M. Matthieu glanced at Piquette with a frown which silenced her.

"And what did you see, Monsieur?"

"What you saw, Monsieur--my brother lying there--the chair upset--but no

sign of any one in the room. It was very mystifying."

"Yes, it must have been," dryly, "miraculous, in fact. And then what did

you do?"

"I examined the room thoroughly--I was bewildered, Monsieur. I couldn't

understand any more than you can, because the only door by which the

murderer could have escaped I found to be locked--as you found it,

Monsieur."

"Most extraordinary! And what is your theory as to the escape of the

murderer?"

"I haven't any. The more I think, the more astounding it seems. I

couldn't believe, unless I had seen all these things with my own eyes."

"And you, Madame?" he asked at last in French, turning to Piquette.

"What Monsieur tells is the truth, _Monsieur le Commissaire_. I swear."

Monsieur Matthieu laughed.

"Come now. What you two ask me to think is beyond belief. I come to

this room and find a man murdered by a dastardly blow dealt by a man of

great muscular force." Here he ran a careless glance up and down Jim

Horton's long figure. "The only door by which he could have escaped is

locked, exit by the window is impossible, and you and Madame guard the

stairs until the crowd gathers. Do you think you will get me to believe

that the murderer flew up the chimney?"

"I don't ask you to believe anything," said Jim, trying to keep his

nerve.

"But I must believe the evidence of my observation. There is no way in

which the man could have passed you on the stair?"

"None," said Jim helplessly, "until I came up with the policeman no one

went down."

"That is true," added Piquette. "Monsieur 'Orton was armed. No one

could have passed him."

Here the _Commissaire_ was puzzled, for what had seemed clearer a moment

ago was lost in the frankness of this confession.

"Where are the other witnesses in the case?" he asked of the policeman.

"Here, Monsieur," indicating one of the men he had detained. "This man

was in the hall with the crowd. These others too are willing to

testify."

The secretary took the witness's name, Paul Joubert, his address, and M.

Matthieu questioned him.

"You have heard the testimony of Monsieur Horton?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"It is true?"

"In every particular. I and these others," indicating the men beside

him, "came up the stairs to the landing and entered the studio."

"How many were there in the crowd?"

"Eight--ten--a dozen," he replied, while the others confirmed him.

"Did you know them all?"

"Ah no, Monsieur. I live in the Court at the rear. Some of them were

strangers who ran in from the street."

"There was no one in the upper hall?"

"No one."

"And in the hall-room?"

"One of the men who had rushed up examined the room and said it was

empty. I went in myself also and saw that this was so."

"Is the man who first went into the hall-room here?"

"No, _Monsieur le Commissaire_. I do not recognize him, the light from

the doorway was dim and----"

"All right," said Matthieu. "No matter."

And then,

"And the other door from the apartment to the hallway remained locked

all the time?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur. No one came out of there. We tried it many times."

"H-m. And you have no theory as to how any one could have escaped from

the room under the circumstances?"

"No, Monsieur. It is nothing less than a miracle."

The other witnesses shook their heads in confirmation of the testimony.

"That will do, Monsieur Joubert." And then turning to Horton. "Now,

Monsieur Horton, what did you think when you found the body of your

brother, when you had positive proof that unless the murderer had jumped

from the window to death, he must at that moment have been in the room?"

Horton had courage but he couldn't deceive himself as to the intent of

the question. The cord was tightening. He felt it in the looks of those

around him, in the frightened breathing of Piquette and in the steady

gaze of his questioner, which he met with more and more difficulty. But

he managed to answer calmly.

"Think! Why, I couldn't think, Monsieur. I was bewildered, dazed,

stupefied with astonishment and horror."

"But you must give me credit for some intelligence," protested the

_Commissaire_. "Since the murderer couldn't have gone out of the door

while you say you were breaking in, he must have been in the room all

the while."

"There was no one in the room. I searched it."

"That is true," almost screamed Piquette in her excitement. "I was wit'

'im. There was no one."

"Quietly, Madame," said M. Matthieu reprovingly. And then, "Monsieur

Horton, when you searched the room, what did you do?"

"What _you_ would have done, Monsieur--I rushed down the stair and gave

the alarm, watching the stair and waiting for the police. I am as

mystified as you. If I could tell you any more I would do so."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eye-glasses thoughtfully and it was a long

time before he spoke. And then,

"Where is Madame Horton?"

"I don't know."

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"I don't know."

"You have no means of helping me to find them?"

"If I had I would tell you."

A pause. And then the _Commissaire_ cleared his throat in an important

manner.

"I have a feeling that you are keeping something back, Monsieur Horton.

I warn you that you will not make things easy for yourself in making

them difficult for me."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Jim, sure that his position and

Piquette's had now grown desperate.

"Merely, Monsieur," said the _Commissaire_ with a glance at the dead

man, "that blows such as this are not struck by spiritual agencies, that

when there is a murdered man there must also be a murderer. Your

testimony and that of Madame Morin agree, but then I cannot neglect the

possibility that you may have some object in agreeing."

"You believe that I----" Horton broke in in horror.

"I believe nothing until it is definitely proved. I admit that there

are many phases of this case which seem favorable to a belief in your

story. But there are also some points which from your testimony seem to

be--er--incredible. We do not live in an age of miracles. Murders are

not committed by spirits who vanish. There was bad blood between you

and your brother. You yourself have admitted it. Madame Morin had a

suspicion when he came up the stair that the _Petit Bleu_ you received

was a trap intended for you----"

"Which my brother fell into," said Horton, in a last desperate effort to

clear himself. "Why, Monsieur, you yourself can see how like we are.

The blow was intended for me----"

"You are fortunate, Monsieur," said the _Commissaire_, with a shrug.

"And you will have every chance to prove your innocence. But I cannot

take the grave responsibility of liberating you. The case must go to

the _Prefet_ and will be heard in its entirety, including the many

details which have been suggested as to Madame Horton and Monsieur

Quinlevin. I am only sent here to investigate the case in its physical

aspects. And the result of the investigation is to place you and Madame

Morin under arrest."

Horton straightened and glanced around at the others in the room. They

had ceased to have personalities. They looked like wax images--staring

at him in wonder, in curiosity, as though he were already condemned.

From them his glance found Piquette. Her face was white and she was

staring at the _Commissaire_ as though she could not believe the

evidence of her ears.

"Why, Monsieur, have we not told you----?" he heard her begin, when the

officer silenced her.

"You will have every opportunity to testify to-morrow, Madame."

She sent one glance at him, the _gamine_ in her terrified at the Law as

represented in the man before her, and then bewildered, rushed to Jim

and caught him by the hand.

"Courage, _mon ami_," she gasped. "You 'ave on'y to speak de truth."

"I'm not frightened," he said, "but you, Piquette--a prison----"

"It's not'ing----" she said bravely, but he saw that she was on the

point of breaking.

"And now," broke in the _Commissaire_, who had watched this byplay with

some interest, "I am sorry that we must be off. Come."

And giving some instructions as to the witnesses to one of the _Agents

de police_ who had accompanied him, and taking the revolver which Horton

silently offered him, he led the way down the stair, with Piquette and

Horton following, policemen at their elbows.

A great crowd had assembled in the street and courtyard below. Horton

caught a glimpse of the white cap and whiter face of Madame Toupin at

the door of her _loge_, and then was hurried by a policeman into a

carriage which was awaiting them. He saw poor Piquette put into another

one and they drove off in the direction of the _Prefecture de Police_,

where he was shown without ceremony into a cell alone to await a further

investigation upon the morrow.

He sank down upon the cot, buried his head in his hands and tried to

think.

Quinlevin was at the bottom of this--Quinlevin--Tricot. One of them had

done this dastardly thing, believing to save their skins and thinking

that they were killing him. But how had the murderer gotten away? How?

How?

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*ESCAPE*

The events in the Hotel de Paris at Nice, the revelation in Monsieur de

Vautrin's rooms, the confession of Piquette Morin and the startling

events that immediately followed it were all bewildering. From

affection for Quinlevin, Moira had passed through the stages of

incredulity, doubt, and reassurance, and then at Nora's downfall, dismay

at her own position, and after Quinlevin's brutal treatment of her,

aversion and terror. When he turned the key of her door and went with

Piquette into his own room, she threw herself into her chair, aware of

her dependence upon him, and yet ready to run away and throw herself

upon the mercy of the first stranger that she could find. But the

sounds that came from behind the closed door fascinated her, the murmur

of conversation rising and falling, and then the strange noises, heard

indistinctly yet frightful in their significance. The silence that

followed, still more suggestive. She shrank upon her bed in terror,

shutting her ears with her fingers. Then the renewal of the commotion,

as she raised her hands, her terror inquisitive for the worst--the sound

of blows, the grunts of men in struggle, and then the falling of a body.

