Chapter X: Part 10

"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.

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----"