Chapter VI: Part 6

A moment longer she waited, summoning calm and resolution, when the knocking on the door began again and her name was called.

"Coming," she replied, looking around the studio keenly. And then catching sight of Jim Horton's hat, whisked it under the couch and then opened the door.

Barry Quinlevin came in, Harry carrying his bag. With a gay laugh he caught Moira into his arms.

"Well,--it's joyful I am to be back, dusty and unwashed, but none the less glad to be here. How are ye, child? By the amount of time ye took opening the door, I thought ye might be dead----"

"I'm very tired--," she murmured, "I've not been up to the mark----"

He held her off and looked at her in the dim light from the gas jet.

"A little peaky--eh--too much moping in the dark. Let's have some lights--and a drink of the Irish. 'Twill do none of us harm."

He moved into the studio and Harry Horton set the bag down.

"Did you have a successful trip?" asked Moira, putting more color into her voice than she felt.

"So, so," said Quinlevin. "A bottle, Moira--and some glasses and water," and when she had obeyed, "There--the very sight of it's already making a new man of me. Harry, boy--yer health."

Moira sat and listened while he described the incidents of his trip. Harry could not meet her look, but she saw that he drank sparingly. As for her father, she watched him in silence, aware of his flamboyant grace and charm, again incredulous as to the things she knew of him. But his letter to Harry in her shirtwaist seemed to be burning the fair skin of her breast to remind her of his venality.

On his way to the bottle he pinched her pale cheeks between his long fingers. "Where's yer spirit, girl? Ye look as though ye'd been hearing a banshee. A fine husband ye've got, and all, to be putting lilies in yer cheeks instead of roses!"

"She stays in the studio too much," put in Harry, uneasily.

"A good jumper and a few stone walls of County Galway would set ye right in a jiffy. We'll be taking ye there, one day soon, I'm thinking, if ye don't come to life. What is it, child?"

"Oh--nothing--I'm just tired."

He took his glass and held it to the light with a critical air.

"Maybe it's better if ye go to bed then. I'll just clean up a bit and then come back and have a talk with you, Harry boy."

And finishing his glass, he took up his bag and went into his room to cleanse himself, leaving Moira alone with Harry. She was very uncomfortable, and sat wondering what ruse she could find to get rid of them.

Harry fumbled at his glass nervously.

"You're going to tell him?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Of course," she said coolly, "the farce has gone on long enough."

"Yes," he muttered. "Perhaps you're right. I'll tell him--myself--to-night."

"Thanks," she said quietly, "it would be better."

They seemed to have very little to say. She saw Harry furtively looking at her, but she was oblivious of him, for her thoughts were beyond him, over his head, in the paint closet where Jim Horton sat uncomfortably, awaiting the moment of release But how could she effect it now? It seemed almost enough of luck to have hidden Jim Horton's hat before they had entered. She knew that his predicament was hardly to his liking and in spite of her entreaties, feared that any moment he might be opening the door and facing the situation.

And when Barry Quinlevin returned to the room in a moment, his face shining with his vigorous ablutions, any immediate hopes she may have had of Jim's release were dashed to the ground.

"Ye'd better be going to yer room, child, and get yer beauty sleep," he said. "I want to talk to Harry."

That he wanted to be alone with her husband was evident, and the request was something in the nature of a command. Still wondering what she had better do, she got up and moved slowly toward the door into the kitchen. They would talk--she would watch at the door and listen.

"Very well," she said languidly, "perhaps I'll feel better if I lie down for awhile--" and went out of the room, closing the door behind her. But she did not go into her room. All alive with uncertainty and apprehension, she crouched by the door, listening intently. The keyhole was large. Through it she could see the closet upon the opposite side of the studio where Jim was concealed, and what they said she could hear distinctly.

"Well, Harry boy," said Quinlevin, "here we are again, and with Nora close at hand, ready for the 'coup.' There can't be any haggling or boggling now. A clean million we'll get from it, or my name's not B.Q."

"Did you have any trouble getting Nora to come?"

"A little--but five thousand pounds settles her business. Nora was always a bit of rogue, but she couldn't deny real genius. And then, a bit of blarney----"

"But the birth certificate----"

"Here--," producing his pocket case, "a little mildewed and rumpled from hiding in the mattresses, and the like, but still quite legible. See, Patrice--a little hard to read, ye see. Patricia it is. Patricia Madeleine Aulnay de Vautrin. Female, me boy. Born August 7th, in the year of Our Lord, 1897--signed by the Doctor--Dominick Finucane--and attested by the Parish priest--a little illegible in certain notable places, but all quite straight and proper. He can't go back of that."

