"Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn't know what to be afther doing, so
we just followed the advice of Father Reilly."
"And what did he tell you to do?"
Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded.
"In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin--this gentleman here--who
lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home.
Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' very lonely, he said, his own wife and
colleen havin' died a few months before."
"That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin."
"We thought so--yer Highness--but it was kind of Father Reilly too--for
nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin
was that grateful--he watched the babby like it was his own----"
"That's true enough. He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened
then?"
"Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook
and me as nurse, bringin' up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin,--alone
in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein'
away to London or Paris on business. But all the whoile I was kapin'
the birth certificate an' all the whoile tryin' me best to take the
place of poor Mary Callonby."
"And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin.
"I had me wages. It was enough."
"And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years
afterward, you received more money?"
Nora's glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly.
"I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand--a proper
share of the sum for the support of the child. And they agreed to say
nothing." He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper. "This,
as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child."
"And the original?" asked the Duc.
"Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.
De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully.
"And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked. "Dead also?"
"Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly. "It's most unfortunate--but
her signature can be verified."
"H--m. And Father Reilly also. Of course," said the Duc with a quick
glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?"
"Yes," said Quinlevin. "Letters from you--accompanying yer
checks--which guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris. The will of
Patrick Callonby and a few other trifles which are important to ye."
"And you think your case is complete?"
"Oh, yes, quite. An Irish court won't hesitate very long just at this
time in carrying out the provisions of this will."
Monsieur de Vautrin smiled. "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked
quietly.
"To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own.
Ye know the terms of the will. In the event of the mother dying, her
fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child. But she's to be
considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which
however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father
and only daughter. Ye've both formed the habits of yer lives--yerself
living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London. Yer daughter is disposed
to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the
future. She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go
on living with me--yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer
bachelorhood."
"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.
Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which
Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.
"As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick
Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling--we'll say twenty
millions of francs or thereabouts--since ye're not a man of business and
allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the
amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two
thirds to you----"
Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin
had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.
"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.
"It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for
depreciation."
"What do ye mean?"
"Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that
I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and
since the war--pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of
Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."
Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.
"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."
"Of course. I commend you to them. And Nora Burke, who might have told
me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be
generous."
"I've tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her
bewilderment.
"And how much more will you tell when there's no money for the telling?"
said de Vautrin, rising.
For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim
Horton strode quickly into the room.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*JIM MAKES A GUESS*
Horton did not look at Moira and quickly sought out the tall figure of
the astonished Irishman, who stood by the table, glaring angrily.
"What's this, Monsieur de Vautrin?" Le asked.
"I beg pardon," said Horton quickly, "but my departure has been delayed
by the necessity for presenting some evidence which had been overlooked
by Mr. Quinlevin."
"A trick--Monsieur de Vautrin," stormed the Irishman. "I'll have none of
him," and moved toward the door into the corridor. But Jim Horton had
reached it ahead of him, and quickly locking the door, put the key into
his pocket, turned quickly, his height topping Quinlevin's, his bulk
dominating him.
"I'm afraid you must," said Horton coolly.
"Must----!" Quinlevin struggled for his temper and then, realizing that
he was doing his cause no good, shrugged a careless shoulder and glanced
toward the door into the adjoining room.
"And yer _compagnon de voyage_? Is she to be with us also?" he said
insultingly, for Moira's benefit.
Horton met Moira's glance as she took a pace forward toward him.
"By what right do you keep me here against my will?" she asked in angry
disdain.
He faced her coolly.
"By every right you've given me--to act in your interest whether you
wish it or not."
"I'm quite capable of looking after my own affairs," she cut in quickly.
He smiled quietly.
"If I thought so, I shouldn't be here."
"Will you unlock that door?" she asked icily.
He did not move and his level gaze met hers calmly. "No, Moira----" he
said gently, "I won't."
"Oh!" she gasped furiously, then turned her back and went to the window
where she stood silently looking down over the garden.
Without noticing her further Horton turned toward Quinlevin.
"You seem to have forgotten your conversation with me in the hospital at
Neuilly, Mr. Quinlevin, and the intimate blood-ties that bind me to your
fellow-conspirator, Harry Horton."
Quinlevin had sunk into a chair in an attitude of careless grace and
playing this old gambler's game smiled grimly up into the face of the
enemy.
"Yer talents for the dramatic will be getting ye into trouble, Mr.
Horton. I've only to be asking Moira to shout for help from the window
to land ye in a jail. But I confess to some idle curiosity as to yer
reasons for this behavior. And I warn ye that when ye unlock the door
I'll see ye into the prison at Monaco. In the meanwhile I'll tell ye
that what ye say will be held against ye."
"And what of the evidence I hold against _you_, Barry Quinlevin?"
"The evidence of a deserter from the American army," Quinlevin sneered.
"Let it be brief and to the point, Corporal Horton."
"You don't alarm me," said Horton calmly. "I've discounted that. Give
me up to the Provost Guard and my brother will go on the witness stand,
against me, but against you too, Mr. Quinlevin, in Monsieur de Vautrin's
interests." Horton laughed easily as the Irishman refused a reply.
"Come. Perhaps it won't be necessary to go so far as that. If your
friend Tricot had done his shooting at Marboeuf a little lower neither
Piquette nor I would be here to oppose you."
Jim Horton saw Moira turn from the window with startled eyes at Tricot's
name, but he went on carelessly. "But here I am, and I'm not easy to
kill, Mr. Quinlevin. If I came through at Boissiere Wood I'm not likely
to get hit now. So you'd better listen to me."
"I've been doing little else these ten minutes, Mr. Horton," said
Quinlevin, yawning politely.
"I won't waste any more time than I can help, but when you promise Nora
Burke five thousand pounds for telling a lie I want to give her her
money's worth."
He turned to the old woman with a frown as he caught her off her guard
but Quinlevin broke in quickly.
"See here, Horton, I've had about enough of this----"
The Irishman rose furiously, but Horton took a quick pace toward him.