Tricot and Quinlevin--they were killing each other.... That was the

chief thought in her mind--that and the imperative need of escape. She

got up, trembling, and went to the door, shooting the brass bolt, then

turned, catching up her coat and gloves. The door into the corridor was

locked but she could still go out through Nora's room. She tried the

other door, but found it locked on the outside. She called Nora softly,

then more loudly, and heard the woman answer. Presently, by dint of

wild persuasion, she prevailed upon her old nurse to open the door.

Nora was red of face, disheveled, and bewildered.

"What is it ye want, alanah?"

"I must go--you must go with me," she stammered.

"For why? Isn't it enough I've been through this day widout----"

But Moira pushed her way past the woman.

"Something dreadful has happened--in there," she stammered, her face

white, "I can't stay----"

"What then----"

"A fight--Mr. Quinlevin and Tricot----"

The woman tried to restrain her but Moira flung herself away and

unlocked the door.

"Ye'll not be lavin' me here alone," gasped Nora.

"Come then. Quickly."

And she fled out into the corridor, the woman following, down the

stairway and into the night.... The memory of those dreadful hours of

wandering with Nora along the roads was like a dream in a fever, but

after awhile the physical exercise made her more calm and she was able

to explain to the frightened Irish woman what had happened.

Her first impulse had been to flee from it all--to escape anywhere--but

without money where should she go? With the return of reason came

courage. And with courage a resolve to go back and do what she could

for Piquette Morin. They would not have dared to kill her. It was

impossible. An impulse to tell the people of the hotel what had

happened came to her again, but as she turned toward the gardens,

followed heavily by the frightened Nora, she resolved to go upstairs and

face whatever was in store for her.

What she found was rather terrifying at first, but when she summoned

nerve enough to turn on the light, she saw two swaddled figures

squirming to be free. Madame Morin had vanished. With the help of

Nora, who came out of her state of coma when the facts were made

obvious, she liberated the two men and questioned eagerly.

"W-why didn't you--come before?" was Quinlevin's reply. He was not

pleasant to look at.

"I was frightened at the sounds. I ran away. What has happened?"

"Isn't it obvious?" mumbled the Irishman, spitting out a fragment of the

cotton towel from his dry throat.

"Jim Horton!" gasped Moira.

"The same--damn him."

"And Madame?"

"Need you guess?" he sneered. "They're well on the road to Paris by

now."

"Thank God," said Moira fervently.

He glanced at her but said nothing. His feelings were too deep for

words.

* * * * *

But the day following, Moira was to learn her dependence upon him. He

took little pains to conceal the change of his feelings towards her, the

suddenness of which proclaimed only too insistently the fact that his

years of kindness were only the device Jim Horton had proved them to be.

On the way back to Paris he was for the most part silent and morose,

remaining much of the time with the abominable Tricot, leaving Moira to

the tender mercies of her old nurse, who now shared with her the

Irishman's displeasure. It was indeed a sisterhood of consolation and

she saw that with the failure of the great plan, Nora was much chastened

by her experience, for she sat and wailed in a most discomfiting manner,

confessing at last her share in the conspiracy and throwing herself upon

Moira's mercy.

Moira was sorry for the woman who had brought her safely through her

baby diseases and acted as guide, counselor and friend until it was time

for her to go away to boarding school. And so, mingled with the

contempt that Moira felt for her, there was a little pity too, and a

leaven of the old affection. In those moments of rapprochement and

confession, Moira learned in astonishment the secret of her birth. Jim

Horton had not been mistaken. She was not the daughter of Barry

Quinlevin, but his niece, posthumous daughter of his younger brother,

whose widow had died in childbirth. Barry Quinlevin's own wife, an

invalid and bedridden, had acquiesced in the plan of adopting the

daughter of her sister-in-law, but had not known in the few years before

her own death of the deception that was to be practiced upon Monsieur de

Vautrin. The community in which the families lived was sparsely

settled, the neighbors ignorant and illiterate. If Monsieur de Vautrin

had taken pains to make inquiries at this time he must surely have

discovered the ruse, but he had apparently taken all things told him for

granted, or was too enwrapped in his own selfish pursuits to give the

case attention. So long as he was left to the enjoyment of his fortune

by the paying of the tribute Quinlevin demanded, he was satisfied. And

so Quinlevin managed things in his own way, paying Nora for her silence

and keeping Moira in ignorance as to the source of their income.

If Quinlevin guessed the nature of the conversation that passed between

the two women upon the train he gave no sign of it, but when they

reached Paris and returned to the studio, he seemed to experience a

change of heart toward Moira, did what he could to restore the breach in

their old relations, admitting the truth of Nora's confession and

shrugging off his failure as a matter that was ended. Apparently taking

Moira's forgiveness for granted, he treated her, in their new relation

of uncle and niece, with marked consideration, and planned in his

grandiose way for the future. He seemed to have plenty of money and

spent it upon her generously, but he did not leave her for a moment.

And when he proposed a trip to Fontainebleau, a spot which in former

years she had loved to visit, he asked her to accompany him. Her

reasons for acquiescence were logical enough. Until she decided upon a

definite plan of separation from him, she thought it wisest to assume an

attitude of forbearance. She wanted to go away somewhere where she could

think and she wanted to hide herself where Jim Horton couldn't find her.

For she was sure that he would not be content to let their affair remain

as she had desired it. He would come pleading with her and then--God

knows what she would do. Alone, helpless--she was afraid--of herself.

The little inn in the Forest where they stopped was not far from the

house of some friends of Moira's, and thither if the opportunity

offered, she could go for sanctuary. But here again she felt the

constant supervision of her indomitable foster-father and uncle. He

recovered some of his old spirits and his old affection as he seemed to

be trying to obliterate from her memory the last few weeks which had

been so disastrous to them both. But she accepted these marks of his

regeneration with reserve, enjoying the rest and recuperation and trying

her best to forget the man she loved, praying for strength and guidance

and planning the struggle for existence which must begin when this brief

interlude came to an end. And so in a few days she lulled him into a

sense of security and convinced him of her spirit of resignation.

She wandered off alone into the forest, and sometimes did not see him

for hours at a time, but she did not attempt escape. She was thinking

deeply. She was still afraid that an escape from Quinlevin meant the

other--the greater danger to her soul.

It was upon her return from one of her solitary pilgrimages through the

dripping woods (for the early morn had been foggy), that she learned

that Barry Quinlevin was still in bed. She smiled as she thought how

easily her acquiescence had disarmed him. But when she sent up a

message that she had returned he sent down word that he would join her

at _dejeuner_. Something of the old attraction toward him still

remained in spite of her knowledge of his villainy. She had not yet

been able to obliterate from her mind the many years of his

encouragement in her work, his gentleness and the many marks of

affection. In his strange way he loved her, and the fact that she now

felt contempt for him did not disguise the fact that she felt a little

pity too. But she knew that she must decide very soon what she would

do. There were so many years to set in the balance against the present.

Rogue? Yes. But full of consideration and a lively appreciation of the

creature that he had made her. To cut him out of her life--root and

branch--much as she had learned to despise him, was not easy. But she

must do it--for her own self-respect--to-morrow--the next day....

As she thought of her problems she sank into an arm chair by the fire

and picked up a copy of a morning paper, which a new visitor had just

brought in from the city. It was part of Moira's purpose in hiding

herself from the world to hide also the world from herself. But she

picked up the _Matin_ and in a moment was absorbed in the account of the

projected Peace Conference.

But as she turned the page, her glance fell upon a familiar name--many

familiar names, and in a moment, her eyes starting from her head, she

read the dreadful headlines:

"MURDER IN A STUDIO IN THE QUARTIER.

Captain Horton, U.S.A., killed under strange

circumstances."

Then the news which followed, describing briefly (for space was

valuable) the known facts regarding the mystery, the arrest of an

American, James Horton, and a French woman, Piquette Morin, pending a

further investigation of the mysterious crime. Apparently all the facts

in the possession of the police were given, which, unless some other

details of the mystery were discovered, pointed the finger of suspicion

at the American, who was the twin brother of the dead man.

Moira read with growing horror the familiar address, the names of Madame

Toupin and the other tenants, her own name and Barry Quinlevin's, whose

absence had added to the mystery. The type danced before her eyes like

the shifting colors in a kaleidoscope and then became merged and

incomprehensible. Was she dreaming? With an effort, she focused again

upon the damnable page, aware of this new crisis that had sought her out

from the depths of her retreat.

Harry--dead----! murdered----! What had he been doing at the studio?

