Chapter V: Part 5

And so at last, having decided that she must move with caution and leave the rest to chance and opportunity, she went toward the house in the Rue Charron. She had been there before some years ago with Gabriel Pochard, when the boat-load of champagne from up the river had been smuggled in. Thus it was that she knew the secret of the old passage to the river bank, hidden from the opposite shore by a barricade of old timber. So instead of approaching the house by way of the Rue Charron she went down toward the river and turned in to the Quai des Augustins. There were a few people about but she watched her opportunity and when she reached the steps descended to the boat landing, where she found herself alone and unobserved, hidden from the lights above by the shadow of the retaining wall. Here she paused a moment to think and plan. According to all the rules of the underworld the prisoner would be in the cellar of the house in the Rue Charron. But if Tricot or _Le Singe_ were taking turns guarding him there, her problem would be difficult. Because it meant a scene in which her persuasions and promises of immunity might fail, and Tricot could be ugly. Money? Yes, perhaps, if everything else failed. But she had a sense of pride in the belief that with luck favoring her she could accomplish this rescue alone.

At any rate she meant to make the attempt--and so, she found the end of the tunnel and with some difficulty and damage to her gloves and clothing, wrenched at the boarding. The timbers were old and rotten, as she knew, and it was not difficult to make a passage. It was so easy in fact that she began to believe that Tricot had more wisely kept his prisoner upstairs, but as she moved forward cautiously, one hand steadying her progress over the rough masonry, she caught the first dull glimmer of yellow light. As she came to a turn in the passage she paused a moment and then stole forward quietly, to the foot of the steps, peering up into the cellar.

At first she could see nothing but a litter of boxes, bottles and waste paper, and then coming up one step at a time, she searched the recesses of the cavern one by one. A smoke-stained lantern burned dimly near the foot of the flight of steps, leading to the floor above, but there was no sign of any one watching. And so she emerged cautiously from the dark hole and stood up. In a moment she found what she was looking for. Huddled in the corner to her right, she made out the contours of a human figure. With another quick glance toward the steps and a moment to listen for any sound above, she approached noiselessly. He was trussed with a rope from head to foot, his hands tied behind him. But he was the man she sought. She bent over him, noticing his heavy breathing and the odor of the drug. At the touch of her hand he stirred slightly and she saw the blood upon his face.

"Monsieur!" she whispered quickly, "it is I--Piquette--and I have come to help you."

He stirred again and tried to move, but the drug was heavy in his blood. So she shook him furiously, trying to arouse him.

"It is Piquette," she whispered again.

His lips moved and his eyelids fluttered open. "Piquette----!" he muttered, and then breathed stertorously.

This was encouraging. She shook him again and again, fighting the lethargy. He moved and groaned. It seemed almost certain that his guardians must hear him.

"Sh----," she whispered, "Silence!"

Meanwhile she was struggling with the knots of the cord that bound his wrists. At last she managed to get his arms free and moved them backward and forward with all her strength, trying to restore his circulation. Then she unfastened the cords at his feet and pulled his knees up, thumping him from time to time and whispering at his ear.

"Wake up, Monsieur! You mus' get out of dis wit' me----"

His lips moved again. "Who----"

"It's Piquette, Monsieur," she repeated, prodding at him and shaking his shoulders.

This time his eyelids opened wider, and he looked at her vaguely. But his lips muttered her name.

"You mus' rouse yourself--you mus'! We are going out of here--at once."

With an effort he struggled up to a sitting posture while she supported him, pinching his shoulders and arms. Then she saw for the first time an earthen pitcher on a stool nearby. There was still some water in it, and she threw it in his face. He sputtered and choked, but she silenced him.

"Quiet--for your life! Dey're upstairs, aren't dey?"

"Yes--upstairs. I--I'm weak as a cat."

"Naturally, but you've got to 'elp yourself. I can't carry you."

"Carry me--no----" He toppled sideways and would have fallen, but she caught him and held him, shaking and pinching him again.

"No. You've _got_ to wake up. Do you hear?" she whispered desperately. "They may come down 'ere at any moment."

A dim notion of what she was talking about seemed to come to him, for with an effort he threw off the heaviness that was coming over him again.

"You--Piquette--How did you----?"

"By an old passage from dis cellar to de river. You mus' go out dat way. Do you on'erstand me?"

He nodded feebly. "River----" he muttered.

There was another struggle against the drug and another, but at last she got him to understand. He was very weak, but managed to support himself with an effort, sitting upright, while Piquette ran over toward the foot of the steps and listened intently, for if Tricot and the Englishman were listening, they must surely have heard something of the commotion she had made. But there was no sound.

She went back to the injured man. Would he be able to walk? She shook him again and pointed to the way by which she had come.

"It is dere--in de corner--the way of escape. You mus' make de effort."

She helped him struggle to his knees, one of his arms around her shoulders, but when she attempted to get him to his feet, his knees gave out and he fell, dragging her down with him.

It was at this moment of failure, that a sudden clamor of knocking at the street door upstairs came, with terrifying clearness, to her ears. And the sound of a masculine voice calling the name of Tricot. There was no time to be lost, yet what was she to do? She was strong, but she could not lift the American bodily and he had collapsed again upon the floor. For an agonized moment she listened. A long silence and then the knocking was renewed, followed by the sound of another voice upstairs and the tread of heavy feet going toward the door. Desperate now, and aware that only the American's own efforts could save him, she lifted him again by sheer strength to his knees.