"Keep your hands out of your pockets, Quinlevin," he shouted warningly.
"I'm younger than you--and quicker. That's better. And Monsieur de
Vautrin, you will please close the window. The interview is apt to be
noisy."
The Irishman knew that he was no match in physical strength for the
American, and so he sank into his chair again, Horton near him in a
commanding position where he could watch Nora Burke. He was conscious
of Moira's gaze from the corner by de Vautrin. She had not spoken but
he knew that he had her attention again.
"Five thousand pounds for a lie," he said distinctly over Quinlevin's
head. "That's true, isn't it, Nora?"
But the woman had had time to regain some of her composure after the
sudden shock of his first accusation and turned on him defiantly.
"It is not," she replied. "And the man lies who says it."
"Even if it was Mr. Quinlevin himself?" said Horton.
"Say nothing, Nora," the Irishman's voice broke in quickly. "No one can
make you speak."
"But when he says----"
"Silence!"
Horton shrugged. "As you please. But she'll have to answer later, and
it won't be so easy then. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money----"
"It's a lie----"
"Silence!" from Quinlevin.
"It's a mighty small sum, Nora Burke, for so big a lie."
When the woman opened her mouth to speak again Quinlevin silenced her
with a gesture. But her face was flushed and she shifted from one foot
to the other, glaring at her tormentor, who, it seemed, had just begun
his inquisition.
Horton smiled at her grimly.
"It's a mighty small sum, Nora--especially as you're not going to get
any of it--unless Mr. Quinlevin has other means at his disposal."
"I want no money from Mr. Quinlevin."
"Then you're just lying for the fun of it? Do you happen to know what
the penalty for false-swearing is in France?"
"Don't let him frighten you, Nora," interjected the Irishman.
"It's Excommunication," said Horton, grinning at his own invention.
Nora was silent but her face was a study in her varying emotions. She
had not bargained for this, and her knees were shaking under her.
Quinlevin's laugh reassured her a little.
"I'm not believin' ye----" she muttered.
"You don't have to believe me--but you'll wish you'd never left Galway
when Monsieur de Vautrin's lawyer gets through with you--and nothing at
the end of it all but a French jail."
"I never did any harm in me life."
"Except to forget to speak the truth. You're getting old, Nora. Maybe
that's what's the matter with your memory. Because Monsieur de Vautrin
is certain that the facts about the birth of his child are quite
different from those you've related. You've said that Mary Callonby's
child was this very girl called Moira Quinlevin----?"
"I did--she was," blurted Nora, furiously.
"And before she died--that very night--she gave the child a Christian
name?"
"She did."
"You're very sure of this?"
"Nora----!" warned Quinlevin.
"I'm sure of it. Why wouldn't I----" cried Nora, "when I was hearin'
the very words of her tongue."
"And the child was a girl?"
"Yes--a--a girl----"
Quinlevin rose, glaring at Horton.
"Silence, Nora!"
"Then why," insisted Horton, "if the child was a girl, was it given the
Christian name of a boy?"
"A boy----!"
Nora Burke started back a pace, her round foolish face, usually florid,
now the color of putty.
"Nora!" Quinlevin roared. "Keep silent, d'ye hear?"
But it was too late to repair the damage done. Horton had not taken his
gaze from Nora Burke's face, and he knew that he had struck his mark.
He was aware of Moira, who had come forward and was leaning on the table
near him, watching as eagerly as he.
Jim Horton shrugged and brought quickly from his pocket a small red
book, which he opened at a page carefully dog-cared.
"This little book is a dictionary of French and English, Nora. It's a
very good dictionary. Here's a page of Christian names in French and in
English. Here you are: Patrice--Patrick. Can you tell me in the name
of all that's sensible why Mary Callonby named the child Patrick unless
it was a boy?"
Nora gasped for breath once or twice, glancing at Quinlevin, who
shrugged and frowned.
"The name upon the birth certificate is Patricia," he growled.
"Then who changed it?" asked Horton keenly, glaring at Nora.
"Not I, sor. I--I can't write," she gasped.
Jim Horton laughed.
"It couldn't have been Father Reilly, or Dr. Finucane. Perhaps Mr.
Quinlevin will produce the certificate."
"When the time comes," gasped Quinlevin, "ye'll see it--in a court of
law."
"And the death certificate of your own child too, Mr. Quinlevin?" asked
Horton amiably.
"Ay--that too," he stammered in his rage as he faced the American, "but
you won't be there to see. For on my evidence you'll be shot, my friend
the masquerader."
"I'll have to run that chance----"
Moira's voice, tense, shrill with nervousness, broke in as she caught
Quinlevin by the arm.
"No, never. You will not dare. I forbid it."
"We'll see to that----"
The Duc, who at last seemed to have recovered his initiative, came
forward with an air of alacrity.
"Perhaps, Monsieur Horton, it is just as well if you now unlock the
door."
Horton looked at his wrist watch.
"Willingly. Oblige me, Monsieur." And he handed de Vautrin the key.
"Unless there are some further matters Mr. Quinlevin wishes to discuss."
Jim's gaze met Moira's for the fraction of a second and brief as it was,
he seemed to find a glimpse of that fool's paradise in which he had
lived for a while. And then her glance turned from him to Quinlevin as
she moved past Horton toward the door. Nora Burke, her stolidity
shaken, her arrogant mien fallen amid the wreck of her probity, sent a
fleeting glance over her shoulder toward the long mustaches of de
Vautrin and stumbled after Moira.
But the Duc was in high feather again and fairly danced to the door.
"Will you give me your Paris address, that I may send you the money, Mr.
Barry Quinlevin?" he shouted after him into the corridor.
There was no reply. Quinlevin's clever house of cards had toppled and
fallen. But Horton followed down the corridor when they turned the
corner and watched what happened. At the landing, the Irishman made a
gesture and the two women went in the direction of their rooms, while
Quinlevin passed down the stairs.
When Horton returned to the room the Duc closed the door and came
delightedly toward him.