There must be some mistake. Harry was at camp a hundred miles away--And

Jim--Jim Horton--his murderer. The thing was impossible!...

She got up, paper in hand, and scarcely aware of what she was doing,

went to her room and quickly put on her hat and coat, coming down stairs

a few moments later and taking the road in the direction of the Railroad

Station. She had no definite plan except to escape her uncle and get to

Paris as quickly as possible. But she was aware that some instinct was

guiding her. She inquired of the Station Agent when the Paris train was

due. She was lucky. There would be a train in half an hour. She

bought a ticket out of the slender means in her possession and waited,

going over and over in her mind the terrible phrases which seemed

already to have burned themselves indelibly upon her memory. The motive

for the crime? There seemed to be none--"except that the two brothers

had not been friendly." Motive! Harry--her husband--and Jim----! Holy

Virgin! She leaned against a tree by the roadside and wordlessly

prayed. Not that motive--not that! And Jim Horton--whatever the things

he had suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through

_her_, he was not the man who could have done this thing. When she

raised her head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was on

her lips, a new smile of confidence and faith. She had tried him. She

knew the kind of man he was. He could fight, in the open, as a brave

man should, but not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his own

brother in the dark.

When the train came in she was calm again and resolved. Whatever skill,

whatever intelligence she had, was to be dedicated to solving this

mystery, and clearing Jim Horton of all complicity in the murder. Her

name was mentioned. The police required her presence. She would go to

them and tell her whole story, neglecting nothing, whatever it cost her.

She stared at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing. But there

was a frown at her brows and her lips were drawn together in a firm

line. She was beginning to see with an inner vision, to turn over one

by one the events of the last few weeks and the motives of all those

concerned in them. The police did not know who had committed this crime

if Jim Horton were innocent. The circumstances were such as to preclude

the possibility of any one escaping from the room. _And yet some one

must have been there and some one, somehow, must have escaped_.

Out of her own knowledge emerged a motive for a murder--not of Harry,

but of his brother--a motive that had already been the cause of two

abortive attempts upon his life. Somehow this thought emerged with

photographic distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment more

definite and more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps two

lives, one of them Jim Horton's, hung upon the keenness of her vision

and intelligence. If Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire_, whose name

had been given in the _Matin_, was balked in getting at the truth, she

would help him. There were many things he did not know, many things

that she could tell him, such as would perhaps open new vistas for

investigation.

Quite calmly now she took out the paper and re-read the details, her

imagination catching at neglected clues, her instinct groping, and her

horror grew--not at the thought of Jim in his prison, but of other

suspicions that rose from every known fact and confronted her--pointing

accusing fingers.

She passed between the white columns of the entrance to the Palais de

Justice, through the iron and gilt barrier and then paused, but not in

any fear, for her mind was made up and her courage had come back to her

with a rush that put to shame her days of uncertainty. So she

approached one of the palace guards and asked to be shown to the office

of the _Prefet_. The _Prefet_, she was informed, was not in the

building. Would any one else do? Was it upon a matter connected with

the administration of justice? She replied promptly that she came upon

a matter in connection with the murder mystery in the studio at No. 7

Rue de Tavennes and the man pricked up his ears, conducting her promptly

up a long flight of stone steps to the left, where he told her she would

find the _Juge d'Instruction_. And when in reply to his question as to

what name he should announce, she told him that she was Madame Horton,

his interest and activity were intense. With a word to the _greffier_

who stood near, he disappeared through a door and in a moment returned

with two gentlemen who hurried forward to meet her, introducing

themselves as Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d'Instruction_, who had taken

charge of the investigation, and Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire de

Police_ for the District in which the crime had been committed.

She followed them through the door from which they had emerged and

answering their questions told her story without hesitation, from the

moment of her visit to Jim Horton at the hospital at Neuilly until she

had read in the morning paper of the crime.

"I came, Messieurs, because it was my duty to aid you in clearing up

this mystery, and because I know that whatever the evidence you hold

against him, Monsieur Horton could never have been guilty of this

crime."

Monsieur Simon wagged his head sagely and plucked with slender white

fingers at his dark beard.

"We are greatly indebted to you, Madame. Our agents have been looking

for you. No doubt they would have found you in time, but it was wiser

for you to come--much wiser. Your story is interesting and may do much

to help Monsieur Matthieu in his investigation, but----"

"But you must admit, Madame," broke in the practical _Commissaire_, who

had a reputation at stake, "that instead of tending to clear Monsieur

Horton of suspicion, you have only added one more thread to the net that

already enmeshes him."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?"

"His love for you--his dislike for your husband----"

Moira flushed painfully. "I have told you the truth of this matter

because I believe that only by knowing the whole truth will you be able

to solve this mystery. If Monsieur Horton tells you that the studio was

empty, he tells you what he believes to be the truth. Why, otherwise,

would he lie about a situation which must surely condemn him?"

"We have thought of all that, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "and I am

willing to admit that there are several points in his testimony which

are very puzzling. We have only finished his examination and that of

Madame Morin, which have lasted the greater part of the morning. Both

he and Madame Morin have repeated without the slightest divergence the

testimony taken in the preliminary examination at the scene of the

crime. I am glad to say also that their statements confirm in a general

way your own in regard to what has happened in the affair of the Duc de

Vautrin. The entire department of Police is now upon a search for

Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and the man named Tricot, who will, of course,

be given the opportunity to explain where they were last night at eight

o'clock. An agent goes at once to Fontainebleau. But that does not

exonerate Monsieur Horton or Madame Morin. A man has been killed in a

room from which the murderer could not have emerged without detection.

The door to the sleeping apartments was locked, the key on the outside,

the window was sixty feet from the stone flagging below. The window and

wall were carefully studied this morning after daybreak. The murderer

could not have climbed down. It is impossible. Monsieur Horton admits

that he did not escape by the stair. How then did he escape? The doors

have been guarded. He is not there now nor did Monsieur Horton discover

him either before or after the murder----"

"And yet he was there, Monsieur Simon----" said Moira, her voice

gathering strength and clearness from the depth of her faith and

conviction. "He was there, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," she repeated,

"all the time. Nothing else is possible."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eyeglasses upon the palm of his hand.

"I should be very willing to believe you, Madame," he said, with polite

scepticism, "had I not ocular demonstration that there could have been

no one in the room at any moment between the arrival of Monsieur Horton

and Madame Morin and the alarm given by Monsieur Horton himself. I have

not yet exhausted every avenue of investigation, but I need not conceal

from you the extreme danger of the position in which Monsieur Horton

finds himself. We have a motive for the crime. Even you, Madame, have

only added testimony as to that. With his brother dead, there was no

obstacle to your unfortunate affection----"

"Monsieur----!" Moira had drawn back from him in dismay, her face

blanched again.

"If I seem cruel, I only speak with the cold logic of the professional

analyst of human motives. The fact that you are a Catholic and opposed

to divorce only provides another reason why your husband should be

removed from the path of Monsieur Horton----"

Everything that Moira had said seemed to be weaving more tightly the

skein of evidence around the man she loved. And this thinking machine

in the eyeglasses, grasped only at the threads that seemed to

incriminate him. And what of the other evidence that she had

presented--would they disregard that? She was trying to think clearly,

connectedly, and presently managed to put her thoughts into words.

"Have you discovered how or why Monsieur Jim Horton happened to be at

the studio and why if he was bent upon the murder of his own brother he

took Madame Morin as a witness----"

"Or accessory----" put in Monsieur Matthieu sharply.

"That is absurd----" broke in Moira with some spirit, "and you know it."

Monsieur Simon nodded approval.

"I am glad you have made that point, Madame. It is our trade to make

our witnesses uncomfortable that they may controvert themselves. But

you have probed quite straight. And instead of answering your question,

permit me to ask you another. Did you send a _Petit Bleu_ to Monsieur

Horton requesting him to come to your studio last night at eight

o'clock?"

The expression upon Moira's face showed so genuine an astonishment that

there could be no doubting the sincerity of her reply.

"I? No, Monsieur Simon. I was at Fontainebleau. Why should I ask him

to come to the studio when I was not there?"

The two men exchanged glances of new interest.

"Both Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin testify that Monsieur Horton

received such a message."

Moira started forward in her chair.

"What did that message say, Messieurs?"

Monsieur Simon took the blue slip from a packet of papers and laid it

before her. With eyes dilated, she read the message that was signed

with her name. Then for a moment frowned deeply, staring at this

confirmation of her suspicion.

"What do you think, Madame?" asked Simon.

Moira was silent for a moment, struggling for the mastery of her

emotions. And then in a suppressed tone, barely audible,

"It is as I supposed, Messieurs. Monsieur Jim Horton was lured to the

studio by this message and--my husband--was killed by mistake in his

stead."

