat, whisked it under the couch and then
opened the door.
Barry Quinlevin came in, Harry carrying his bag. With a gay laugh he
caught Moira into his arms.
"Well,--it's joyful I am to be back, dusty and unwashed, but none the
less glad to be here. How are ye, child? By the amount of time ye took
opening the door, I thought ye might be dead----"
"I'm very tired--," she murmured, "I've not been up to the mark----"
He held her off and looked at her in the dim light from the gas jet.
"A little peaky--eh--too much moping in the dark. Let's have some
lights--and a drink of the Irish. 'Twill do none of us harm."
He moved into the studio and Harry Horton set the bag down.
"Did you have a successful trip?" asked Moira, putting more color into
her voice than she felt.
"So, so," said Quinlevin. "A bottle, Moira--and some glasses and
water," and when she had obeyed, "There--the very sight of it's already
making a new man of me. Harry, boy--yer health."
Moira sat and listened while he described the incidents of his trip.
Harry could not meet her look, but she saw that he drank sparingly. As
for her father, she watched him in silence, aware of his flamboyant
grace and charm, again incredulous as to the things she knew of him.
But his letter to Harry in her shirtwaist seemed to be burning the fair
skin of her breast to remind her of his venality.
On his way to the bottle he pinched her pale cheeks between his long
fingers. "Where's yer spirit, girl? Ye look as though ye'd been
hearing a banshee. A fine husband ye've got, and all, to be putting
lilies in yer cheeks instead of roses!"
"She stays in the studio too much," put in Harry, uneasily.
"A good jumper and a few stone walls of County Galway would set ye right
in a jiffy. We'll be taking ye there, one day soon, I'm thinking, if ye
don't come to life. What is it, child?"
"Oh--nothing--I'm just tired."
He took his glass and held it to the light with a critical air.
"Maybe it's better if ye go to bed then. I'll just clean up a bit and
then come back and have a talk with you, Harry boy."
And finishing his glass, he took up his bag and went into his room to
cleanse himself, leaving Moira alone with Harry. She was very
uncomfortable, and sat wondering what ruse she could find to get rid of
them.
Harry fumbled at his glass nervously.
"You're going to tell him?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Of course," she said coolly, "the farce has gone on long
enough."
"Yes," he muttered. "Perhaps you're right. I'll tell
him--myself--to-night."
"Thanks," she said quietly, "it would be better."
They seemed to have very little to say. She saw Harry furtively looking
at her, but she was oblivious of him, for her thoughts were beyond him,
over his head, in the paint closet where Jim Horton sat uncomfortably,
awaiting the moment of release But how could she effect it now? It
seemed almost enough of luck to have hidden Jim Horton's hat before they
had entered. She knew that his predicament was hardly to his liking and
in spite of her entreaties, feared that any moment he might be opening
the door and facing the situation.
And when Barry Quinlevin returned to the room in a moment, his face
shining with his vigorous ablutions, any immediate hopes she may have
had of Jim's release were dashed to the ground.
"Ye'd better be going to yer room, child, and get yer beauty sleep," he
said. "I want to talk to Harry."
That he wanted to be alone with her husband was evident, and the request
was something in the nature of a command. Still wondering what she had
better do, she got up and moved slowly toward the door into the kitchen.
They would talk--she would watch at the door and listen.
"Very well," she said languidly, "perhaps I'll feel better if I lie down
for awhile--" and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.
But she did not go into her room. All alive with uncertainty and
apprehension, she crouched by the door, listening intently. The keyhole
was large. Through it she could see the closet upon the opposite side
of the studio where Jim was concealed, and what they said she could hear
distinctly.
"Well, Harry boy," said Quinlevin, "here we are again, and with Nora
close at hand, ready for the 'coup.' There can't be any haggling or
boggling now. A clean million we'll get from it, or my name's not B.Q."
"Did you have any trouble getting Nora to come?"
"A little--but five thousand pounds settles her business. Nora was
always a bit of rogue, but she couldn't deny real genius. And then, a
bit of blarney----"
"But the birth certificate----"
"Here--," producing his pocket case, "a little mildewed and rumpled from
hiding in the mattresses, and the like, but still quite legible. See,
Patrice--a little hard to read, ye see. Patricia it is. Patricia
Madeleine Aulnay de Vautrin. Female, me boy. Born August 7th, in the
year of Our Lord, 1897--signed by the Doctor--Dominick Finucane--and
attested by the Parish priest--a little illegible in certain notable
places, but all quite straight and proper. He can't go back of that."
"And the other servant--who knew--?"
"Dead as a herring--a fortnight ago--ye'll admit most fortuitously--for
I can't keep the whole of County Galway under my hat."
Harry Horton frowned.
"No. And you can't keep Moira there either."
"What d'ye mean?"
"Merely that she'll put a spoke in your wheel if you're not careful."
Quinlevin laughed.
"I won't worry about that bridge until I come to it. She won't object to
taking her place in the world as the Duchesse de Vautrin----"