"Ah, _mon ami_. It was as good as a play. How did you know that my
child was not a girl--but a boy?"
"I didn't know it," sighed Horton, with a laugh. "I guessed it."
"But you must have----"
"I got to thinking--last night. The whole story was a lie--why
shouldn't this be a part of it?"
"But a suspicion wasn't enough----"
"Enough for a starter, Monsieur. You'll admit, it _might_ have been a
boy. Just because you always _thought_ the child was a girl, that
didn't make it one. I lay awake. Phrases in Quinlevin's talk in the
studio came back to me and I began to think about the name 'Patrice'--he
said, '_a little hard to read. Patricia it is_.' Just phrases, but
this meant something. '_Female, me boy. A little illegible_----'"
Horton turned with a quick gesture.
"Why should the name Patricia be illegible when all the rest was clear?"
"But you said nothing of this to me," muttered the Duc.
"I wasn't sure. I sent out for the dictionary. It had the Christian
names in the back. Patrice was Patrick. There wasn't any Patricia. You
French have a way of giving males and females the same names anyway.
Madeleine--I knew a Frenchman in America with Madeleine for a middle
name. Aulnoy might be anything----"
"A family name----"
"Yes. Your wife wanted your family name in it--but she wanted her
father's name too--Patrick--so she called the boy Patrice--we can prove
this now, I think."
"Assuredly, Monsieur," said de Vautrin, "you are a genius."
"No. I'm only a good guesser. But it worked. I got the poor thing
rattled. And when I saw Nora's face I knew I'd hit with the second
barrel."
Outside it was getting dark. Horton went to the window and peered out.
"Monsieur de Vautrin, there's nothing to keep you here now," he said.
"It may be even dangerous to remain. You must go away incognito and by
the first train. You've been very careless with your affairs. Lay your
entire case in the hands of your lawyer--telling him all that has
happened here and sending to Ireland for a careful search of the birth
records of the parish of Athlone----"
"But you, Monsieur. What will you do?"
"I shall stay here awhile. There's something else that I must do."
"And Piquette----?"
"I will see that she returns safely."
"You are very good, Monsieur," said the Duc. "Will you forgive me for
my suspicions?"
"Yes. If you will promise to give Piquette the affection she deserves.
She is a child, Monsieur, with great impulses--both good and bad--what
she becomes will depend upon your treatment of her."
"She has saved me from great trouble, bringing you, my savior----"
Horton moved into the bed room and picked up his hat. "Don't let that
trouble you," he said, and then offered his hand. "Glad to have met
you, Monsieur. _Au revoir_. I will see you in Paris in a week. But
don't waste any time getting out of here. _Allez--tout de suite_, you
understand. Paris in a week, Monsieur."
And with a quick wave of his hand Horton went out and walked rapidly
down the corridor. The interview with Quinlevin had served a double
purpose. He had succeeded beyond all hope in finding out what he had
wanted to know; and he had so occupied the Irishman's time that Piquette
could proceed unmolested in making an investigation of her own. He
hurried up to her room to meet her, as agreed. Watching the corridor,
he knocked by a preconcerted signal. There was no reply. After a moment
he opened the door and entered. The room was empty.
* * * * *
Piquette was fearless but she was also clever. It was her thought that
Barry Quinlevin would take no chances with the original birth
certificate and other papers in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin.
It was her suggestion that she be permitted to take advantage of the
absence of Quinlevin and his party to make a thorough search of the
rooms for any private papers. And in this she was aided and abetted by
Monsieur Jacquot, in the office of the hotel, to whom she explained as
much as was necessary, and who provided the keys and wished her luck in
her undertaking.
Jim had allowed her an hour for the investigation, during which period
he had promised to keep Quinlevin prisoner. Here then, Piquette reached
new heights of self-abnegation, for in helping Jim in the cause of
Moira, she worked against her own interests, which had nothing to do
with Moira Quinlevin. Jim had opened her eyes to her obligations to
Monsieur de Vautrin but she had done her duty merely because Jim had
asked it of her. He had kissed her as though she were a queen. She
could never forget that.
But in spite of any mental reservations she may have had in doing
something in the interest of the girl Jim Horton loved, she was
conscious of a thrill of keen interest in the task that she had set
herself. And Piquette went about her investigation methodically,
waiting on the steps from the upper landing until Quinlevin and the two
women had entered the room of the Duc, when, keys in hand, she made her
way quickly to the rooms Quinlevin had engaged. There were three of
them _en suite_, with connecting doors, and with a quick glance along
the empty corridor she entered the nearest one.
An ancient valise, and a flannel wrapper, proclaimed its occupant--Nora.
There might be something of interest here--but it was doubtful, for
Barry Quinlevin was hardly a man to leave Nora in possession of any
documents that were better kept in his own hands. But Piquette
nevertheless searched carefully and for her trouble, found nothing. The
door into the adjoining room, that of Madame Horton, was open, showing
how quickly and easily an _entente_ had been re-established between
Moira Quinlevin and her old nurse.
At the threshold of this room Piquette paused, glancing with a delicate
frown at the articles of feminine apparel on bed and dressing stand.
"H--m," she sniffed, scenting the air delicately, her chin raised.
"Violette!" Then she approached the bed and took a white garment and
rubbed it critically between thumb and forefinger. "H-mph!" said
Piquette again. A pair of stockings next--a small slipper which she
measured with her own, shrugged, and then searched the suit case and
dressing table thoroughly. Of paper there was nothing--not even a
post-card.
The door into Barry Quinlevin's room was bolted on the side where
Piquette stood. She went back through the rooms that she had passed, to
be sure that nothing had been disarranged, locked the outside door of
Nora Burke's room as she had found it, and then went back to Quinlevin's
door which she opened quickly and peered around. Here there was a field
for more careful investigation, a suit-case, a dressing-stand, a bed,
some chairs, a closet--all of them she took in in a quick inspection.
The suit-case first--and if locked she meant to take it bodily away.