"Dey'll be down 'ere in a moment," she stammered in his ear. "You've got to help yourself. You've got to. Crawl--on your knees--toward de corner beyond de pillar. I will 'elp you."

He seemed to understand and struggled a few feet, paused in weakness, then struggled on again. And all the while Piquette was listening to the sounds upstairs, the voices which now seemed to be near the head of the stairway, coming to her ears distinctly.

"We've got to get him away from here--out into the country somewhere--and lose him." Harry Horton's voice.

"Why?" growled a voice in English.

"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."

An oath from Tricot as the other translated.

"Who told her?"

"No one. She guessed it."

"Parbleu! We shall take no chances then."

"You must take him away--a cab--out into the country," said Harry's voice again.

"And leave him to recover and set the police on us? Not much. He'll have to go the long road."

"My God! No. Not that!" cried Harry.

"The river!" growled Tricot.

And then the other voice.

"You started this thing. And it's got to be finished. Did you bring the money?"

"To-morrow. But--I can't----"

There was the beginning of a violent discussion in which Tricot's advice seemed to prevail. Harry's opinions wouldn't matter much to these precious villains.

But Piquette had heard enough. It seemed that they were about to descend the stairs to the prisoner, and glancing backward she labored with the injured man until they reached the shadows of the pillar into which she pushed and dragged him until they were both hidden from the light of the lantern. But the steps into the passage were still ten feet away. Already there were footsteps on the stair, where one of the men stood, still arguing with Harry Horton. With a final effort, she urged the drugged man toward the opening and then tumbled him down into the darkness.

She heard the steps coming down the stairs, heard them pause and a voice again raised in argument. But she listened no more. The situation was desperate, for in a few seconds at the least, the escape of the prisoner would be discovered, so forgetting caution, she pinched and shook him, by main strength of her strong young arms, urging him forward. Something of the imminence of his danger seemed to come to him, for he crawled to the corner and then stumbled in some fashion to his feet, clinging to her. The air beyond the turn in the passage seemed to revive him and in a moment, swaying and struggling against his weakness, he stood outside the opening upon the river-bank, leaning against the wall, while Piquette thrust the boards across the opening.

She heard a cry now from beyond the passage and with the injured man's arm around her shoulders, led the way down the bank to the landing. He caught her intention. There was a boat there and she got him into it and pushed off from the shore into the stream. She was almost exhausted by this time, but managed to get out the oars and make some progress down the river before the timbers fell from before the opening in the wall and three men appeared--Tricot, Harry and the Englishman. She saw their shapes dimly in the shadow of the wall.

But a strange thing happened then. For the three figures went flying up the steps to the Quai and then ran as though for their lives in the direction of the Pont St. Michel.

But she managed at last to reach the Quai du Louvre, where with the help of a belated passer-by, she managed to get the man she had rescued into a _fiacre_ and so to the Boulevard Clichy.

*CHAPTER X*

*THE SAMARITAN*

When Jim Horton came to his senses after his rescue, he found himself in a small room overlooking a pleasant facade of gray stone, tinted softly by the pale morning sunlight. It was some moments before he managed to gather his scattered wits together and out of the haze and darkness in which he had been groping for two nights and a day, recall the incidents of his escape. Piquette! He remembered.... But what was this room? There had been a cab-drive late in the night--he had been carried up a flight of stairs ... As he turned in the bed he was aware of a figure which rose from the corner of the room and approached him. It was an oldish woman in the neat uniform of a maid.

She smiled. "Monsieur is awake?" And then, moving toward the door, "Madame shall come at once."

But when Piquette entered the small room, attired in a gorgeous pink lounging robe of silk and lace and wearing a boudoir-cap embroidered with silken flowers and golden thread, she dazzled him for a moment with her splendor, and he did not recognize her. She came forward to him quickly and laid her cool hand on his brow.

"Ah, _mon petit, c'est mieux_." And then, in English, "'Ow do you feel?"

"Better. But everything doesn't seem--very clear to me yet."

"_Naturellement_. You mus' 'ave some food and de doctor will be 'ere soon."

Jim Horton glanced about the small room.

"Would you mind telling me where I am?" he asked.

"Dis room is in de hallway adjoining my apartment----"

"You brought me here----?"

"Las' night," she said, with a smile, "an' a beautiful time we had getting you up de stair----"

"I--I remember--a man with a lantern--and then a struggle--with you helping--through a passage--to the river--a boat----"

"A _voiture_ an' den--here," she added as he paused.

He put out his hand and fingered the lace of her sleeve.

"Why--why did you do this for me, Piquette?"

She caught his hand, pressed it in hers, and then rose abruptly.

"What does it matter? You s'all talk no more until after de doctor 'as seen you. Sh----"

Later in the day after Jim Horton had slept again, Piquette visited him, dressed for the street. In a few words she told him how she had guessed at the double identity--then confirmed it, and then how she had discovered the means Harry Horton had employed to get his brother out of the way. She dwelt lightly on his rescue from the house in the Rue Charron and explained quite frankly her own relations with the criminals.

"_C'est la grande vie, Monsieur l'Americain_," she said with an expressive gesture. "You remember perhaps what Monsieur Valcourt 'as said. I am still de _vrai gamine_. I know dat _vilain_ Pochard since I am so high."

