"With her, you mean?" he asked. "Not a chance, Piquette. That's done.
But if I can help her----"
"Yes. You s'all 'elp 'er, _mon ami_. I know."
He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe.
"You've got Cassandra beaten by a mile, my little Piquette."
"Cassandra?"
"The greatest little guesser in all history. But she guessed right----"
"An' I guess right too, _mon ami_. You see."
He smiled. "Then I wish you'd guess what's happened to your silly
friend de Vautrin."
"Silly!" she laughed. "Dat's a good word, _mon ami_" and then shrugged.
"'E will come one day----"
"In a week--and here we sit cooling our heels with our evidence all
O.K., burning in our fingers. If he doesn't arrive to-morrow I'm going
to find his _avocat_."
They had examined the birth certificate with a magnifying glass and
there was not a doubt that the final "a" of "Patricia" had been added to
"Patrice," also that the word "male" had been changed to "female" by the
addition of the prefix. With Nora Burke as Quinlevin's only witness and
Horton and Piquette to oppose her, there would not be the slightest
difficulty in disposing of Barry Quinlevin's pretensions. But Horton
still worried much about the fate of Moira, for it was difficult for him
to conceive of her resumption of the old relations with the Irishman.
And yet it could not be long before Quinlevin returned to Paris, and
what would be Moira's fate unless she accompanied him to the Rue de
Tavennes? Perhaps she was there now. Already four days had elapsed
since the flight from the Riviera and of course there had been ample
time for Quinlevin and his illy-assorted company to return. Horton
wanted to go to the Rue de Tavennes and try to learn what had happened,
but Piquette advised against it. Until the responsibility for the
papers was shifted to de Vautrin, she did not think it wise for him to
take any risk of danger. Jim Horton demurred, but when he saw how much
in earnest she was, he consented to remain in hiding a few days longer.
And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having
returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened,
for Piquette's maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement)
brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was a
_Petit Bleu_ addressed to Jim Horton. He picked it up gingerly in his
fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the
envelope. It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people
knew so readily where he was to be found. De Vautrin perhaps----?
Or----
He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder.
It was in French, of course, and he read,
"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight. Forgive and don't fail.
MOIRA."
He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and
stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance. "Forgive."
That was the word that stood out in black letters. What had come over
her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which
she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with
him for sanctuary? Or was it help that she needed? Whatever the real
meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton's mind as to
where his duty lay.
But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.
"When did this _Petit Bleu_ arrive?"
"Not an hour ago, Madame."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, Madame, positive. I myself received it from the messenger."
"Very well, Celeste. You will return to the apartment and if any other
message arrives, be sure to bring it at once."
"Yes, Madame."
"And be sure to take the roundabout way and be sure that you are not
followed."
"Yes, Madame."
When the woman departed, Piquette took the blue slip from Jim Horton's
fingers and sat by the gas-light, rereading it slowly and thoughtfully.
"I must go, of course, Piquette," said Jim quietly.
"Yes, _mon ami_, you mus' go. An' yet there are some t'ings I don'
on'erstan'."
"What, Piquette?"
"It is strange, dis sudden change of min' of Madame 'Orton," she
replied.
"She wants me,--needs me," said Jim, unaware of the pain he caused.
Piquette shrugged.
"I could 'ave tol' you dat at Monte Carlo," she said dryly, "but to ask
you to come to 'er--it's different, dat."
"And yet she has done it----"
"De character of Madame 'as change' a great deal in a few days, _mon_
Jeem."
"Something must have happened. Her position! Think of it, Piquette."
"I do. It is mos' onpleasan'. But I t'ink you would be de very las'
person she would sen' for."
"Who then----? Piquette, I----"
She rose, and handed him his message. "You mus' go," she said with a
shrug, "an' dere is not much time. But wit' your permission, _mon_
Jeem----" she added firmly, "I will go wit' you."
"You, Piquette!" he stammered dubiously.
But she smiled at him.
"Ah, _mon vieux_, I s'all not intrude. You know dat, _n'est-ce pas_?
But Madame 'Orton and I, we on'erstan' each oder. Per'aps I can 'elp
'er too. An' where could she go onless to de Boulevard Clichy?"
Jim Horton stood speechless for a moment and then, slowly, "I hadn't
thought of that," he muttered.
They dined and then Piquette went to her room to put on her hat, while
Jim Horton sat watching the clock which ticked off the minutes before
their departure. Of course Moira's appeal for forgiveness was only the
weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment--a cry for sanctuary from
the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself
to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy
that he would find in doing her a service. What he hoped was that at
last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin.