It wasn't locked. She had a slight sense of disappointment. It
contained a change of under-linen, some collars, socks, a box of cigars,
and a bottle of Irish whisky. All of these she scrutinized with care,
as well as the cloth lining and the receptacles in the lid, and then
arranging the contents as she had found them, straightened with a short
breath, and looked elsewhere. No. Monsieur Quinlevin would have hidden
such important papers more cleverly than that. Where then? In a place
so obvious that no one would think of looking there for them? That was
an ancient trick well known to the police. But after she had looked
around the room, she examined the bed minutely, running her nimble
fingers along the ticking of the mattress, the pillows, dismantling the
bed completely, and then satisfied that she had exhausted this
possibility, remade it skillfully.
Next, the dressing-stand, inch by inch inside and out, then the
upholstery of the chairs, straightening at last, puzzled. And yet she
knew that the birth certificate must be in these rooms somewhere. She
moved the rugs, examined the ashes in the fireplace, the base board and
molding, took down the pictures from the walls and then, baffled, sank
into the arm chair for a moment to think. Could Quinlevin have taken the
precaution to leave the documents in the safe at the Hotel Ruhl in Nice,
or would he perhaps have deposited them downstairs in the strong-box of
the Hotel de Paris? In that event Monsieur her friend would help....
But her hour had not yet expired. There were a few moments left. Where
else was she to look? She glanced at the picture molding, the walls,
the electric light brackets by the bed and dressing-stand, then rose for
a last and possibly futile and despairing effort. She ran her sensitive
fingers over the bracket by the bed. It was affixed to the wall by a
hexagonal brass plate held by a small screw. She tried to move the
screw with her fingers but it resisted, so she ran to the dressing-stand
for a nail file and in a moment had moved the brass plate from the wall.
A patch of broken wall-paper and wires in a small hole--but no papers.
She screwed the plate carefully into place and turned to the other
fixture over the dressing-stand. This was her last venture, but she had
determined to make it, and felt a slight thrill of expectation when the
screw of the first bracket moved easily in her fingers. She loosened
the plate and as it came out from the surface of the wall, there was a
sibilant rustle and something slipped down behind the dressing-stand to
the floor. Eager now with excitement, she thrust her fingers behind the
plate and brought forth some papers. These she examined quickly in
amazement, then carefully screwed the bracket into its place, recovering
the other paper that had fallen to the floor--success! The papers that
she had taken from behind the bracket she could not understand, but the
paper that she had recovered from the floor was the much desired birth
certificate of the dead child. The light was failing, but in the shadow
of the hangings of the French window she stood and read the name
Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin.
She was filled with the joy of her success and so absorbed in the
perusal of the paper that she did not hear the small sounds that came
from the adjoining room, nor was she aware of the tall dark figure of
the girl with the pale face who for a long moment had stood in the
doorway watching her in silent amazement. And it was not until Moira
spoke that Piquette turned, the papers hidden behind her, and met the
steady gaze of the woman Jim Horton loved.
"What are you doing in this room?" asked Moira steadily.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*AT BAY*
Piquette sent one fleeting glance at her, then stepped out upon the sill
of the French window which extended to the floor. When she turned
toward Moira, a little pale and breathing rapidly, her hands were empty.
"What did you throw out of the window? What are you doing here?" Moira
asked again, moving quickly to the push-button by the door. "Answer me
or I'll ring."
Piquette by this time had recovered some of her composure. "Oh, Madame,
it is not necessaire to ring," she said easily. "I can explain myself
if you will but listen."
"You have no right in this room--unless you are a servant of the hotel.
And that you are not----"
"No, Madame," said Piquette coolly, "I am no servant of de hotel. But
strange to say, even agains' my will, I am your frien'."
"My friend! Who are you?"
Piquette glanced toward the door into the hall rather anxiously.
"If you will permit me to come into your room I will answer you."
Moira hesitated for a moment, and then indicated the door by which she
had entered. Piquette preceded her into the room, as Moira stood by the
door, still uncertain but curious as to this stranger who claimed
friendship. Piquette indicated the door.
"You will please close it, Madame," she urged with a smile. "I am quite
'armless."
And Moira obeyed, catching the bolt into its place and turning with an
air very little mollified.
"Who are you?" she demanded shortly. "Answer me."
instead of replying at once Piquette sank into a chair, crossed one knee
over the other and leaned forward, her chin on her fingers, staring
frankly at her companion.
"You are 'andsome, Madame 'Orton," she murmured as though grudgingly.
"Ver' 'andsome."
Moira flushed a little and returned the other woman's look, a sudden
suspicion flashing across her mind that this woman--this was----
"Who are you?" she stammered.
"I--I am Madame Morin--and I am called Piquette," said the visitor
clearly.
Moira recoiled a pace, her back as flat as the door behind her.
"You----! Piquette Morin! You'd dare!"
"Quietly, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette gently, "I 'ave tol' you I am
your frien'."
"Go, Madame," said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door.
"Go."
But Piquette did not move.
"Ah! You do not believe me. It is de trut'. I am your frien'. I am
proving it by coming in here--by trying to 'elp you in dis----"
"I do not need your help, Madame. Will you go?"
"Yes, Madame 'Orton. I will go in a minute--when I tell you de risk
Jeem 'Orton an' I 'ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool."
Moira gasped at the impudence.
"What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does. I
wish to hear no more----"
"Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de _vilain_ Tricot, to shoot at
us in de train----" Piquette shrugged. "_Sapristi_! Madame
'Orton,--if we 'ad been kill' you would perhaps t'ink it a proof of
friendship."
She had caught the girl's attention, but Moira still demurred.
"I ask no favors of you, Madame Morin," she said haltingly.
"No, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette quietly, "but I 'ave give' dem
freely, for you--for _heem_. Perhaps you t'ink dat is not'ing for me to
do. _La, la_. I am only human after all."
So was Moira. Piquette's purposeful ambiguity aroused her curiosity and
she turned toward the French girl, her glance passing over her with a
new interest.