"But why have you done this for me, Piquette? When you found out that I was not my brother----"

"Oh, la, la! Who can tell? Perhaps I like' you a little de night in Javet's. De thought of de adventure--perhaps, but more dat Tricot and _Le Singe Anglais_--dey would 'ave t'rown you in de river, Monsieur."

"You saved my life----"

"Yes. You see, Monsieur--Monsieur," she paused in search of a name.

"My name is Jim Horton."

"Jeem! _C'est bon ca_. Jeem 'Orton, dere wasn' anyt'ing else for me to do. You were a good Americain--who 'ad fought at La Boissiere for France and for me. An' _he_ had not. It could not be dat you should die. But dere are many t'ings I do not yet on'erstand. If you would tell me----?"

Jim Horton was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

"You were a friend of my brother's."

He put it more in the form of a statement than a question.

"Yes, Jeem 'Orton," she said, "before 'e went to de front. Dat does not matter now, I can assure you. What 'appen' at Boissiere Wood, _mon ami_? Pochard tol' me what 'Arry 'Orton said----" And she related it as nearly as possible in Pochard's own words.

Jim Horton listened, smiling slightly, until she had finished. And then,

"I had intended to keep silent about this thing, Piquette. But I'm not going to keep silent now. I'm going to tell the truth, whatever happens to Harry or to me. He would have killed me----"

"No," she broke in. "I t'ink 'Arry was frighten' at what he 'ad done----"

"He wasn't too frightened to get those chaps to knock me in the head," he put in dryly, then broke off with a sudden sense of the situation. "I hope, Madame, that you do not care for him."

She had been watching him intently and now put her hand over his.

"No--no, Jeem 'Orton," she said carelessly. "But tell me de truth----"

He looked at her for a long moment.

"No one has a better right to know it than you."

And then, without ornamentation, he related the facts from the unfortunate moment that night when he had put on Harry's uniform and gone into the fight until he had met his brother in the Rue de Tavennes. She heard him through to the end.

"You 'ave not told me everyt'ing, Jeem 'Orton," And then, significantly, "About Madame--Madame 'Orton?"

He frowned and then went on with an assumption of carelessness.

"The situation was impossible, as you will see. I would have gone away----" he shrugged, "if Harry hadn't saved me the need of it. But now----"

He paused and clenched a fist. "He has much to answer to me for."

She was silent for a while, watching him.

"A coward! I might 'ave known," she murmured after a moment.

In the conversation that followed many things were revealed to Jim Horton, many things to Piquette. He learned from her own lips every detail of the story of Quinlevin's plot against the Duc and what was to be Moira's share in it, and he listened in anger and amazement. As to her relations with de Vautrin, she spoke with the utmost frankness. He was not a pleasant person, and to her mind, for all his money and position, possessed fewer virtues even than the outrageous Pochard and his crew, who at least were good-natured villains and made no pretenses. The Duc was stingy--cruel, self-obsessed and degenerate. _Que ca m'embete ca_! Why she had not cut loose from him and gone back to live in the _Quartier_ she did not know, except that it was comfortable in the Boulevard Clichy and she was tired of working hard.

He found himself regarding Piquette with interest. The type was new to him, but he liked her immensely. She might betray her Duc, but in her own mind she would have perfectly adequate reasons for doing so.

As to Moira, little enough was said. If she suspected anything of his tenderness in that quarter she gave not a sign of it. But he could see that the facts as to his brother's marriage had come as a surprise to her.

"An' now, Jeem 'Orton," said Piquette the next morning, when he had strength enough to sit in a chair by the window, "what are you going to do about it?"

He thought for a moment.

"You have given me my life. I should dislike to do anything that would give you unhappiness."

"As to that, _mon petit_," she said carelessly, "you s'all do what you t'ink bes'. You know perhaps dat to-morrow in de Place de la Concorde, your brother 'Arry is to receive de Croix de Guerre?"

He had forgotten, but the announcement had no effect upon him.

"It does not matter," he muttered. What he had been thinking in his moments of wakefulness was of Harry going to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes. Moira was his wife. Would she, like Piquette, learn at once of the deception? Or would she accept him...?

"You do not care for de honors you have won?" asked Piquette, breaking on his thought.

"They weren't my honors----"

"But you bear de wounds----"

"Yes, and they're proofs my brother will find it hard to answer. But tell me, Piquette, what you have heard. Do they suspect you of having carried me off?"

Piquette laughed. "No. I saw Emile Pochard las' night. 'E does not dare speak. Tricot, 'Arry, _Le Singe_--I saw dem at Pochard's. Dey t'ink you are a devil. It is de police worries dem mos'."

"The police?"

"Some one followed 'Arry 'Orton to de house in de Rue Charron and tol' de police. Dey came jus' as we escape'. Your brother was lucky to get away."

"Who could this have been?"

"I don' know. But what does it matter since you are safe?" And then, after a long pause, "No harm 'as been done except to your poor head. We mus' let de matter drop, Jeem 'Orton. It is better so."

"If that is your wish, Piquette----"

"Yes. It will be safer for us both, for you because you mus' keep in hiding--for me--because I 'ave a reputation at stake."

His eager look inquired her meaning.

"Emile Pochard would never trus' me again."