With that he would be content--must be content--for the thing that
separated them was stronger than her will or his. "There's no divorce
but death." Her words came to him again, the weary tones with which she
had uttered them, and he realized again that there was no hope for her
or for him. Even if his will were stronger than hers, he must not use
it to coerce her.
When Piquette joined him they went forth by a circuitous way toward the
Rue de Tavennes. To be certain that they were not recognized they
avoided the populous streets and chose narrow by-ways, shadowed and
unfamiliar, their coat collars turned up, their hats pulled well down
over their eyes, while Horton strode beside her, saying nothing. To see
Moira, to speak to her, to take her away from the rogue who had for so
long held her in his thrall....
As they turned into the Rue de Tavennes Horton glanced at his watch. It
was some moments before the appointed hour. Under a gas lamp, he
glanced at Piquette. He thought that she seemed pale, that her dark
eyes burned with a deeper intensity, that she was compact of suppressed
emotions, as though she were driven forward upon her feet by a power
beyond her to control. And something of her tenseness seemed curiously
communicated to him. Was it that Piquette knew that the spell that
bound her to him was to be broken to-night, that the strange and
wonderful friendship that she had found was to be dissipated by a new
element. Why had she chosen to come with him--insisted on it even? And
the rapt, eager, absorbed look he had seen upon her face made him almost
ready to believe that she had in her something of the seer and
prophetess at which he had been pleased to jest. He knew that she was
"game," physically, spiritually, and that she could walk into the face
of danger and suffering to do him a service. It almost seemed as though
she had chosen to come with him to-night because it was her final act of
self-abnegation, to bring Jim and Moira together--to help the woman he
loved to security if not to happiness.
As they neared the familiar gate of Madame Toupin, Horton was conscious
of a sense of grave responsibility. It was the same feeling that had
come to him there in the trench before the advance upon Boissiere Wood,
the imminence of great events, the splendid possibilities of success,
the dire consequences of failure, a hazard of some kind, with happiness
or misery for many as the stake.
At the corner Piquette suddenly caught him by the elbow and held him.
"Wait, _mon ami_," she whispered. "Wait!"
He looked down at her in surprise at the sudden pause in her eager
footsteps.
"Why, Piquette?" he asked.
"I--I don' know, _mon_ Jeem," she muttered breathlessly, one hand to her
heart. "I don' know--somet'ing tell me to wait----"
"Do you want to go back?" he asked.
"No, no----"
"What then----?"
"I can't tell you. Jus' a feeling dat you should not go. I am not
sure----"
"But I don't understand----"
"Nor I, _mon_ Jeem," she laughed. "'Ave I not tol' you de _vrai gamine_
'ave secon' sight? Forgive me. You t'ink I am foolish. But it is 'ere
in my 'eart----"
"You do not want me to go to her, Piquette?" he asked.
"Yes. To 'er, _mon_ Jeem. _C'est bien_. Is it not for dat which I
come?"
She hesitated for another long moment, Jim watching her, and then raised
her head like some wild creature sniffing at the breeze.
"_Allons_!" she said. "We shall go now."
He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further
protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a
moment. The _loge_ was dark and the gate was open. This was unusual,
but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty
daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood. Two men were
chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own
affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the
building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so
suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever
known. Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of
his overcoat. They met no one. A light showed beyond a transom on the
second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound
of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the
third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe,
peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would
proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of
the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and
outlined the rail and baluster.
"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself
seemed no more than a whisper.
"I can't see any yet," muttered Jim. And then, as his head came in line
with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed.
"Ah! _Elle est la_," she gasped, falling into her native tongue
unconsciously.
Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply.
He knocked more loudly. Silence again. Then he put his hand on the
knob and turned it. The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering
curiously over his shoulder, and around the room. The gas-light, turned
low, cast a dim light over the room. The corners ware bathed in shadow,
and Horton's gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there.
The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its
canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had
seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty. With
Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette. It
was locked and the key was in the door. It had been fastened from the
studio side.
"That's curious," muttered Jim. "She may have gone out for a moment."
"Perhaps," said Piquette.
Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his
companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch.
"We're a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered.
"I will go down, _mon ami_, and ask when she come back," she ventured.
And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them. But Jim
Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door.
"I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered. "Eight
o'clock. I don't understand----"
"Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis. I am afraid----"
She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her
lips.
"Some one is coming," she murmured. "It is----" she paused, listened,
and then caught him by the arm. "It is not a woman,--it is a man.
Listen."