"I don't understand you, Madame," she said coldly.
"I did not 'ope dat you would. But it is not so _difficile_. I try to
'elp Monsieur Jeem 'Orton, because 'e 'as taught me what it means to be
brave an' fait'ful an' honorable to de one 'e love', an' because you are
blind, an' will not see."
"Not so blind that I have not seen what you would have hidden."
"I 'ave not'ing to hide from you, Madame 'Orton. I am proud of de
frien'ship of Jeem 'Orton. I would go to de en' of de worl' to make 'im
'appy."
"Friendship!" gasped Moira.
"Or love, Madame," said Piquette gently, "call it what you please."
"And you dare to tell me this--you!"
Piquette only smiled faintly.
"Yes, I love 'im." And then, with the simplicity of a child, "Don't
you, Madame?"
Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn't heard correctly.
"No. No. This is too much. You will oblige me----"
"You wish me to go?" said Piquette with a shrug. "In a moment. But
firs' let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin 'as tol' you about us
is a lie--all lies."
"You forget, Madame," said Moira, "that I have seen."
Piquette smiled.
"Because I go to sleep wit' my 'ead on 'is shoulder. An' what is dat?
For shame, Madame. Jeem 'Orton care' not'ing for me. I bring 'im out
of de 'ouse in de Rue Charron--I nurse 'im in my apartment. You t'ink
'e make love to me when 'e t'ink of you?"
Piquette laughed scornfully.
"What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones' man
an' not remember it, for de greates' t'ing dat come' in a woman's life?
'Is eyes! _Mon Dieu_, Madame. I know de eyes of men. 'E on'y love
once, Jeem 'Orton--an' you t'ink 'e make love to me. I would give
myself to 'im, but what Jeem 'Orton give' to me is much more sweet, more
beautiful. 'E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil', when I
would give 'im my body." Piquette stopped, and then, gently, "A woman
like me, Madame, can on'y worship a man like dat."
Moira was leaning against the bed rail, her head bent, her eyes
searching out Piquette's very soul.
"And you, Madame," said Piquette, her voice gathering scorn in its very
suppression. "You, Madame, who love 'im too, you listen to everyt'ing
'is enemies say agains' 'im--you believe dese lies, you let dem try to
keel 'im, you 'elp dem bring you to _deshonneur_. You try to keep 'im
from saving you from disgrace! What kind of a woman are you, Madame, to
'ave a love like dat t'rown at your feet an' walk away an' leave it like
a dead flower upon de groun'? Mus' it take a woman like me to show you
what is fine and noble in de worl'? You sen' 'im away into de night.
_Juste ciel_! Is dere no blood in your heart, Madame, no tenderness, no
pity, for de love of a man like Jeem 'Orton? Love! You do not know
what love is, you----"
"Stop, Madame!" gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under the
wrist that masked her eyes. "You dare not tell me what love is. You
don't know--everything."
"Yes," said Piquette quietly. "I know everyt'ing. But only God could
keep me from de man I love."
"Yes, God!" whispered Moira tensely. "Only God."
The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on the
table and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up at
Moira partly in pity, partly in scorn. Piquette's education had not
fitted her to understand the motives of women different from herself,
but she saw in Moira's face the scars of a great passion and the marks
of suffering not to be denied. And so after a painful moment for Moira,
she turned her glance aside.
"I cannot speak of this to you, Madame," she heard the girl stammer.
"You have no right to judge me or to question my motives. And if I've
misjudged you--or Jim Horton, God knows I'm sorry for it. But
you--Madame--why should _you_ come and tell me these things?"
Moira's breath seemed suspended while she waited for the woman's answer.
Piquette traced for a moment with her finger on the arm of the chair.
"You may be' sure it 'as cos' me somet'ing," she said slowly.
"Does he know--does Jim Horton know?"
"No, Madame. He knows noding."
"Then why----?"
"Because," said Piquette, rising with some dignity, "because it pleases
me, Madame. What Jeem 'Orton wish'--is my wish too. 'E love you. _Eh
bien_! What 'e is to me does not matter."
Moira stared at her dully. She could not believe.
"If you do not on'erstan' me, Madame," Piquette continued, "it is
because you do not wish to on'erstan', because all de sacrifice 'e make
for you is in vain. You listen to deir lies, become a partner in a
crime to get money which does not belong to you----"
"How do you know this?"
"'Arry 'Orton--your 'usband--tol' me de trut'."
"Harry!"
"Yes, Madame. I was a frien' to your 'usband."
"You----?"
The glances of the two women met, held each other--read each other,
omitting nothing. It was Piquette who looked away. If self-abasement
was to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.
"An' now," she said quietly, "if you please, I shall go away."
"Not yet, Madame," said Moira gently. "Not until I tell you that I know
what you have done--that I believe what you have said."
"Thank you."
She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.
"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me."
"It is Jeem 'Orton who should forgive."
"I have done him a great wrong--and you. And I must do him another
great wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the man
you love. God _has_ kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again."
"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly.
"No, perhaps not," wearily, "but you have taught me something. If
sacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it----"
"An' make Jeem 'Orton suffer too----!" cried Piquette wildly. "What for
you t'ink I tell you dese t'ings, Madame? You mus' go wit' 'im to
Paris."
"No. I can't."
"What will you do?"
"I don't know yet. I must think."
"You will do what 'e ask of you."
"No."
"You mus' see 'im."
"No. Don't ask me, Madame----"
There was a knock upon the door into the corridor--repeated quickly.
The two women exchanged glances, Moira bewildered, Piquette dismayed.
She had remained too long.
"Monsieur Quinlevin----!" she whispered.
Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into Nora
Burke's room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin entered
quickly, followed by another figure.
"Moira, why didn't ye----" the Irishman began, and then his glance
passed to Piquette. "Ah--you here, Madame," he frowned with quick
suspicion, glancing toward the door into his own room. And then
suddenly beckoned his follower in. It was Monsieur Tricot, bent,
hobbling, but full of every potentiality for evil.
Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key into
his pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion,
unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared. Moira
had scarcely time to note the villainous look the _apache_ cast in
Piquette's direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon of
vengeance.
"Ah, Madame Morin," he snapped, "it seems as though I were just in time.
What have ye done with the papers?"
The little patches of color upon Piquette's lips and eyes seemed
suddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot's evil
face nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whose
secrets she had betrayed. She was horribly frightened, but she managed
to control her voice as she replied steadily.
"What papers, Monsieur? I know nothing of any papers."
"The papers referring to the de Vautrin case. _Your_ papers, Moira, yer
birth certificate and the letters which went with it."
Moira stood near the door into Nora's room, pale but composed. And now
she spoke bravely.
"Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it. I know
nothing of any papers."
Piquette smiled inwardly. Her embassy had not been entirely without
success. But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming a
certainty.
"Oh, we'll see about this." And striding quickly to Nora Burke's door
locked it securely. And then to Piquette.
"Ye'll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin," he said dryly.
"Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips."
Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.
"You will let Madame Morin go," pleaded the girl to the Irishman.
"No!" he thundered. "There will be no more trickery here. And ye'll
stay here too--under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks."
The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot's sharp
talons had closed on Piquette's shoulder, but with an effort at
composure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which Barry
Quinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness. Piquette caught just
one glimpse of Moira's white face before the door closed between them.
Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sank
rather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.
"This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame,"
said Quinlevin easily, in French. "Our friend, the deserter, locks me
in with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keep
you prisoner until they are found. Where are they, Madame?"
His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires played
forbiddingly in his little eyes.
Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though in
search of a resting place. She feared Quinlevin, but more than him she
feared the evil shape just beside her shoulder. She could not see
Tricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bent
shoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lust
burning in his little red eyes. For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owed
her, here she knew was her real enemy.
"The papers, Madame," Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.
Still no reply.
"You took them from behind the bracket yonder. What did you do with
them?"
"They are gone," she said quickly.
"Where?"
"That I shall not tell you."
She felt the claws of Tricot close upon her shoulder until she shrank
with the pain, but she made no sound.
"One moment, Tricot," said the Irishman, "there are first other ways of
making Madame speak. Release her."
Tricot obeyed.
"Of course Tricot and I can search you."
Piquette laughed.
"Search me, Monsieur. It is your privilege. I am not squeamish."
The Irishman frowned. There was no doubt that what he had proposed had
no terrors for a life model. But there were other means at his
disposal, to find out what he wished to know.
"I should have remembered your metier, Madame," he sneered. And then,
"Our friend Tricot has a long memory. He is not a man who forgets. If
you will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much to
his liking."
Piquette did not dare to look.
"It seems," the Irishman went on, "that the betrayal of the secrets of
the small society to which you belong is a grave offense."
"I've betrayed no secrets," said Piquette, finding her voice. "No one
knows of the affair of the Rue Charron----"
"Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy----"
"No. He will tell nothing----"
"Tricot is not willing to take that chance. Eh, Tricot?"
"No," snapped the vulture. "Piquette knows the penalty. She'll pay
it."
"And if I pay it," said Piquette bravely, "you'll know no more about
what has become of your papers than you do now."
Quinlevin made a sign to Tricot.
"There's something in that.--but I'm in no mood to be trifled with.
That ought to be pretty clear."
"It is. I'm not trifling."
"Then speak. Or----" Quinlevin paused significantly.
Piquette continued to glance around the room as though in a hope that
something might happen to release her from her predicament. It had now
grown dark outside, but her captors showed no disposition to make a
light. And yet it seemed impossible that they would dare...
She tried to gain time.
"And if I could tell you what has happened to the papers," she asked
uncertainly, "will you let me go?"
"Yes--speak."
"And if I cannot tell you----"
"I will tell you, Madame. You will be left here alone in this room with
the good Tricot." And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, "He is a
very ingenious rascal, Tricot. Never yet has he been caught by the
police." Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of the
open window, as though listening. "An open window," he mumbled. "I
left it so--perhaps. But do you go, Tricot, and look out. Perhaps
there is some one below."
The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon the
small portico.
"No one can help you, Madame," Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper,
"for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent." He caught Piquette
furiously by the wrist and twisted it. "What have you done with my
property?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You are lying."
Tricot's silhouette appeared at the window.
"Monsieur," he whispered tensely, "there's a man--below."
"Horton!" said Quinlevin. "What is he doing?"
"Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur."
The clutch on Piquette's arm grew tighter.
"What did you do with the papers?"
"I burned them in the fireplace," she said desperately.
Quinlevin rushed to the hearth and struck a match, examining the ashes
minutely. Then he straightened quickly.
"You lie, Madame. I burned some letters here this morning. The ashes
are just as I left them." In one stride he was at her side again, a
pistol in his hand.
He caught her roughly by the arm and she bit her lip to keep from crying
out with pain.
"He is down there. What did you do with the papers? Answer me."
"Let me go."
"No."
"What will you do?"
"Unless you tell me the truth--shoot him from the window."
"You would not dare----" she whispered, in spite of her pain, "the
people of the hotel--will investigate. The police----"
"Bah! A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls--will
you tell the truth? Are the papers in this room?"
"I won't tell."
"Very well." And then turning to his companion at the window, "What is
he doing now, Tricot?"
"He does not move----"
The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.
"A better chance for a shot, then," he snapped. "Here, Tricot." And he
moved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.
Piquette sprang up despairingly.
"Monsieur," she cried, "for the love of God. Don't shoot. I will
tell."
"I thought so. Where are they? Quick."
"I--I----"
He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot's skinny hand
threatened her throat.
"Speak----!"
"I--I threw them out of the window," she gasped.
It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth.
With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window while
Tricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.
"Jeem!" she shrieked in a last despairing effort. "Go! Go!" And then
the fingers of the _apache_ closed and the sound was stifled as she fell
back in a chair helpless.