He laughed. "And you value the friendship of Monsieur Tricot?"

"No. But I know de law of de _apache_. It would not be pleasant to 'ave one's t'roat cut an' be t'rown in de Seine."

The true meaning of the danger that she had run for him gave Jim Horton a new and lively sense of his obligations and responsibilities to this strange creature. He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it warmly.

"How can I ever repay you?" he blurted out.

Her face flushed gently and she regarded him with eyes almost maternal.

"What a boy you are!" she laughed.

"But a stranger to you. To have run such risks--to have made such a struggle just because you knew I was helpless."

"It amuse' me, Jeem 'Orton. Sometimes I t'ink it is fear dat is de _grande passion_--when one has tasted everyt'ing else in life. Fear. To succeed in an adventure like this--_Et nous voila_! Quite safe and comfortable--an' each of us 'as made a friend. Is not dees wort' all de trouble?"

"Piquette!" he said, "you're a wonder! I'll never forget----"

"Ah, yes, you will, _mon petit_," she broke in with a shrug, "you are different from 'Arry. You are always _le grand serieux_. It was what I noticed at Javet's. You will love much, but you will never lie jus' to make a woman 'appy. And me--you will forget, Jeem 'Orton."

"Never," he said stoutly, "never, Piquette. You're the bravest, squarest woman in the world."

She laughed again. "_Allons_! For dat--I shall kees you, _mon ami_."

And she did, with a friendly frankness, upon the mouth.

It was a very pleasant sanctuary, this, into which fortune had thrown him, but deep in his heart Jim Horton knew that Piquette had read him truly. He was no panderer to women's caprices, and he could not forget the tragedy of the woman he loved, which might almost be laid at his door.

"You do not mind my keesing you, _mon petit_?" she asked.

"No. I like it," said Horton with a laugh.

But Piquette knew. Life in the streets of Paris had given her a sense of the fourth dimension. And curiously enough her prescience only quieted her, made her a little graver, matching her mind--her mood to his. He provided a new sensation, this outcast hero who owed her his life and yet was to pay her only in gratitude.

* * * * *

Jim Horton was penniless, for with an irony not lost on him, the money he had gotten from the bank had gone to pay Tricot and _Le Singe_ their price for his knock on the head. The clothing he found himself in had been none too good when Harry had worn it, and the incarceration in the filthy cellar had done nothing to improve it. Outcast he might be, but he meant while he had money in bank at least to look presentable. So Piquette got him a blank check from the bank which he made out and Piquette cashed, and the next day when he was able to go out, he bought himself a suit. He came back in the afternoon and with much pride exhibited his purchase.

She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.

"An' now, _mon_ Jeem, you will be going away, _n'est ce pas_?"

"Is it not better, Piquette? I have not the honor of Monsieur de Vautrin's acquaintance."

"Oh, _ca_!" she said with a quick gesture. "_Il est bete_. He would never know."

Jim Horton put his hands on her shoulders and made her look in his eyes.

"That's not the way, Piquette. You are too fine not to see. I can't be an object of your charity any longer--because it's _his_ charity. I owe you my life. I want to pay--but not like this. I want you to see my gratitude in my eyes, the depth of my friendship, I want you to know that what you've done for me has given a new meaning to courage and unselfishness."

She turned her head away as he paused, and then gently took his hands from her shoulders.

"I can pay, Piquette," he insisted quietly. "You do not love the Duc de Vautrin. Come away from here with me. I have a little money. I can get more from America. We will find you a place in the _Quartier_ where you will be happy until you have the home you deserve----"

"And you----," she faltered.

"What I do doesn't matter. An outcast----"

She started.

"You will leave Paris?"

"I do not know."

She released her fingers quickly and went to the window, looking over the rooftops in a long significant moment of silence.

"And de oder woman----"

She spoke the words distinctly, and yet he thought he must have misunderstood.

"Piquette, I----"

"What 'appens between you an' your brother's wife?" she asked quietly.

He had no reply and while he hesitated she turned slowly and faced him.

"I know, _mon petit_," she said with a smile. "I 'ave known it from de firs'. You love 'er. _C'est dommage_. It is a pity. She is ver' beautiful, dey say."

"I am a fool, Piquette."

"You are not de firs' in de worl'----"

He sank on the edge of the bed, wondering at his own confession.

"I was sorry for her--for her innocence, married to a man like that. She was kind to me. I played the part and kept silence. They were going to use her--palm her off as de Vautrin's child----"

He paused and looked up at Piquette, aware that the topic that he had not dared to broach now suddenly loomed between them.

Piquette faced him gravely.

"Yes, _mon ami_," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.

"I do not know what you wish to do, Piquette, and it is not for me to say. But before I was hurt, I had planned to find out all the facts of this conspiracy and tell both Harry's wife and the Duc de Vautrin. You have given me the facts. Do you want me to use them?"

Piquette was silent a moment, regarding him with a smile.

"Well, _mon ami_, 'as anyt'ing 'appen' to make you change your mind?"

He looked up at her in wonder.

"Piquette, I thought----" he began. But she broke in lightly.

"You s'all do what you wish, but it is a difficult game you play an' _dangereux_. You do not know Monsieur Quinlevin. If Tricot is de wolf an' Emile Pochard de fox, it is Barry Quinlevin who is de tiger. 'Arry 'Orton knows. 'E is afraid--what you call--eat out of his 'and."