He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly. The
footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor
below creaked heavily.
"A man! Who?" he muttered.
"It is what I fear'. We mus' 'ide--somewhere--quick!"
The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them. Tiptoeing
over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob. It yielded
and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that
they could look out. The man was now climbing up the stair and reached
the landing. If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they
were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim
Horton's, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat. And while
they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and
then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully
behind him. Jim Horton had felt Piquette's fingers clutch his arm and
questioned in a whisper.
"What is it, Piquette?"
"Your broder--'Arry," she gasped.
"Impossible. He's at camp----"
"I would swear it----"
"In civilian clothes? He knows better than that." He laughed gently.
"You're nervous, Piquette----"
"It's 'Arry, I tell you," she insisted. "I am not mistake'----"
"H-m. It did look like him--but what----?"
"I doan know. Its strange what I t'ink----"
"But why should Harry come here when Moira sent me----"
"An' what if she did not send you de _Petit Bleu_?"
"You mean----?"
"I doan know----"
"That Harry sent it? Why would he want to meet me?" he shrugged. "But
it's queer, Piquette. If he's here to worry her again I'll break his
head."
"Sh----," whispered Piquette, calming him. "She mus' go wit' me, _mon
ami_."
He nodded.
"But she isn't there. I don't understand."
"We mus' wait 'ere."
And so they stood at the door, listening for sounds from below.
Silence. And then a strange commotion close at hand.
Suddenly Piquette clutched Jim's arm.
"Jeem!" he heard her whisper in sudden terror. "What is it?"
He had heard the same thing too, a faint sound, like a cough, followed
by a groan as though some one were struggling for breath. Another pause
while they listened again. There was no mistaking it now. Jim Horton
had heard the same sounds before from the throat of one of the Engineers
who had been horribly gassed. Another groan, then the impact of a heavy
body falling.
Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw
himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again,
again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into
the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette
close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.
In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man,
quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body.
And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering
gas-jet was that of his brother--Harry.
"_Sainte Vierge_," came from Piquette in an awed tone. "'E 'as kill'
'imself."
But Jim was bending over the body.
"Impossible. A knife under the arm--in the heart. It's murder!"
He straightened, keenly alert, and searched the room quickly, weapon in
hand, thoroughly, aware of its possibilities for concealment. A chair
was overturned but the lay figure, the draperies, the easel were
undisturbed, and the door into the kitchen was locked, _the key on the
outside_, as before. The thing was unbelievable, and the mystery
deepened as he searched. Moira was not here--had not been here--he was
sure of it now. This trap, super-natural it seemed, had been set to
catch Jim Horton and Harry--God knows how or why--Harry had walked into
it.
As Piquette bent over to examine the dead man, Horton hauled her away
quickly. He had just wits enough left to know how dangerous was his own
position.
"Don't touch anything--this is a case for the police. Come."
And he led the way down the stairs to the second floor, shouting
incoherently for help, while Piquette, her tongue loosened, now ably
seconded him. And in a moment, it seemed, the entire household appeared
in the hallway, while people from the court and from the street came
crowding up.
Horton, who knew that there was no possibility of the murderer's escape
by the window, stood at the stair on the second floor, guarding it,
still bewildered by the mystery, trying to explain while the crowd
surged up and a police officer who had been passing, forced his way
through. To him Piquette, gathering her courage, explained, telling him
briefly what had happened while they had watched from the room upstairs.
The police officer went up with Horton and Piquette, and entered the
studio, the crowd following to the door, where the policeman commanded
them to stop. Then while he questioned Piquette he lighted all the
burners and examined the body, then the closet, the windows and with
drawn weapon approached the door to the kitchenette. It was still
locked, the key still in the door. He turned the key--then locked it
again.
"You say you tried this door when you first--entered the room?" he
asked.
"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette promptly. "We thought that Madame Horton
might be inside. But finding it locked we did not go in."
The policeman drew back muttering.
"Most extraordinary!" he said. "There is a door from these other rooms
into the hallway outside?"
"Yes."
The policeman pushed a way through the crowd and tried the door from the
outside. It, too, was locked.
He turned to the crowd.
"No one came out of this door?"
"No one, no one, Monsieur."
"And this other door?" indicating the hall room.
"There was no one there," said a man who seemed much at home. "One of
us went in when we came up the stair and came out saying it was empty.
Look! You may see for yourself." And he threw the door open while the
officer investigated. He came out more puzzled than ever, rejoining
Horton and Piquette at the door of the studio, summoning the man and one
or two of the others, with Horton and Piquette, as witnesses, taking the
names and addresses carefully.