"Shut up, damn you," growled Quinlevin. "Keep her quiet, you. Not
death, you understand. We may need her."
Piquette heard these things dimly. A torrent was roaring at her ears
and her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought for
her breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.
"And you, Monsieur?" she heard Tricot ask.
"I'm going down--into the garden. If she speaks the truth I'll find it
out."
Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock,
while she fought Tricot. But strong as she was, she knew, that she was
no match for him. His arms were like steel springs, his fingers like
iron. But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that would
arouse the hotel. But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even the
dim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes.
She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed,
choking--choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came at
her side.
"Be quiet," croaked Tricot's voice at her ear--"or I'll----"
And she obeyed. For death was in his voice and in his hand.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*IN THE DARK*
Jim Horton looked at his watch again. He had kept the visitors in the
apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour. He hurried
cautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied by
Quinlevin's party. There was no one in sight and so he stole along the
corridor, listening. Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms. But
Piquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin. No sound. And so
he waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any moment
to see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman at
least had probably not yet come up. But the suspense and inaction
weighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the back
stair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette,
Monsieur Jacquot. But to his disappointment he found that the man had
gone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice. Quinlevin, he
discovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate danger
from him was not to be expected.
Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty. If Piquette had already
succeeded in her mission, he couldn't understand why she hadn't returned
to her room. Perhaps he had missed her on the way. She might have used
the main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not have
been probable. During the day he had managed to take a surreptitious
survey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated,
and it was only Piquette's suggestion to keep the Irishman busy while
she searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reach
Quinlevin's room from the outside. There was a small portico at the
Irishman's windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached by
climbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-building
where a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good hand
hold--something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything else
failed.
He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she had
been successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doors
securely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, if
molested, she could summon the servants of the hotel. And Quinlevin
would hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant the
police, and the police meant publicity--a thing to be dreaded at this
time with the battle going against him. Nor did Horton wish to make a
row, for Piquette was a burglar--nothing less--and discovery meant
placing her in an awkward position which would take some explaining.
Monsieur Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of trying
to use him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willing
to take a share in so grave a responsibility.
So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a small
corridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for the
Irishman's return, and was just about to go out of the rear door into
the garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard the
sounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed for
travel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column to
watch and listen, the Duc's flushed face and gay mien proclaiming the
triumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, no
doubt a short session with the brandy-bottle. This was Monsieur de
Vautrin's incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of his
beloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the pains
that had been wasted upon him. His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrin
walked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he was
about to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darkness
and stood beside him. A passage of words between the two men and the
Duc laughed.
"A great game, Monsieur the Irishman," Horton heard him say, "but you
have lost. In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of my
avocat. And then--beware!"
Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed off
into the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon the
step. It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had a
companion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light and
Horton knew that Quinlevin's forces had been augmented by one. For
Monsieur Tricot had arrived.
The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, and
went up the stairs.
"There'll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded," muttered
Horton to himself. And then in a quick afterthought, "And maybe a worse
devil--if she hasn't."
He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to the
rear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette's
room--aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she been
there, for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that in
which he had left it half an hour before. He waited for a few moments,
then turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly toward
Quinlevin's door, waiting for a moment and listening intently. He made
out the murmur of voices, a man's and a woman's, but he could not hear
it distinctly. But that the man's voice was the Irishman's he did not
doubt, nor that the woman's was Piquette's. Cautiously he turned the
knob of the door. It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him.
There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it. The
Irishman had the law on his side. If Horton persisted, Quinlevin could
shoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect of
acquittal in any trouble that might follow.
Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs,
past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden.
At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were upon
the other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted.
Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, he
stole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the first
floor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from the
shelter of which he carefully scrutinized the facade of the building,
identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin. Then went
nearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched to
listen for any sounds that might come from above. Silence, except for
the distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.
He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the door
upstairs was not Piquette's--that it might have been Moira's or Nora
Burke's. But if it was not Piquette's voice, then where was she? And
why had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin's wrath at her
intrusion? There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed the
allotted time and that now they had come in upon her---the Irishman and
the rascal Tricot. She was in for a bad half hour--perhaps something
worse.
But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired to
keep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret. They would not
dare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name for
respectability. They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, if
damaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin. So
Horton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainly
waited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now beside
Piquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in the
Rue Charron. He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning the
ascent. And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among the
twigs just above his head. It was within reach of his hand and he took
it--a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled. He fingered and then
looked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf was
another square of paper--and a letter further off, another, and another
hanging in the opposite side of the bush.
In his hands idly he fingered the letter. The paper was fine and it
bore an embossed heading or crest. He was about to throw it aside when
he looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside Barry
Quinlevin's windows--realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery that
these papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those of
the third--Quinlevin's. Of course they were unimportant--and yet....
He started to his feet and looked around. Elsewhere, so far as he could
see, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who was
well paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland. Horton bent over
searching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others.
He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. There was no sign of
occupancy, for though one of the windows was open, both were still dark,
but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the low
murmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a light
for a cigarette.
But the papers in his fingers! He realized with a growing excitement
that they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been long
exposed to the damp sea air. Had Piquette...? Not daring to strike a
light he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way.
And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly. Their meaning
flashed through his consciousness with a shock--a letter from Monsieur
de Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printed
document bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de
Vautrin--the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin's fortunes
hung--and Moira's.
He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting,
for the light was dim. And the real significance of his discovery was
not to be denied. No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers out
of the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate a
thing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means of
disposing of them. He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust the
documents safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to his
place beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for any
other papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare.
Piquette was up there. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why hadn't she
escaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin's return
with Tricot? But why had she thrown them from the window unless their
presence threatened? These and other speculations were to remain
unanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men her
danger was great.
There was a slight sound from above. He peered upward. In silhouette
against the sky was the figure of a man--he couldn't tell whether Tricot
or the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then. They had just
guessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and there
seemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could have
failed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage.