"By whom, Madame?" asked the Judge quickly.

Moira made a nervous gesture of recantation.

"I--I do not know. It is horrible to suspect without further proof.

I--I cannot say."

"Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"That's impossible. He was at Fontainebleau."

"Then who----?"

"That's for you to find out. I did not come to accuse--but to liberate.

Search! Find! Let their own words convict them," she said wildly. "I

cannot. I only know that Monsieur Horton did not kill my husband. That

is impossible."

Monsieur Matthieu, who had listened for most of the while in silence,

now rose and took a pace or two before her, tapping his glasses quickly

against his palm.

"Madame Horton, let us confine ourselves to the physical evidence that

confronts us. _No one could have been in that studio between the moment

when Monsieur Jim Horton and Madame Morin say they left it until they

say they returned some moments later_. That is the fact. I know. It is

my business to neglect nothing. I _have_ neglected nothing. Therefore

I tell you that no matter whom you suspect to have committed this

murder, no matter whom Monsieur Simon or I might believe to have had a

motive in committing it, the fact remains that he could not have entered

the studio or departed from it during the short period in which this

crime was committed. And I say to you now that _no human being except

Monsieur Horton could have been present to commit this murder_."

"And yet," said Moira desperately, "a human being other than Monsieur

Horton killed my husband."

Monsieur Matthieu shrugged and smiled.

"You have not investigated as I have done, Madame," he said.

"No, Monsieur. But I am right," she said firmly.

"You are persistent."

"It is my duty to find the truth of this matter."

"And mine--but not to achieve the impossible----"

Monsieur Simon, whose nervous fingers had been caressing his dark beard,

while his small deep-set eyes followed the changing emotions in Moira's

troubled face, now broke into the discussion with some spirit.

"It is not safe, _Monsieur le Commissaire_, to disregard the intuitions

of a woman. In this case, since we have weighed all immediate evidence,

perhaps it would be wise to give Madame Horton the opportunity of

confirming to her own satisfaction the results of your investigation."

Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged again.

"_Volontiers_, Monsieur, if you think it worth while."

"At least it can do no harm. Madame Horton is familiar with her own

studio. Perhaps she may notice something that has escaped your eye."

"As you please."

"It is that which you desire, Madame?" asked the Judge.

"Oh, thanks, Monsieur," uttered Moira gratefully. "I could not be

satisfied, even after the skill of _Monsieur le Commissaire_, unless I

had probed this mystery with my own eyes."

"Come, then, Madame. There is still time. We shall go at once."

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*THE CLUE*

The body of Harry Horton had been removed from the studio and this it

seemed made Moira's task less painful. But she was now armed with a

desperate courage which even the sight of Harry's mangled body would not

have dismayed. And the thought that her keenness of perception, her

intelligence, her woman's instinct were the only weapons she had with

which to combat the scepticism of this skillful detective and save Jim

Horton from the perils of impending indictment for murder, gave her a

sense of responsibility which keyed her faculties to their utmost and

drove from her heart all terrors of her situation. She _must_ succeed

where Monsieur Matthieu had failed. Instinct would guide her, instinct

and faith. Monsieur Matthieu, if not her enemy, was prejudiced in favor

of a pre-conceived idea which every bit of evidence justified, and yet

there must be other evidence--clues neglected, trifles overlooked--and

she must find them out.

The burden of the testimony against Jim Horton would fall if she could

prove it physically possible _for some one to have been in the studio

while Jim Horton and Piquette had waited outside_. This was her

object--nothing else seemed to matter.

On the way to the Rue de Tavennes in a cab Monsieur Simon replied

politely to her questions, giving her all the information she desired,

while Monsieur Matthieu sat opposite. How she hated the man! His smile

patronized, his reddish hair inflamed her. She could see that in his

mind Jim Horton was already convicted. But when they reached the _porte

cochere_ of Madame Toupin, Monsieur Simon handed her gravely down and

Monsieur Matthieu led the way up the stair to the studio where a

policeman was still on guard. Moira followed the _Commissaire_ closely

and stood for a moment on the threshold of the room while Monsieur

Matthieu unbent enough to show her where the body lay and to indicate

the locked door and the chair which had been overturned. To Moira these

matters were already unimportant, since she saw no reason to deny the

testimony of the many witnesses on these points. She entered the room

slowly, with a feeling of some awe, and for a moment stood by the

fireplace, glancing from one object to the other, thinking deeply. A

dark stain on the rug, just before her, gave her a tremor, but she

recovered herself immediately and walked slowly around the room,

examining each object as though she had never seen it before.

"Does Madame wish to look in the apartment or the kitchenette?" she

heard Monsieur Matthieu's voice asking.

But she shook her head. The answer to the mystery lay here--in this

very room. She was already satisfied as to that.

"Is this room in the precise condition in which it was found when the

police first arrived?" she asked coolly.

"Yes, Madame, except for the removal of the body, nothing has been

disturbed."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am, Madame. It is for this reason that a policeman has been always

on guard."

"And you yourself, Monsieur,--you have moved no object--no drapery--no

chair?"

"No, Madame. Nothing. I climbed upon the couch to look out of the

window. That is all."

She nodded and passed around the lay figure which she was regarding with

a new interest.

"And the gray drapery on the shoulder of the lay figure--you say it has

not been touched?"

Monsieur Matthieu looked up with a smile.

"I examined the figure carefully, Madame. I may have raised the

drapery--but I restored it as I found it."

"Then things are not precisely as they were," she said keenly.

"No, Madame. Not the gray drapery," said Matthieu amusedly.

"You did not touch the bolero jacket?"

"No, Madame."

"Nor the skirt?"

"I am quite sure of that," said the _Commissaire_.

She removed the hat from the head of _papier mache_ and examined it

minutely, then took off the head itself and stared into the painted eyes

as though asking the mute familiar lips a question. And then suddenly,

as the _Commissaire_ and Monsieur Simon watched curiously,

"It is a pity that you moved the draperies, Monsieur Matthieu," she said

slowly.

"Why, Madame?"

"Because you have disturbed the dust."

"I can't understand why----"

"I was away for a week. Some dust would have accumulated, upon the

draperies--the figure has been touched. It is not as I left it."

"Of course, Madame, I made a thorough investigation----"

"And what did you learn from it?" she asked quietly.

Monsieur Matthieu glanced at her once and then shrugged.

"Nothing, Madame. A lay figure is a lay figure."

"True," said Moira carelessly, but the _Commissaire_ found himself

regarding her with a new appraising eye. What did she mean by this

question?

But she moved past him quickly as though with a definite purpose, and

approached the north window.

"Which of these sashes was unlocked, Monsieur?"

"The one to the right, Madame."

"I see. You say it was closed but not fastened?"

"That is correct."

"That is strange."

"Why, Madame?"

"Because I fastened it with great care before I left for Fontainebleau."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive. It has an awkward catch. You see?"

And she demonstrated how easily it came unlatched unless pressed firmly

down.

Monsieur Matthieu came forward smiling.

"You only indicate, Madame, that it will slip easily out of place."

Moira met his gaze firmly.

"Try to make it slip, Monsieur," she said, "since I have fastened it."

He tried by tapping--by shaking the window, but the catch held.

"It is a matter of little moment," he muttered, "since it would be

impossible for the murderer to have escaped by this way."

"Perhaps," said Moira.

But while she spoke she unlocked the catch, then slipped it insecurely

into place and stood aside, studying it keenly.

"What is it that interests you, Madame?" asked the _Juge d'Instruction_.

"The catch, Monsieur," she replied quietly. "It is an old one. The

edges are worn quite smooth." And just then as a breeze came from

without, the French window swung gently open.

Monsieur Matthieu started back a pace and glanced at Monsieur Simon.

"You found this window open, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," said the Judge.

"That is true," replied the _Commissaire_ confidently, "but it is

possible that Monsieur Horton may have disturbed it when he examined it

before the murder."

Moira turned quickly.

"The window was securely locked. I left it so. Monsieur Horton found it

so. You make nothing of this, either, _Monsieur le Commissaire_?"

Monsieur Matthieu shook his head and pointed toward the opening.

"My answer to your questions, Madame, is yonder," he said with a grin.

"Explain to me how any living man could have descended from that window

and I will surrender to you my position and my reputation as

_Commissaire de Police_."

Moira made no reply. She had climbed upon the couch and was already

half out of the window, examining the broad ledge outside, while

Monsieur Simon, somewhat alarmed lest she should lose her balance, had

caught her by the skirt of her dress.

"Be careful, Madame," he warned, "you may fall."

"Have no fear, _Monsieur le Juge_," she said with a smile. But she had

lowered herself to her knees upon the ledge outside and clinging to the

jamb of the window was carefully examining every inch of the sill and

tin gutter.