"I've got to beat him, Piquette."

"Eh, bien! But remember, 'e is not a man to be easily vanquished. 'E is ver' quiet, ver' cool, _le vrai gentilhomme_, but 'e 'as sharp claws, Jeem 'Orton."

"A thief----"

"And de Vautrin?" she broke in. "Monsieur le Duc is no better dan he. He did not care 'ow 'e got de money."

Horton paced the room slowly, in deep abstraction, but in a moment stopped before her and caught her hands in his.

"Piquette," he said gravely, "you were in this thing--I don't know why or how, because a woman with a soul as big as yours oughtn't to be stooping to this kind of rottenness."

For a long while she made no reply, but she turned her head away and looked out of the window.

"I can't change de way I was born, Jeem 'Orton," she said quietly.

He was silent, aware of the false situation, and thinking deeply.

"I've got to tell her the truth, Piquette," he said at last.

Another moment of silence and then Piquette turned toward him, both arms outstretched.

"You are right, _mon petit_ Jeem. You s'all go to 'er and tell 'er----"

"Piquette----!"

"_Je ne me fiche pas_. Go. It's nothing to me."

Jim Horton had risen and put his arms around her, turning her face up to his and kissing her gently. She made no resistance, but she did not return his caress.

"You are too good for him, Piquette."

She stirred uneasily in his arms and then released herself.

"Go, Jeem----", she said. "Go."

"Will you meet me to-night at Javet's?"

"Yes. _Au revoir, mon brave_."

She watched him go down the stair and then turned in at the door of her own apartment.

* * * * *

Jim Horton was no squire of dames, but he couldn't be unaware of the attractions of this lovely pagan. Like her he was an outcast and their ways perhaps lay along the same paths to oblivion, but before he started down that road he had a duty still to perform, a wrong to set right, and he meant to do it without delay. If Harry had succeeded in ingratiating himself with Moira he knew that she must despise him for his betrayal of her credulity. But he meant to seek her out just the same and tell her the truth about Barry Quinlevin as he knew it. He wanted to see her again--just this once, in order to try and justify himself in her eyes for his imposture, and then he would go--he didn't much care where.

But he realized as he crossed the river that it was not going to be an easy matter to reach her unobserved. He knew that Harry must be passing some uneasy moments and it was better that Harry didn't see him just yet. But there was the watchful Madame Toupin to pass and it was still half an hour until dusk when he hoped to slip through the gate and up the stairs. Meanwhile he found himself a lodging in an obscure street and then with his hat-brim pulled down walked into the Rue de Tavennes and boldly approached the familiar gate.

"Madame Horton?" he asked.

"_Oui, Monsieur_. She is in. Do you know the way?"

Nothing could have been more simple. Madame Toupin had pulled the latch without even looking up at him.

*CHAPTER XI*

*CONFESSIONS*

It all seemed like a horrible dream to Moira--the revelation of Harry's vileness--the prison by the river, the police, the escape of Jim Horton with the unknown woman, the homeward ride with the police officer, and the night in the studio-apartment with locked doors, waiting--listening for Harry's return, until at last through sheer exhaustion of mind and body she had fallen asleep. And then, the visit the next day of the police officer, the questions that she had to answer. But he got nothing from her beyond the mere skeleton of the tale which she had given the night before. She wouldn't tell how she got to the Rue Charron, some instinct still sealing her lips as to her husband's share in the adventure, and inventing a tale that seemed to satisfy the requirements of the interview. No crime had been actually committed though all the circumstances were suspicious. The officer told her that a search would be made for the man named Tricot and that Madame Horton should hold herself in readiness to appear against him, if necessary, at some future time.

The return of Harry Horton, her husband, the next afternoon, contrite and humility itself, was unpleasant, but they reached an understanding, pending the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. She kept the secret of her visit to the house in the Rue Charron and her knowledge of the escape of the prisoner. She saw that her husband was worried and furtive and she had no difficulty in exacting from him a promise not to molest her. In return she promised silence, and he departed with every protestation of friendship and good will, somewhat reassured as to her intentions.

As to Jim Horton, the twin brother who had worked such havoc in her life, Moira was very much troubled and disturbed. The hurt to her pride was grievous but the joy she had in the very thought of him seemed to assuage all wounds. She knew now that if he had died in the house in the Rue Charron that night she would have worshiped him all her life as a martyr to their unfortunate affection. And the memories of Jim Horton's tenderness on the day of their parting, the gentleness of his abnegation, his struggle against the temptation of her nearness--all these thoughts of him obliterating the horrors that had followed, returned and engulfed her with pity. Their love had seemed so perfect a thing! But now--a mockery!

She felt very friendless in the big studio, very much alone. And yet--could she confess to her father her love for this brother who had come in and taken Harry's place? The hurt to her pride burned again angrily. Her father, like herself, had been deceived by the brother at the hospital and what sympathy could she expect from him? He would be furious at the deception that had been practiced upon them both, and would perhaps take Harry's part against her.

Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of the fireplace. If it was to be war, she would fight. She had married Harry in a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but the understanding had been definite. And now she would rather run away--even from her father--than to fulfill the terrible vows she had taken. Jim Horton--she wanted to hear his side of the story. Reviving faith in him made her sure that if he were alive he would come to her and tell her everything....