Desperate! Yes, but worth it--for Piquette. He owed it to her. And,
as in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold with
purpose and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would not
dare to shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a man
climbing the wall of his hotel into the window of his room,--that would
be a sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense. And yet had
Quinlevin considered the possibility of Horton's attempting so dangerous
a climb? If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton's
favor.
But there was to be no choice for Horton--for as he stood, measuring the
height of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voice
crying his name. "Jeem!" it called, "Go! Go!"
He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in an
outer pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding,
crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for a
further sight of Monsieur Tricot. He thought he heard sounds now, the
creaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds,
more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her.... D----
them! Cowards!
Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he would
have to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window above
him, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation proving
unreliable. The window sill which was his objective was at least two
feet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of the
projection on which he stood. It was not above him and he would have to
leap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet to
the menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance.
But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching,
swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until he
got a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on the
sill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped the
room was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility;
straightening and climbing the shutter. Quinlevin's portico was within
his reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peering
upward. No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within.... He heard
them again now--fainter, horribly suppressed. He caught the edge of the
portico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and in
a moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.
There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they ... In the
brief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figure
below moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden. He crouched
below the balustrade instinctively. It was just at this moment that the
cautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window to
peer over. It was Tricot. Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and the
impact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of the
room. Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation.
Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of Monsieur
Tricot's knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand that
held it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, just
within the door of the room. But the Frenchman was strong and struggled
upward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck him
under the jaw. That took some of the fight out of him, but he still
fought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered why
Quinlevin hadn't joined in the entertainment. Tricot in desperation
tried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn't pinioned,
and it was about time to end the matter. A memory of the night in the
Rue Charron was behind Horton's blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatly
behind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his head
came into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and lay
silent.
Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair,
into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot's revolver, which
he put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look for
Quinlevin.
He didn't find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, and
gasping horribly for her breath.
"Piquette! It's Jim," he whispered.
Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.
"They choked you, Piquette."
"Tri--cot," she managed to utter painfully.
"I've attended to him. Where's Quinlevin?"
She pointed, soundless, toward the door.
"He went down to look for me?" he questioned.
She nodded.
"Good," laughed Jim. "We'll be ready when he comes back."
He went out and had another look at Tricot. The man was out of it and
there was a dark shadow on the stone work where he had fallen. So
Horton came back into the room, found a pitcher of water, with which he
bathed Piquette's forehead and throat and then gave her to drink. And
in a moment she was able to enunciate more clearly. But she was very
weak and it seemed that her nerve was gone, for her shoulders shook with
hysteria and she clung to Horton still in terror of her frightful
experience. But Horton was taking no chances now and did the thinking
and talking for them both.
"You're sure Quinlevin went down to look for me?" he asked again.
"Yes, _m-mon ami_. Tricot,--'e saw you below--in--de--de garden."
"He knows you threw out the papers?"
"Yes. Into de garden."
"Not now," said Horton. "In my pocket."
"You found dem?"
"Yes."
"_Dieu merci_! It's what I--I 'ope'."
"But we mustn't lose them again now, Piquette, after all this. Is the
door locked?"
"I--I doan know. I----"
Horton strode to the door and turned the key.
"Now let him come," he whispered grimly. And then, "Where's Moira?" he
asked.
"Lock' in 'er room--yonder."
"You saw her?"
"Yes, _mon_ Jeem."
"But she must have heard all this commotion."
"I doan know."
"Um." He paused a moment, glanced at the door into the corridor, and
then crossed quickly to the door Piquette indicated, knocking softly.
There was no reply.
"Moira!" he said through the key-hole. "It's I--Jim."
He seemed to hear sounds within, a gasp, a movement of feet and then
silence.
"Moira--it's Jim." There was no sound, so he unbolted the door and
turned the knob. It was locked on the inside.
A gasp from Piquette, who had been listening for sounds at the other
door, now warned him to be quiet and he straightened. There were
footsteps outside and then a knock.
"Tricot!" said the Irishman's voice. "Let me in."
"Quickly!" whispered Horton, into Piquette's ear, "in the chair and gasp
like hell."
She understood and obeyed him. Horton went to the door, turned the key
and Barry Quinlevin strode in.
"He's gone, Tricot--the papers too----"
So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went around
his throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and he
crumpled backward in Horton's strong arms, down to the floor, where in
spite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him,
his weight on the astonished Irishman's chest, his fingers at the man's
throat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightest
sound. The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important things
are, given some intelligence and a will to do.
Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purely
psychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of the
physical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had so
easily mastered him. And Tricot...? Outside upon the balcony was a
shadow that had not been there before. The game was up. And so he
resorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.
"Well, Horton," he uttered, "ye've won."
"Not yet, Quinlevin," said Horton grimly. And then to Piquette, who had
stopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings,
"The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please."
She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head to
foot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles of
apparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between them
lifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity.
Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as they
dragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs of
returning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward. Of
the two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touch
of Horton's revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin,
writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.
"And now, Quinlevin," said Horton coolly, "it must be fairly obvious to
you that the fraud you've practiced at the expense of Madame Horton is
now at an end. The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket,
where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur de
Vautrin. In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless be
released by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be in
another part of France!"
He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette's voice.
"We mus' not stay too long, Jeem 'Orton. Some one may come."
"Madame Horton?" he muttered, and went over to the door of Moira's room
and listened. There was no sound. "Moira," he said again distinctly
through the keyhole. "Will you unbolt the door?"
A small sound of footsteps moving, but they did not come toward the
door.
"Moira," he repeated more loudly. "You must let me in. We are going
away from here--at once."
No reply.
"It is as I suppose', Jeem 'Orton," whispered Piquette at his ear. "She
does not wish to come."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I saw her, Jeem," she whispered. "I talk wit' 'er. It is 'opeless. I
do not t'ink she will come. She is afraid."
"Afraid--of me?" he muttered incredulously. "I----"
"Not of you, _mon vieux_," returned Piquette. "Of '_erself_!"
"I don't understand----"