Monsieur Matthieu, inside the room, had lighted a cigarette and was

puffing at it contentedly, looking on with an amused tolerance at the

solicitude of Monsieur Simon, who as he knew was more easily swayed than

himself from the paths of his duty by a pretty face or a well-turned

ankle. Through the panes of glass he saw that the girl had bent forward

at the edge, her eyes near the tin gutter, the fingers of one hand

touching the edge, while Monsieur Simon held her other arm and besought

her to return. This she did presently, standing for a moment upright in

the open window and looking down at them intently, a challenge in her

eyes for the _Commissaire_.

"Did you discover anything, Madame?" he asked politely enough.

Though his professional manner may not have indicated it, Monsieur

Matthieu was sorry for her. She had attempted the impossible. Her

lover was doomed. But she was handsome--with the fine color that had

come into her face from her exertions, and the new gleam of hope that

had come into her eyes--handsome, but her effort was futile, so futile

to hope to find clues where he, Matthieu, had failed.

She didn't reply and accepting the hand which the gallant _Juge

d'Instruction_ offered her, stepped down to the couch and so to the

floor.

"You see, Madame," ventured the _Commissaire_ more kindly, "that it

would be quite out of the question for the murderer to have descended

from the window."

"I have never thought that he did, Monsieur," said Moira dryly.

The _Commissaire_ stared at her for a moment in astonishment. What was

the meaning of this sudden assurance in her tone? Could it be possible

that this girl had noted something that he had overlooked? That she had

evolved a theory out of some intangible bit of evidence that had escaped

him? Impossible. And yet curiously enough, he experienced a slight

feeling of uneasiness which might have been discomfort had he not been

so sure of himself.

"You have perhaps happened upon something that has escaped my eye?" he

asked frankly.

"I do not know what your eye saw or what it did not see, Monsieur," she

said quietly, "but I have learned nothing to make me change my opinions

as to this crime."

"I hope that you will be able to confirm them," said the _Commissaire_.

"If there is anything that I can do----"

"Yes, Monsieur," broke in Moira with precision. "If _Monsieur le Juge

d'Instruction_ will grant permission," with a flash of her eyes at

Monsieur Simon, "I would be obliged if you will summon for me Monsieur

Joubert or any others in the building who followed Monsieur Horton up

the stair."

She glanced at Monsieur Simon, who bowed his head in agreement.

"By all means," said the Judge, "if Madame has reason to believe----"

"I ask it, _Monsieur le Juge_, not as a favor, but as a necessary step

in the administration of justice in this case."

"It is little enough. Go, Monsieur. Here are the names. Madame Toupin

will direct you."

Monsieur Matthieu hesitated. He did not wish to leave the room.

Something had happened to change the manner of this woman. Her eyes

glowed--she was authoritative--inspired. He was beginning to believe

that after all...

"You will please go at once, Monsieur," the voice of the Judge was

saying. "Madame and I will await your return."

And so with a backward glance, Monsieur Matthieu went out.

"You think you have found a clue, Madame?" asked Monsieur Simon with an

air of encouragement.

"I don't know, Monsieur--a hope--perhaps a vain one. But you are

friendly. You shall see."

And crossing quickly in front of him she went directly to the lay figure

and examined it minutely.

"This old skirt, Monsieur, as you will observe, is fastened by buttons

and is somewhat twisted to one side."

"Yes, Madame."

"This was the first thing that attracted my attention. But one button

holds it, and it is fastened at the wrong button-hole."

"And what does that signify?"

"Merely that it has been tampered with--I did not fasten it in this way,

Monsieur," she said positively.

"You are sure?" Monsieur Simon was now as eager as she.

"Absolutely. I am a leisurely person. I have done all the cleaning in

this studio myself. I am careful in small matters. It would have been

impossible for me to have fastened these buttons as you see them."

"_Sapristi_! Madame--And you think----?"

He paused as Moira unbuttoned the old skirt and slipped it down while

she moved eagerly around the partially disrobed figure.

"Monsieur!" she gasped in sudden excitement as she pointed to the cotton

covering of the mannikin. He looked where she pointed and saw a stain

of dirt and dust which extended the full length of the thigh.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"The lay figure has been moved from its iron bracket----"

"And even so, what----?"

But she had fallen on her knees before it and didn't even hear him, for

she suddenly bent forward with a little cry and put her finger into a

small tear in the cotton cloth on the outside of the right calf.

"I have it," she muttered excitedly, as though half to herself. "I have

it--new--clean on one side, soiled on the other----"

"What, Madame--what?" asked Simon, catching the fire of her eagerness.

"The hole in the leg, Monsieur," she cried. "Don't you see? A piece

torn out against some rough surface----"

"Yes, but----"

"And here is the cloth that was torn from it," she gasped, exhibiting a

small piece of cotton cloth. "You see? It fits the tear exactly."

Simon took it from her hands and scrutinized it through his glasses.

The torn piece was of the same material as the cotton skin of the lay

figure, soiled upon one side and clean upon the other.

"Where did you find this piece of cotton, Madame?" he asked in a

suppressed tone.

"Outside the window--hanging below a torn edge of the tin gutter, where

it must have escaped the eyes of _Monsieur le Commissaire_."

"_Mon Dieu_! Then the lay figure must have been outside on the

ledge----"

"Exactly. Outside. The stain of dust upon the leg shows how it

lay----"

"_Magnifique_, Madame----"

"But the skirt and the jacket were first removed," she went on

breathlessly. "Isn't it obvious? Otherwise there would have been no

stain of dirt upon the leg. There is no mark of dirt upon them."

"Quick, Madame. The jacket----"

And with his own hands the Judge helped her remove the Spanish jacket,

taking from his pocket a small magnifying glass with which he examined

the figure intently.

"By the armpits, Monsieur Simon. It is there the hands would have

caught."

Simon obeyed while Moira lifted the arms.

"There's something," he muttered softly.

"A stain," broke in Moira quickly. "I can see it with the naked eye."

It was a faint smudge, of a brownish color like rust.

"The print of a finger?" she mumbled.

"It shall be analyzed. It looks like----"

"The murderer's fingers--stained----"

"If it is blood, Madame----"

"Yes, yes----"

"Then the murderer carried this figure back--_after_ the murder----"

"Exactly. And he----"

She paused and then was suddenly silent, for Monsieur Matthieu, the

_Commissaire_, appeared at the door of the studio. He came quickly

forward, glancing at the denuded mannikin in the absurd pose of

gesticulation into which they had put it. It seemed to be making a

ribald gesture at the astonished _Commissaire_.

"You have left nothing to the imagination, I see, Madame." And then,

"You have discovered something?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Moira briefly. "You have been able to find some of the

witnesses?"

"Yes, Madame. The most important. But it would give me pleasure to

know----"

"In a moment, Monsieur. I am intent upon this problem. Perhaps we shall

learn something. It is Monsieur Joubert that I wished to see

particularly. He is a carpenter and lives in the court at the rear----"

"It is he I have found, Madame." And turning aside, Matthieu beckoned

toward the corridor, and Monsieur Joubert entered. He was well known to

Moira and saluted her, his brow troubled.

"_Bon jour_, Monsieur Joubert," she said, trying to control the beating

of her heart and the labor of her breathing, for here she knew was to be

the test of the worth of her discoveries. Everything that she believed,

would stand or fall by the testimony of the people who had followed Jim

Horton up the stair.

"_Bon jour_, Madame 'Orton," said the carpenter politely.

"Where were you, Monsieur," she began, "when you heard Monsieur Horton's

cry of alarm?"

"In the court below, Madame. I was standing with Monsieur Lavaud, the

pastry cook, at the angle of the wall just inside the _Loge_ of Madame

Toupin----"

"And when you heard the cries what did you do?" asked the girl.

"I waited a moment in fear and then with Monsieur Lavaud went toward the

entrance."

"Were there some others there?"

"_Oui, Madame_. A number of persons came running into the court. They

seemed to spring from the earth as if by magic."

"And were you among the first to rush up the stair?"

"_Oui, Madame_. There were but two or three before me."

"And whom did you find on the second landing?"

"Monsieur 'Orton and a lady who told us that a murder had been

committed."

"And you went with him up the stair?"

"Yes, Monsieur. A policeman had come rushing in, and we all mounted to

the third floor."

"Was it dark out there on the third floor landing?"

"Not dark, but dim. The studio door was open and threw a light

outside."

"And what did you do then?"

"Some rushed into the studio. We were all greatly excited. I stood in

the hallway. Some went to the small hall room, the door of which was

partly open."

"It was dark inside the hall room?"

"_Oui, Madame_--dark."