A cautious step on the stair outside--a knock. She went over quickly, turned the key in the lock, opened the door, then stood staring, unable to speak.

"It's I, Moira," said Jim Horton gently.

"You--," she faltered.

"I said that I would come back, but I--I was detained," he said coolly.

If he had expected her to be surprised at his appearance out of uniform she gave no sign of it. She opened wide the door and stood aside.

"I--I know," she murmured.

"I won't stay long, but there were some things I wanted you to know--some facts in extenuation of my conduct, that may make you think less bitterly of me----"

"You look ill," she said, staring at him. "It is all too horrible to think about----"

"Horrible, if you like," he said slowly, misinterpreting her meaning, "but done in a weak moment with a good motive----"

"Oh, not that. I mean, what they did to you--the danger you passed through----"

"You know of that?"

"Yes. I followed Harry, and got the police----"

"It was you? Good God!"

"It was the least that I could do--after I found out--from him--what had happened."

He stared at her in incomprehension.

"You mean that he confessed to you?"

She nodded and then laughed nervously.

"I don't know why I should be keeping you standing on the door-sill--like a model. If you've much to say you'd better say it sitting, Jim Horton."

He started and stared at her, but she had closed the door behind him and led the way with an assumption of carelessness to the chairs by the dead fire, as though aware of its symbolism.

"You know--the truth?"

She shrugged. "What Harry--what my husband--has told me, no more--no less."

He marveled at her ease, at the cruelty of her chosen phrases. And yet he could not cavil at them. It was clear that she meant that there were to be no further misunderstandings, that she was shifting the burden to his shoulders where it belonged. The sense of his culpability weighed upon him and he did not look at her, and so he missed the quick, anxious sensitive glances that searched his face for the truth in his heart. But he bent his head forward and stared into the ashes that had glowed so warmly a few nights ago.

"I have come to speak the truth," he began, his voice deep, resonant and trembling with his emotion. "A visit of confession and renunciation----"

"It's rather late, isn't it?" she said in a hard little voice that he scarcely recognized as her own. He knew that he deserved this of her and more, but it cut him none the less.

"I will tell you the truth," he went on firmly. "And then you shall judge for yourself. I owe it to you to tell the facts, but I owe it to myself, too."

She nodded and sat. And so, quietly, neglecting no detail, he told her of Harry, from the moment of their meeting on the battlefield until they had met outside in the Rue de Tavennes. He heard Moira gasp at the mention of Harry's cowardice, but he went on to the end, without pause.

"Something of what followed, you know," he went on quietly. "I tried to tell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn't Harry Horton. They didn't believe me. They thought I was still out of my head. And so I lay there for a while, silent. I think I must have been pretty weak."

He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.

"There were some letters to Harry. I had no right to read them. But I did. A letter from you to him--about your marriage--showing what a farce it was. A letter from Barry Quinlevin----" He paused and frowned. "It was an invasion of your privacy--and his--but you were nothing to me--then. I was sure that I would never meet you. I thought that I would wait a few days before I tried to tell the officers of the hospital who I was. It was a hard thing to do--because it meant that I would have to pay the penalty of a military crime."

"But sure, after what you'd done," Moira's voice broke in clearly, "they couldn't be punishing you----"

"Disgraceful imprisonment--and for Harry--the penalty of desertion in the face of the enemy. You see there were two of us to consider."

"Yes, I understand."

"Then you came--suddenly--without warning." His voice sank to a deep murmur and he bent his head. "It was a moment for a decision. I hadn't it. I was weak. I let you believe that I was your husband. It--it seemed the easiest way just then. God knows I meant you no harm. And God knows I've suffered for it."

He rose and leaned upon the mantel, his face turned away from her, summoning courage for the harder thing that he still had to say. "And there's something else, that made me do what I did----" he began.

"Something more?" he heard her question. "What do you mean?"

He paused a moment.

"It's hard to tell you--but I must." And then, "Have you ever heard of the Duc de Vautrin?" he asked.

"Yes," she uttered in bewildered tone, "the name is familiar to me. But what----?"

"Mr. Quinlevin--has mentioned him?"

"Yes, I think so. A man he met many years ago in Ireland. But why do you ask?"

"Because his life and yours are bound up in each other----"

"Mine?"

He paused painfully.

"Moira, perhaps I'm breaking all the ties in your life that you had thought most sacred, but I've got to tell you what I know."

"I don't understand--you frighten me----"

"God knows I've given you pain enough already. I'm a bird of ill-omen. But I'm going to go on, if you'll let me."

She sat motionless, her strained white hands gripping the chair arm.

"Under the cover of the dressing table, in the room there, where I slept, are the two letters that I read in my bed in the hospital--the one from you--the one from Barry Quinlevin. I left them there when I went away. Unless some one has removed them, they should be there now----"

In obedience to the suggestion, she rose and went quickly out into the hall and into the deserted room. Harry had not entered it nor had she even told him of the valises containing his impedimenta that had been sent down from headquarters. The letters were there. Trembling with uncertainty she found them and glanced at the familiar handwriting, her own and her father's, and then came back to the door of the studio. There she stood a moment, weighing the letters in her hands. Jim Horton stood as she had left him, leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his gaze upon the extinguished fire. It seemed that lost in his own gloomy reverie he had already forgotten her. Never in all the weeks that she had known him, not even when he had lain in his hospital bed--had he seemed a more pitiful figure than now--needing her as she--God help her--needed him. What did it matter what this letter contained? In her heart she knew that the only thing that mattered to her was the love that this man bore her. She had recognized it in the deep tones of his voice, which had thrilled her again, and in the attitude of submission which had anticipated the change in her sentiments.