"This is a case for the _Commissaire_," he said to them. "You will
please wait."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*MYSTERY*
The sudden extraordinary turn of events and the inexplicable horror of
his brother's death had so bewildered Jim Horton that he stood awaiting
the arrival of the _Commissaire de Police_ in a kind of stupefaction,
looking down at the huddled form of the man upon the floor, unable to
think with any clearness. The officer requested him not to move or
touch anything, and Piquette stood beside Jim as though to give him
courage. But the policeman kept an eye on Horton and remained by the
door, watching outside and in as though guarding it against his possible
escape. Horton noticed this but remained immovable, aware that the
fellow was only doing his duty, and that further explanations must await
the arrival of the _Commissaire_, who had been telephoned for.
The furniture of the studio, each object of which possessed for Jim some
poignant association, seemed strangely familiar, yet unreal. The
chairs, the rugs, the hangings, had suddenly become merely a background
for the body lying among them, a part of it, linked in a horrible
conspiracy of silence, Moira's plain furniture, her easel, which still
bore the placid portrait of the indomitable Parisienne who had refused
to be a _froussarde_; the arm chair by the fireplace in which Moira had
sat, the table from which they had supped; the lay figure in its old
costume, felt hat and draperies; the couch by the window; the brass bowl
on the mantel, full of Moira's brushes--all of them spoke so eloquently
of her. And Moira....
He frowned as he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The
knife in his brother's side had been intended for him. There was no
doubt of that, and the motive for the crime was obvious....
Quinlevin.... Tricot? Yes. But how? His glance passed over the room
again and again, seeking in vain the answer. His guardian had preferred
to await the arrival of his superior before examining the kitchenette
and bed-rooms, but with the door locked upon the outside there was no
hope that the solution of the mystery would be found there.
Meanwhile, Jim Horton's mind became slowly impregnated with the
realization of his own position which must become more dubious when he
answered the questions of the _Commissaire_, for answer them he must,
telling the whole of his story if it were necessary, without thought of
consequences to himself or others. The future became at each moment
more ominous. Horrible as the thought was, they might even suspect him
of this crime and even if he escaped that disaster, with the publicity
which must follow, the Provost Guard awaited him. But at his side was
Piquette, who had seen what he had seen and who knew what he knew and he
felt her fingers clasp his with a valiant touch that gave him courage
and assurance.
And in a short while the _Commissaire_ entered, followed by his
secretary, several Agents and newspaper men. The _Commissaire_,
Monsieur Matthieu, was a man of medium height strongly built, with small
sharp eyes, and reddish hair. He went about the affair with a
business-like mien, exchanging a few words with the policeman who had
first come, glancing quickly at Horton, Piquette, and the other
witnesses.
"Let no one enter the room," he said in his sharp staccato, when he had
selected his witnesses. "Let no one leave it."
Then quickly he questioned Horton and Piquette as to their visit and the
exact circumstances of their discovery of the body. Horton was at a
loss, but Piquette spoke rapidly and in a few moments had given the
_Commissaire_ a complete narration of their experiences from the moment
they had climbed the stairs to the studio of Madame Horton.
"You say that you and this monsieur came to this room by appointment to
meet Madame Horton at eight o'clock?" questioned the _Commissaire_.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"That you came up the stair and as the door was unlocked, you entered
this room, finding it empty?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And the door to the apartment yonder was locked from this side and the
key was in the lock as it is at this moment?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"The rooms beyond, then, have not yet been entered?" he asked of the
policeman who had come up at the first alarm.
"No, _Monsieur le Commissaire_."
"_Bien_. Then we shall enter at once."
He nodded significantly to the two _Agents_, who took their places by
Jim and Piquette, and with his secretary and the policeman following
him, M. Matthieu unlocked the door into the kitchenette and investigated
the kitchen and bedrooms.
When he reappeared some moments later his face was puzzled. But he went
to the big studio window and examined the catches.
"These windows you say were also locked?" he asked of Horton suddenly,
in excellent English.
"They were--all of them," said Horton.
"Then you did not know that one of them was open?"
"Open!" Horton crossed the room eagerly. "I could have sworn----"
"You observe----?" said the Frenchman, and touching the window, it swung
open noiselessly.
"That's strange," muttered Horton, "I thought the catch was on. But
even so," he added, "there was no chance for the murderer to have
escaped there. As you will see, Monsieur, it is a blank wall of full
three stories in height."