"You have testified that one of the crowd went into the small hall room

and came out saying that no one was there."

"_Non, Madame_. No one was there. I and Monsieur Lavaud went into the

room, made a light and verified the statement of the man who had come

out."

Moira clasped and unclasped her hands nervously, and when she spoke

again her throat was dry with uncertainty.

"Monsieur Joubert, you will please listen very carefully to my question

and try to answer very accurately."

"_Oui, Madame_."

"You say that one of the crowd who had come up the stair with you

examined the room. Did you see him come out of the door?"

"_Oui, Madame_. I saw him come out."

She paused significantly, and then, with emphasis,

"Did you see him _go in_, Monsieur Joubert?"

Joubert stared at her stupidly for a moment, and Monsieur Matthieu and

the Judge leaned forward, aware of the intent of the question.

As the man did not reply, it was the _Juge d'Instruction_ who broke the

silence impatiently.

"Yes, yes, Monsieur Joubert," he questioned sharply, "_did you see him

go in?_"

"The truth--Monsieur Joubert," gasped Moira.

Joubert scratched his head and snuffled his feet awkwardly.

"No, Madame. I can't really say that I did."

"Did any of the others see him go in?"

Here Monsieur Simon broke in quietly. "Pardon, Madame! But that is a

question the other witnesses must answer."

Moira glanced at him and then at Monsieur Matthieu.

"Perhaps you can inform me, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," she said. "Have

any of the witnesses who testified to seeing this man come out of the

door also testified to seeing him go in?"

"Many persons went into the room, Madame----"

"_Later_, Monsieur," she broke in quickly. "_Later_, after this man who

had come out had mingled with the crowd and gone down the stair."

Monsieur Matthieu started.

"Madame!" he gasped.

"Listen, Monsieur Joubert," she went on earnestly, "and answer me

truthfully, for the life of a human being hangs on your replies. Did

you know some of the people in the crowd who rushed up the stair?"

"As to that--_oui, Madame_," said Joubert more easily. "Most of them I

knew--they are of the neighborhood. Monsieur Lavaud, Monsieur Picard of

the _Lavoir_, Monsieur Gabriel and others----"

"But this man who came out of the door of the hall room," she insisted

clearly. "You had never seen him before?"

Joubert shrugged.

"Now that you mention it, Madame, I think that is the truth."

"Are you sure that you never saw him in the neighborhood?"

"No, Madame. I never saw him in this neighborhood."

Moira gasped in relief, aware that the _Commissaire_, from contempt,

from indifference, had been reduced to the silence of consternation.

She saw it in his face and in the eyes of Monsieur Simon, who stood

beside her, listening in admiration and ready to aid her with advice or

question. He was on her side now. But she was reserving her strongest

stroke for the last and she delivered it with growing assurance, for in

her heart all along she had known through whom and by whom the murder

must have been committed.

"Monsieur Joubert," she asked coolly, "you say the light was dim in the

corridor. Was it too dark for you to see what the man who came out of

the door looked like?"

"It was dim, Madame. But I remember him perfectly."

"You could identify him, if you saw him?"

"I think so, Madame."

"Good. Perhaps I can describe him to you, Monsieur Joubert. He was not

a large man, he was smaller than you, with broad but bent shoulders,

long arms like an ape's, which reached nearly to his knees, a thin face,

small black eyes, a nose like the beak of an eagle----"

Joubert had started back in astonishment.

"It is he, Madame! You have described him----"

"And when he walked he had a slight limp of the left leg----"

"A limp, Madame. It is true," cried Joubert, "the very same. He

limped. I saw it as he came forward----"

"That will be all, Monsieur Joubert," said Moira wearily.

And when the man had gone out she turned to Monsieur Simon with a smile

of triumph. "Have I made out a case, _Monsieur le Juge_?"

"_Parfaitement, Madame_. But the murderer----?" he urged.

She grew grave at once.

"The man I have described is Monsieur Tricot."

The two men exchanged glances.

"We have already taken steps. He will be found, Madame," said the

_Commissaire_. "All the police of Paris are on his trail."

"I pray God you may find him," said Moira quietly.

"And even if we do not, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "you have created

already a reasonable doubt." And then, with a mischievous look toward

Monsieur Matthieu, "But I think perhaps it would be as well if you took

_Monsieur le Commissaire_ into your confidence."

Monsieur Matthieu, aware of the position the _Juge d'Instruction_ had

now taken, was silent, but still incredulous.

"I should like to hear the other facts upon which you base this

testimony," he said slowly.

Monsieur Simon waved his hand toward the mannikin, its frozen gesture

now almost prophetic. "Tell _Monsieur le Commissaire_ what happened in

this room as you have traced it, Madame."

Moira glanced at the _Commissaire_, who bowed his head in an attitude of

attention, which had in it not a little of humility.

"The murderer lay in wait for Monsieur Jim Horton," said Moira. "There

is no doubt in my mind as to that. The _Petit Bleu_ was the lure, this

studio the trap. The affair had been planned with skill. The motive

was vengeance, and a desire to prevent certain papers from reaching the

hands of Monsieur le Duc de Vautrin. This man Tricot was already in the

studio when Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin arrived. Perhaps _Monsieur

le Commissaire_ has already guessed where."

"Go on, Madame," said Matthieu gravely.

"He had taken the clothing from the mannikin and put the lay figure out

in the darkness on the ledge outside the north window. Then he went and

stood in the place of the lay figure. He had put on the old skirt and

bolero jacket, and slouch hat, and about his shoulders was the gray

drapery. He had only to remain silent and motionless. He was prepared

to spring upon and stab Monsieur Jim Horton when his back was turned,

but the appearance of Madame Morin disconcerted him. He had counted on

a quick death without an outcry. Madame Morin knew him. He did not

dare to attempt to kill them both. And so he waited."

"_Saperlotte!_"

"Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin examined the studio in curiosity and

then went out into the hall, now suspicious that all was not as it

should be. Monsieur Tricot did not dare to go until he was sure that

they had gone. He was about to take his leave when he heard a man's

footsteps upon the stair and went back to his position on the model

stand. The man entered. He thought that it was Monsieur Jim Horton

come back alone. But it was not Jim Horton. It was my husband, Harry

Horton, his twin brother. The testimony shows that their clothing was

much alike. Their faces were the same. Tricot saw my husband's face for

a moment under the low gas light as he came in the door, locking it

behind him. God knows why my--my husband was here. I don't. He came

to spend the night perhaps--to wait for me."

She paused, breathing hard, her words scarcely audible. But a word from

Monsieur Simon encouraged her again.

"This Tricot is desperate and very strong. He sprang upon my husband

and killed him. But there was a sound of struggle and the noise of a

falling body which Monsieur Jim Horton and his companion heard from the

door of the room in the hall. They came out. And weapon in hand, Jim

Horton, after several minutes, broke in the door. But by this time the

murderer had taken his place again as the lay figure, just as he stood

when they had first entered the room. In their horror at their

discovery they passed him by and rushed down the stair."

"And then, Madame?" nodded the Commissaire.

"He ran quickly to the window, outside which he had put my lay figure,

dragged it in hurriedly, dressed it in its clothing and restored it to

its place, then ran out and hid in the darkness of the hall room,

intending to leap out to the roof below. But he did not dare it with

his injured leg, resorting to the clever device which I have indicated

to you, of going out when the crowd swarmed excitedly up to the studio

door, and announcing that no one was there. Then, Messieurs, in a

moment he had mingled with the crowd and was gone."

"And how did you learn this, Madame?"

"By a trifle which even your experienced eyes had overlooked. This,

Monsieur----"

And she produced the small piece of torn cotton cloth from her pocket.

"It was torn from the mannikin upon a projecting piece of tin and hung

from the gutter outside. You have only to apply it to the leg of the

mannikin, _Monsieur le Commissaire_."

The bewildered police officer took the small object and turned it over

in his fingers, then went to the lay figure while Monsieur Simon showed

him the stains at the arm pits and upon the thigh, explaining the line

of reasoning the girl had employed.

He raised his head and looked at her, but his voice was that of a broken

man.

"My honor--my reputation, are in your keeping, Madame," he muttered.

But Moira caught him by the hands in an access of generosity.

"I render them to you, Monsieur. If _Monsieur le Juge_ keeps silent,

you may be sure that I shall do so."

"You are very good, Madame----"

"It is not your fault. You were not familiar with the studio as I was.

And besides--you were doing your duty, while I--it was my life, my whole

happiness, that was involved."

"And what can I do to repay you, Madame?" he asked.

"Find Monsieur Tricot!" she cried with spirit.

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?" asked the Judge quietly.

Moira glanced at them, then sank upon the couch and buried her head in

her arms, but she did not reply. She could not. She had reached the

end of her resources.