It was a moment for decisions, like his moment in the hospital. She had only to tell him to go and she knew that he would have obeyed her. But like Jim Horton, she no longer had the strength. Some instinct told her that here in this outcast soldier--this splendid outcast--was a rock that she could cling to....

She glanced over the stair and then entering the studio quietly, slowly approached him, letters in hand.

"You wish me to read----?" she asked.

"Yes, please, Moira."

She glanced at him and then sank into the armchair and opened Barry Quinlevin's letter. For a long while there was no sound but the rustle of the paper in her fingers. At last he heard her stir slightly and glanced up at her. Her face was deathly pale.

"My father--de V--'The money has stopped coming'--What does it all mean?" she asked. "And what are those papers? What is the agency working against him? And what does he mean by putting the screws on?"

"It means that Barry Quinlevin is--is blackmailing the Duc de Vautrin--has been doing so for years," he said in a suppressed tone.

She rose and faced him, her breast heaving.

"Blackmail! My father----"

He bowed his head.

"Unfortunately it's the truth. He spoke to me of it in the hospital--thinking I was Harry----"

She raised the letter again and read.

"I can't believe--I can't----," but her words trailed off into silence as she read again the damning phrases.

His heart was full of tenderness and pity for her and he caught her by the hand. "Moira, dear," he murmured, "I wouldn't have spoken of this--but _you_ are involved--I couldn't understand for a long while. They're using you as a cat's-paw--a snare--a stool-pigeon. Perhaps you don't even know the meaning of the words--it's too hideous!"

"Using _me_?" She seemed unaware of her fingers still in his. "How can they use _me_? I know nothing whatever of this affair."

He led her to her chair again and made her sit. "Listen," he said gently, "and I will tell you all that I've found out about it----"

"I can't believe--Who has told you?"

"Piquette Morin----"

"Piquette--?" Her brows drew together----

"A friend of--of your husband's," he said. "It was she who first discovered our dual identity in the Cafe Javet--a friend of Harry's--who took pity on me."

"The woman--who--who--helped you to escape?" she gasped, awakening.

"Yes. She shared the secrets of this intrigue. And when they knocked me out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and went in through the passage from the river. It was she who took me back to her apartment and nursed me."

"Oh," she faltered. "I--I see. But what reason have you to believe that she speaks the truth?"

He had taken his place by the mantel again. "Unfortunately--I had already proved it by the mouth of Harry himself." He broke off and met her piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn't have cared what they did, if they--if you hadn't been a part of the plan. I would have told you who I was the other night and gone--away.... But it was too cruel. Barry Quinlevin is a strange man. He loves you--perhaps. He wants to see you rich--happy--but he became desperate when the source of his income was cut off----"

"The Irish rents----?"

"There were no Irish rents, Moira. The source of his income, all these years--and yours--has been--the Duc de Vautrin--hush money paid to keep a secret----"

"Holy Virgin--! Then I----?"

She paused, bewildered by the very terror of her thoughts.

"Listen, Moira. You must know it all. As nearly as I can get it, the story is this. Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with her her immense _dot_, with the provision from her father's will that if any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of the mother's death."

"Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself. "Athlone!"

"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her--Mary Callonby dying in childbirth." And then softly, "Do you follow me, Moira? It's very important."

"I'm trying--to follow you," she murmured painfully.

"When Mary Callonby left the Duc, de Vautrin went upon a voyage around the world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware of the death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who was cared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke----"

"Nora Burke!" Moira had started up suddenly in her chair, her eyes wide with sudden comprehension.

"You remember her----" he said.

"My old nurse----!"

"Yes. It's here that the story involves your fortunes and--and Barry Quinlevin's. The infant daughter of the Duc de Vautrin died at the end of a few months, without his being aware of it--without his even being aware that a daughter had been born. The death of this child was kept a secret----"

"But why? Why?" pleaded Moira, a glimmering of the intrigue coming to her.

Jim Horton turned away again.

"Because it was necessary that the Duc de Vautrin should remain in ignorance of it."

"Holy Virgin! You mean that Nora----?"

"Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. You were of the same age as the child of the Duc de Vautrin. There were few neighbors. Your mother had also died in childbirth. Nora Burke came into Barry Quinlevin's house as nurse."

"Oh, it is impossible!" gasped Moira. "I can't--I can't believe it."

"It is what I'm to help you to prove."

"But there must be papers--birth certificates--witnesses----"

"Perhaps. I don't know, Moira. All of these things seem uncertain. The idea is that Barry Quinlevin, taking pity on the fatherless child of the Duc, and mourning his own child that had died, had brought the little girl into his own house to keep her until the Duc's return----"

"Oh! It is infamous!"

"That was the way Nora Burke came into the house of Barry Quinlevin, and that was the way you became the daughter and heiress of Mary Callonby."

"I--her heiress?"

He nodded.