The _Commissaire_ peered out. There was a broad wooden ledge or sill
just outside, but the ledge led nowhere and he could see that what
Horton had stated was true. It was sixty feet to the flagging of the
court below and a drop meant death or injury to any one who dared
attempt it. Nor was there any sign of a rope or ladder.
"H-m. We shall wait for daylight for that. In the meanwhile----" he
relapsed into silence, gazing about the room with great care, examining
each object and coming at last to the body.
"It has not been touched?" he questioned of the policeman.
"No, Monsieur."
He walked around the corpse dictating quickly to the man with the
note-book and then drew the knife from the wound. It was a two-edged
affair at least six inches in length, a weapon evidently intended for
just such a deadly business.
"He was struck below the left arm and from behind," Piquette heard him
dictate, "the direction of the weapon in the body indicating without the
possibility of a doubt that the wound was not self-inflicted. A case of
murder," he finished, looking up at Horton, who had followed his motions
with intense interest.
Then he moved the body so that it lay flat upon the floor, throwing a
pocket light full upon the face, starting back in amazement.
"Monsieur!" he gasped to Horton, and then threw the light suddenly into
Jim Horton's face.
"Monsieur Horton, did you know----?"
"It is my brother," said Jim quietly.
"_Nom d'un chien_! I could swear it was yourself."
"My twin brother, Monsieur," repeated Horton.
Monsieur Matthieu's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Jim. "The case becomes
more interesting. H-m. You will now tell me, please, what happened
when you went out of the studio into the hallway."
Horton nodded.
"We thought of going away and returning when Madame Horton, my
sister-in-law, should return."
"The wife of the murdered man?" broke in the _Commissaire_.
"Yes, Monsieur," said Jim. "As we were about to go down to the court
below we heard the footsteps of some one coming up. But it was not
Madame Horton. We knew that by the sounds. It was a man's step--so we
withdrew into the little hall room and watched."
"The facts are curious, Monsieur Horton," put in the _Commissaire_ with
sudden interest. "Why did you wish to conceal yourself from the other
visitors of Madame Horton?"
The question was pertinent and there could be no evading a reply. So
Jim told briefly of Quinlevin, Moira and Harry and his unfriendly
relationship with his brother. As he did so he heard the gasps and
whisperings among the listeners which gave him an unpleasant realization
of their conception of the affair. And the testimony of Piquette, who
grew angry at the sounds from the auditors, did nothing to improve his
situation.
"I see, Monsieur," said M. Matthieu sagely. "It is wise that you see
fit to tell us the truth now since it must all come out later. There
was bad blood between you and your brother and between you and Monsieur
Quinlevin--so that you feared a plot in the _Petit Bleu_ which meant to
do you violence?"
"Not when I received the message, Monsieur. I came here with Madame
Morin in good faith to try and help Madame Horton--to take her away from
a situation in which she was most unhappy."
"And your relations with your sister-in-law?" asked the _Commissaire_.
Horton flushed angrily, but he realized that the man was within his
rights. As Piquette cried excitedly, "Madame 'Orton was on'appy wit'
'er 'usband, Monsieur----"
"Madame Horton and I were the best of friends----" broke in Jim quietly.
"Evidently," said M. Matthieu dryly.
The changed manner of Monsieur Matthieu, his sudden air of intense
interest in Jim himself, and the keen appraisal in his eyes did not
augur well for the result of the investigation.
"You will please go on with the rest of the story, Monsieur," he added,
and then with a glance at Piquette, "And you, Madame, will be pleased to
remain silent until I question you. You say that you realized that the
visitor coming up the stair was a man and that you and Madame withdrew
in the darkness into the little hall-room and waited?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And you both saw the man come up the stairs to the studio door. What
happened then?"
"He turned the knob and entered."
"Had you recognized him as your brother at that time?"
"I hadn't. I thought that my brother had joined his regiment."
"Ah--a soldier! And do you know why he is here in civilian's clothes?"
"I do not."
"Did Madame Morin recognize him?"
"Yes. But I didn't believe it was he--even then."
Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged. "And you didn't realize how much
alike you were in your dark overcoats and soft hats?"
"No."
"And after your brother went in at the studio door, how long did you and
Madame wait in the hall room?"
"I don't know exactly--a matter of four or five minutes, when we heard
sounds in the studio and the falling of a body."
"And you rushed out to the studio door and went in?" asked the
_Commissaire_ craftily.
"The door was locked," said Jim. "I put my shoulder against it and
broke it in."
"Ah. You broke it in? How long did that take?"
"Perhaps half a minute."
"And when you entered the room, Madame was with you?"
"Yes--just behin' heem," broke in Piquette eagerly.