Monsieur Simon bent over and touched her kindly on the shoulder.

"You had better be going and getting some rest, Madame. If you will

permit me. I am sure that Madame Simon will be glad if you will let me

bring you to her."

Moira looked up at the dark stain upon the floor, the terrible mannikin,

and then rose. There were tears in her voice as she gave the _Juge

d'Instruction_ her hand in gratitude.

"Ah, thanks, Monsieur, you are very kind. If it will not trouble

you----"

And leaving the theater of her life's drama to the solitary policeman on

guard, she followed the charitable Monsieur Simon down the stair.

Monsieur Matthieu had already disappeared.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*CONCLUSION*

Jim Horton passed the night pacing the floor of his prison, and his

interrogation by Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d'Instruction_, with the

assistance of the _Commissaire de Police_ in the morning gave him little

hope of release. The examination was severe, but his inquisitors had

not been able, of course, to shake his testimony and had left his cell

more puzzled than when they had entered it. But he had sense enough to

see that unless it were proven possible for some one to have been in the

studio to commit the murder all the evidence must point to him. And yet

he could not help them, nor could he suggest a line of investigation.

He was still completely in the dark about the whole tragic affair and

could scarcely blame them for their uncompromising attitude toward

himself--and poor Piquette--toward her also. He sat upon the edge of

his cot for hours after the examination, his head in his hands, trying

to evolve some possible explanation of the mystery.

A more encouraging affair was the visit in the late afternoon of a

captain of the regular army of the United States, representing the Judge

Advocate General's office, who interviewed him in the presence of an

officer of the _Prefet de Police_. And in the course of this

investigation Jim Horton learned of Harry's second defection from the

army which had resulted in his horrible death.

Captain Waring questioned shrewdly, but Jim Horton now needed no

encouragement or threat to reveal the whole truth, for, whatever

happened to him at the hands of the _Prefet de Police_, he knew that

there was nothing left for him but to throw himself upon the mercy of

the Army officials. And so he told the whole story, from the moment

when as Corporal of Engineers, he had heard the Infantry Major's

instructions to his brother, of his meeting with Harry, of his effort to

save his brother's name and position by attempting to carry out the

Major's orders, the changing of uniforms, the fight at Boissiere Wood,

the hospital, and the events that had followed in Paris, leaving out

what references he could to Harry's wife, and palliating where he could

his brother's offenses against the military law.

From sternness, he saw Captain Waring's expression change to interest,

from interest to sympathy, and to Horton's surprise, when the officer

finished taking the testimony, he extended his hand frankly.

"You have committed a military offense, Corporal Horton. But your story

has impressed me. It can be easily verified. I will do what I can for

you at Headquarters. It was _your Croix de Guerre_, you see."

"Thank you, sir," said Jim, "but it looks as though I'm in a bad

position here. Do you think I could have done this horrible thing, sir?

Do you?"

"No," said the Captain, "but sit tight, Corporal. I think you'll find

that things will turn out all right."

What did the man mean? Jim Horton followed his neatly fitting uniform

out of the cell with his gaze and then, more mystified than ever at this

mingling of good fortune and bad, sank again upon his cot to try and

think it out.

But he was no sooner seated than the man who had done the most to put

him where he was, Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire de Police_, again

entered the cell. His manner during the examination by the _Juge

d'Instruction_ in the morning had been aggressive--Horton's ordeal had

been most unpleasant, the French counterpart of what he had heard of in

his own country as the "Third Degree." But Monsieur Matthieu's ugly

face was now almost kindly, its expression quite calm. And while Horton

wondered what was the meaning of the visit the _Commissaire_ explained.

"Evidence has been introduced into this case, Monsieur, which somewhat

changes its complexion."

"Ah! You have found Tricot? Or Quinlevin?"

"No--not yet, Monsieur. But we have hopes. The evidence came from

another quarter. We believe that the _apache_ committed this crime."

Horton couldn't restrain a gasp of relief.

"It is only what I told you, Monsieur."

Monsieur Matthieu nodded. "But you will not blame us for not accepting,

with some reserve, the testimony of a person in your position."

"Who has testified, Monsieur?"

"Madame Horton."

And in a few words he described the line of procedure which had resulted

in the discovery of the part the lay figure had played in the tragedy.

Moira had come to the rescue! Moira--whose eyes, it seemed, had been

keener than his own, keener even than those of this veteran detective.

And amazement at the simplicity of the device, and the ease with which

it had been put into practice, made him dumb.

"It is always so, Monsieur. The mysteries which seem most difficult to

solve are always the simplest in conception."

"But Tricot did not invent this crime, Monsieur. The _apache_ is

shrewd, but the brain that conceived this plan----"

"I believe you now, Monsieur. But I'm afraid that he will not be easy

to catch. He was at Fontainebleau last night and this morning. It was

his alibi. When my men reached there, he had gone."

"And Tricot?"

"It is as to Tricot that I wished to see you. We have watched the house

in the Rue Charron. Every haunt of men of his type is under

observation. I thought perhaps that you might give us a further clue."

"Emile Pochard should know. Pochard in the Rue Dalmon--under arrest he

may talk----"

"Good, Monsieur. The help that you give us will make your deliverance

the more speedy."

"I know nothing more."

"You understand, it is not possible to release you until the evidence is

more definitely confirmed. But I will do what I can for your comfort

and convenience."

"Thanks. And for Madame Morin?"

"Yes, Monsieur. She is, I think, now quite contented."

And the _Commissaire_ departed as rapidly as he had entered. Presently

Jim Horton lay down at full length on his bed--the first time since he

had been shown into the cell. Everything would be right. He knew it.

And it was Moira who had come from her retreat at the first news of his

trouble and Piquette's to help them. Behind the reserve of Monsieur

Matthieu's disclosures he had read that it was Moira's will--her

intelligence that had been matched against that of the _Commissaire_ and

Barry Quinlevin, her instinct--her faith in him that had drawn her

unerringly to the neglected clues. Where was she? Would she come to him

now? Or was the hypnotic spell of Barry Quinlevin still upon her? He

stared into the darkness, thinking of the tragedy of Moira's life, and

the greater tragedy of his brother Harry's. But in spite of the

terrible climax of Harry's strange career and his own unwitting part in

it, Jim Horton found himself repeating Moira's wild words, "No

divorce--but death----"

And this was the divorce that neither of them had wished for nor dreamed

of. But Destiny, which had woven the threads of Harry's life and

Moira's and his together for awhile, had destroyed the imperfect

tissue--to begin anew. In a while Jim Horton slept, soundly,

dreamlessly.

The morning dragged heavily and no one came to his cell. It almost

seemed that Monsieur Matthieu had forgotten him and it was not until the

afternoon that he was again conducted to the room in which his

examination and Piquette's had taken place. There he was brought face

to face with the _Juge d'Instruction_, who shook him by the hand and

informed him that word had just been received that the _apache_, Tricot,

had been captured and in charge of Monsieur Matthieu was to be brought

at once to confront the witnesses. Monsieur Simon informed him that a

partial confession having been extracted from Tricot, the case was

simplified and that there seemed little doubt that he would be restored

to freedom in a few hours. While disposing of some other cases, Monsieur

Matthieu showed the prisoner into the inner room, where Piquette had

preceded him.

They were both still technically prisoners, but that did not prevent

Piquette from springing up from beside her guard and rushing to meet

him.

"Oh, _mon_ Jeem!" she cried joyfully. "I knew it could not be for

long."

"Piquette! They're going to set us free!"

"_Oui, mon brave_. An' 'ave you not 'eard? It is Madame 'Orton who 'as

make de way clear? Dey capture' Tricot an hour ago in a cellar out near

de _Porte Maillot_. You may know dat I am 'appy. Gr----!"

And she made a queer little sound of repulsion in her throat.

"And Quinlevin?"

"Escape'--gone! Dey cannot find him."

He sat beside her and they talked while they waited.

"What are you going to do, Piquette?" he asked, after awhile.

"Do? Jus' go on living, _mon vieux_. What else?" she replied calmly.

"I want to help you to get away from _him_, Piquette----"

"_Sapristi_! I need no 'elp for dat. Don' worry, _mon ami_. I s'all

be 'appy----"

"Not with Monsieur----"

She laughed rather harshly.

"Oh, la la! You are not de on'y man in de worl'----"

And then, as she saw the look of pain in his eyes, she caught him by the

arm again. "You _are_ de on'y man in de worl'--for 'er--_mon vieux_,

but not for me. You t'ink of me? _Eh bien_. What you say? Forget it.

I s'all be 'appy--and free."