"I do not know all the facts, but it seems that when the Duc de Vautrin returned to Paris, he was met by Barry Quinlevin with proofs of his daughter's existence. It was to the Duc's interest to keep the matter secret, since the income from the Callonby fortune which he enjoyed would of course go to the child. And from that day to this the matter has been kept a secret and Barry Quinlevin has been paid for keeping it."

Moira had risen and was pacing up and down the length of the studio.

"It is too horrible--it bewilders me. Who told you all this?"

"Piquette Morin--Harry told her."

"And--and Harry--?"

"His interests and yours were the same."

She buried her face in her hands for a moment. "Wait," she gasped. "I must think--think."

So Jim Horton was silent, watching her anguish with pity and anxiety. But at last she grew calmer and sank into the chair, reading Barry Quinlevin's letter to Harry again.

"And yet this might refer to something--something else--" she pleaded, catching at any straw that would save her from this disgrace.

He shook his head.

"I wish I could reassure you--but I can't. The facts are too clear."

She was silent a moment, breathing hard.

"It was terrible for _you_ to have to tell me this."

"Yes--but you understand that I had to, don't you?"

She bowed her head and he went on.

"And now I only want you to tell me how I can help you--how I can make things easier----"

"What shall I do? What can I----" She halted again, intimidated at the thought of her father. And then--

"If I were only sure.... Of course the Duc de Vautrin must be told at once."

"There's no hurry. You must think it over. Verify my statements, when you can----"

"Yes, yes. I must--or refute them. I see that."

"I want to help you. I'll do anything----"

"Yes. I know--" she paused again. "Whom can I trust now?"

He caught her fingers and pressed them softly to his lips.

"It is a terrible situation for you--but you can't go on as a partner in this intrigue----"

"No, of course--I must be finding out--speaking to--to him--to my father--" and then, turning to him, "Whom can I trust--unless it's you!"

He relinquished her fingers and turned away.

"I deceived you, Moira--cheated you----"

"That doesn't matter now--nothing matters----"

"You mean--that you will forgive me?"

He leaned forward toward her, searching her face eagerly.

"Yes--yes," she whispered.

"Moira!"

"God help me! I've the need of you."

He fell to his knees beside the chair and took her in his arms. Her trouble was so great--the crisis in her life so tragic!

"I've tried to make myself believe I didn't care--," she went on, whispering, "that everything should be as it was before you came. I tried----"

"You poor child----"

"But in spite of myself--in spite of everything--my faith in you is just the same."

"Thank God for that. We must find a way out----"

But she shook her head.

"No. There's no way out--I'm sure of that--for me--and you. It's wrong--all wrong----"

But she did not refuse him her lips now and he held her close in his arms.

"Moira," he whispered. "It was meant to be."

"It's wrong--all wrong," she repeated. And then with a sigh, "Its very sweetness--is--terrible----"

He touched her brow tenderly with his lips and then gently released her.

"Do you want me to go?"

But her fingers still held him.

"No--no--not yet--not just yet, Jim. This is our moment--yours and mine. And I've been wanting you so----"

"You knew that I'd come back to you, didn't you, dear?"

"I've been praying that you would--you won't be going, Jim--away--as you said you would?"

"No, dear--not--not if you need me--not if you want me. But I'm a nondescript now--a deserter--an outcast."

"The cruelty of it! You!"

"I got what I deserved," he said with a smile.

"And Harry? I can't be staying here if he's going to be here, Jim. The very touch of his fingers ... the sight of him, knowing what I do----"

"He won't dare--I would have him broken----"

"And give yourself up to the Military Police. No. You can't be thinking of that. I'm not afraid of him--nor of my father. But--they can't be disgracing you. You must keep in hiding. I see it all now. But you won't be going away, Jim. Promise me that you won't go away."

"And you'll let me see you?"

"Yes. I _must_ see you. I can't let you go--not yet, Jim. I know it's wrong. I don't care about the wrong to Harry, but I _do_ think of the wrong I do myself and you. My love for you has been so clean--so beautiful, Jim. it can't be anything else--for either of us."

"I love you, Moira dear. I needn't tell you how----"

"Don't you suppose that I know already, Jim? But it's so hopeless----"

"Your marriage--a joke! It means nothing----"

"A hideous joke--but a marriage just the same!"

"You can't be tied to this man always----"

"I _am_ tied to him. Oh, Jim--!" she broke off in her despair. "Don't be making it more difficult--don't be pleading with me for that--it's impossible. I'd like to be going with you--away--somewhere just you and I--but I can't----"

"I'll have patience. Some day----"

"No, dear. That's the worst of it. It can't be, ever. I have sworn----"

She stopped and they both listened, Moira started--frightened. From somewhere down the stairway outside came the sounds of a laugh and of voices in conversation.

"Harry!" she gasped. And with quick presence of mind ran to the door, turned the key in the lock and then listened. "My father, too--. They mustn't find you here."

"Yes," said Jim coolly. "I think we'd better have this thing out--here and now."

"No--no," she whispered tensely. "It would be the end of all things. Not yet. I must have time to think----"

Already there was a knock upon the door. Moira had caught Jim by the arm and was hurrying him toward a closet in the corner of the room.

"In here, quickly," she whispered. "You must. My father will go in the other rooms."

"But, Moira----"

"As you love me--please--," she pleaded, pushing him in, shutting the door. Then breathless, she turned and faced the door into the hallway.

*CHAPTER XII*

*QUINLEVIN SPEAKS*