At this moment Monsieur Simon entered bringing no less a personage than

Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been apprehended as a witness the moment he

had returned to Paris. And the details of the affair at Nice having

been set down, Monsieur Simon went out to question Tricot, who had just

been brought in under heavy guard.

The birth certificate and other papers were still in possession of the

_Juge d'Instruction_, but the Duc had been permitted to examine them and

questioned Horton and Piquette eagerly as to what had happened after his

departure from Nice. And when he learned the facts, his gratitude

expressed itself in a desire to kiss Horton on both cheeks, which

Piquette only frustrated by quickly interposing her small person.

"And I, Olivier?" she asked in French with a spirit of _diablerie_.

"What is my reward for helping in the great affair?"

"You, Piquette!" he laughed, "you are as ever my angelic child who can

do no wrong. Come to my arms."

But Piquette laughed and tossed her chin.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you are still an angelic child," said de Vautrin. "I shall give

you money--much money."

"And if I refuse that too?" she asked.

He started a pace back from her in amazement.

"You would desert me now, _ma petite_?"

Piquette's face grew suddenly solemn.

"Yes, _Monsieur le Duc_. We shall make no more pretenses, you and I. I

go back to the _Quartier_ where I am free. Perhaps one day I shall

marry. Then you shall give me a present. But now----" And she

extended a hand, "_Adieu, mon ami_."

He glanced at her and at Horton as though unwilling to believe what he

had heard, then took a pace toward Piquette, his arms extended. But she

only smiled at him.

"_C'est fini, Olivier_," she said quietly.

De Vautrin pulled at his long mustache and laughing turned away.

"_A demain_, Piquette----" he said confidently.

"_Adieu, Olivier_," she repeated.

The Duc stared at her again and then with a shrug, took up his hat and

stick and swaggered out of the room.

"Piquette," whispered Horton eagerly. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, _mon brave_," she returned lightly. "To be free--free----!" And

she took a long breath, while she gazed past him out of the big window

into the sunshine.

There was a commotion outside and they turned to the outer door, as two

policemen entered, between them Tricot, securely manacled, and followed

by the _Juge_, the _Commissaire de Police_, Madame Toupin, Moira, Madame

Simon, the carpenter, Paul Joubert, and the other witnesses whose

testimony had already been taken.

Moira's gaze and Jim Horton's met for a moment, full of meaning for them

both, and then she turned away to the seat beside Monsieur Simon to

which the _Juge_ directed her. She was very pale and sat for a while

with eyes downcast during the preliminaries which led to the confession

of the _apache_.

Tricot stood with bowed head, listening to the evidence against him, his

long arms hanging from his bent shoulders, his thin lips compressed, his

small eyes concealed by the frowning thatch of his dark brows. He was

surly but indifferent as to his fate, and answered the questions of

Monsieur Simon in a low voice, but distinctly, evading nothing. His

identification by the carpenter Joubert and two others as the man who

had emerged from the room in the hallway when the crowd had surged upon

the upper landing, caused him to shrug. The corroboration of Madame

Toupin who saw him leave the courtyard after the murder only caused him

to shrug again.

"I did it----" he growled. "I've confessed. What's the use?"

"Silence!" commanded the _Juge_. "You will answer only when questioned.

Are these two persons," indicating Horton and Piquette, "the ones who

first entered the studio?"

"They are."

"And when _Monsieur le Capitaine_ entered the studio, you thought he was

his brother--yonder?" indicating Jim.

"I did. I made a mistake----"

"And your motive for this crime, Tricot?"

"I was paid," he muttered.

"How much?"

"Five thousand francs."

"By whom?"

Tricot paused, and then gasped the name.

"Monsieur Quinlevin."

"Do you know where Monsieur Quinlevin is now?"

"No."

"Would you tell if you knew?"

"Yes."

"Have you anything further to say?"

"No."

Monsieur Simon waved his hand in the direction of the door.

"Take him away. The proof is now complete." And then to the witnesses,

"You will hold yourselves in readiness to attend the trial. _Bonjour,

messieurs_."

And rising from his chair at the head of the table he came over to Jim

and Piquette and shook them warmly by the hands, while Monsieur

Matthieu, who had taken no part in the proceedings, quickly followed his

example.

"You are now free, Monsieur Horton--Madame Morin, I thank you both, in

the name of Justice, for your indulgence and apologize for the

inconvenience that has been caused you. Had it not been for the

keenness of Madame Horton yonder, you would still doubtless have been

languishing in your cells."

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Horton gravely.

"Let me add, Monsieur Horton, that before the murderer arrived, I was in

consultation with _Monsieur le Capitaine Waring_ of the office of the

Judge Advocate of the American Army. I told him what had happened in

the case and he informed me that there was no disposition to make you

suffer for an act which resulted in the _Croix de Guerre_. He empowers

me to ask only for your parole to report to him to-morrow morning, at

ten o'clock, to comply with the military law. I should say that in the

end you will have nothing to fear."

"Thank God!" muttered Horton, half to himself.

"And now, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," said the _Juge_, with a smile,

"Madame Simon, Madame Morin, perhaps we had better leave Monsieur the

American to give his thanks to the lady who has helped us to liberate

him--Madame Horton----"

"Piquette----"

Horton turned around to look for her but she had gone.

The others were already filing out of the door and suddenly Jim and

Moira found themselves silent, face to face by the big window in the

sunlight, amazed at the sudden termination of the case, and what it

meant to them. Their glances met and a gentle flush stole along the

pallor of Moira's face, suddenly flooding it from brow to chin.

Scarcely daring to believe this evidence of his happiness, Jim stared at

her awkwardly, and then took a pace forward.

"Moira," he whispered at last.

"Thank God," she murmured.

He took her in his arms, gently, as though she were a child, and held

her silently in a moment of wordless communion. Beyond the river below

them, the city of their tribulations murmured as before, but to them it

held a note of solace and of joy.

"You did this, Moira--you!" he said at last.

"Something stronger than I, Jim. Faith, Hope----"

"And Charity," he added.

"I knew that I must succeed," she went on quickly. "I was driven by

some inward force which gave me new courage, and strength. It was

Faith, Jim, the Faith in you that my blindness had lost in the darkness

of my uncertainty--the Faith that I found again. I had to succeed where

others had failed. Faith gave me new vision--just in time," she

finished with a gasp.

"You never believed that I could have----"

"No, never, Jim," she broke in in a hushed voice. "Not for a moment.

It was too horrible!"

She hid her eyes with a hand for a moment as though to blot out the

stain of the thought. "I've wondered why they didn't see as I saw.

It's like a dream--all that afternoon after Fontainebleau. I hardly

seem to remember why I did _what_ I did. It seems so easy now that it's

done. I only know that I prayed again and again--that you--not

he--should triumph."

"Quinlevin----" he muttered.

She drew closer into his arms.

"He has escaped," she said with a shudder. "Perhaps it is best."

"Did you find out----?" he began, but she broke in quickly, reading his

thought.

"He was--my uncle--my father's brother. Nora told me everything.

You've blamed me in your thoughts, Jim----"

"No, Moira----"

"Yes, I know," she insisted, "but I couldn't forget the long years of

his kindness--until I knew what--what had happened--the horror of it. I

ran away--here. Even then I did not tell them everything. And when

they went to take him, it was too late. He's gone."

"You poor child. You've suffered----"

"I wanted to go to you, Jim--that night when they came to the studio. I

wanted to--and again at Nice. But I was afraid, Jim."

"Afraid----"

"Of myself--if I had gone to you then ... our love had been so sweet a

thing, Jim--so pure and beautiful. I _couldn't_ let it be anything else.

I had never known what love was before. I am afraid," she whispered.

"But not now, dear?"

"No. Not of myself or of you. Only afraid that it's all a dream--that

I'll wake up imprisoned by vows that may not be broken----"

"You're released from them now, Moira," he said soberly.

"Yes, Jim."

"And you'll marry me, dear?"

"Yes, Jim. But it would be a sin for us to be too happy too soon."

"I can be patient----"

"You won't be needing to be too patient, Jim," she whispered, her warm

lips on his.

He held her in the hollow of his arm, where she was meant to be, both of

them muttering the phrases that had been so long delayed, while their

eyes looked down toward the sun-lit river, when suddenly Jim felt the

girl's fingers tighten in his and he followed the direction of her gaze.

Across the _Petit Pont_, just below them, a figure passed, a female

figure in a heavy coat with a small hat that they both recognized, set

rakishly upon a dark head.

"Piquette!" said Moira.

Jim was silent and they watched for another moment. Piquette paused for

a moment on the bridge and then, raising her head quickly, squared her

shoulders and went quickly along the Quai toward the Boulevard Saint

Michel, where she was engulfed in the crowded thoroughfare.