"And the other servant--who knew--?"

"Dead as a herring--a fortnight ago--ye'll admit most fortuitously--for I can't keep the whole of County Galway under my hat."

Harry Horton frowned.

"No. And you can't keep Moira there either."

"What d'ye mean?"

"Merely that she'll put a spoke in your wheel if you're not careful."

Quinlevin laughed.

"I won't worry about that bridge until I come to it. She won't object to taking her place in the world as the Duchesse de Vautrin----"

He broke off abruptly. "What's that? Did Moira call?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"I've got the fidgets, then. I'd be having to give her up if Monsieur the Duc should take a fancy to her--but ye needn't fear. He won't. He's too self-centered, and well out of it at a million francs. Ah, he'll wriggle and squirm a bit, on the hook, but he'll pay in the end--or we'll gaff him for the whole estate." He stopped and carefully cut the end from a cigar. "D'ye think, by any chance, that Piquette Morin could have done any talking?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because four months ago Monsieur the Duc was in Ireland asking questions."

"Who told you this?"

"Nora Burke. He got nothing from her. She knew which side her bread was buttered on. But that's what made her squeamish when my allowance stopped coming to her."

"I see. And you've paid her something?"

"Yes. And the devil's own time I had getting it together. I'm thinking I've squared accounts with you already in all this business."

But Harry Horton had gotten up and poured himself out a stiff drink of the whisky, which he drained hurriedly.

"I don't like it," he muttered uneasily.

"What?"

"This de Vautrin business."

Quinlevin calmly stared at him.

"Yer feet aren't getting cold now?"

Harry took a pace or two, trying to find his words. And then,

"Things haven't been going right, here--since--er--since you left."

"I see," said Quinlevin with a shrug. "You and Moira haven't been hitting it off----"

"No. And it's worse than that."

Barry Quinlevin leaned forward, his shaggy brows thatched unpleasantly.

"What the devil are ye talking about?"

"I--I've got to tell you."

"Ye'd be obliging me if ye would."

Harry met the sharp look of the older man and then his gaze flickered and fell as he sank into his chair again.

"You--you've heard me speak of my twin brother, Jim?" he asked after a moment.

"The railroad man ye quarreled with over the trifling matter of an estate. Well, what of him?"

"He's turned up--here--in--Paris."

"What have you got to do with him?"

"More than you think. I've got to tell you what has happened--and it's plenty. It's been H---- and repeat. D---- him!"

"At least," laughed the Irishman, "he seems to have gained no new place in yer affection."

"No--nor will he in yours when you have the facts."

"Go on. I'm listening."

And slowly, halting here and there for a word or a phrase that would put a better construction on his own share in the affair, he told Quinlevin of the substitution of Jim Horton for himself and of the events that had followed, including his return to Paris and the desperate means he had taken to regain his own identity. Of Moira he spoke nothing, but as the situation was revealed with all its hazards to the success of their intrigue, from an attitude of polite attention with which he had listened at first, Quinlevin became eagerly and anxiously absorbed, interjecting question after question, while his iridescent eyes glowed under his frowning brows and his long, bony fingers clutched his chair arm. By degrees, the full meaning of the revelation came to him--its relation to Harry's future, to the matter of the Duc, to Moira. But as he grew more furious, he grew more pale, more calm, and listened in a silence punctuated by brief questions, to the conclusion of the story, a little contemptuous of the nervousness of his companion, reading below the thin veneer of braggadocio the meanings that the younger man strove to conceal.

"So," he said coolly, "ye've gone and let us all in for a nice mess of broth! Shell-shock! Humph! And ye'll let a man be tearing the uniform off yer very back--winning yer honors for ye."

He rose and stood at his full height, looking down at the figure in the opposite chair. "And Moira--?" he asked.

"He came--here--to this apartment--when he left the hospital----"

"She did not guess?"

"Nor you," said Harry with, some spirit, "since you invited him here----"

"True for ye--I did--bad cess to him." He broke off and took a pace toward the lay figure in the corner and back. And then, "This is a bad business," he said soberly. "And ye don't know where he is at the present moment?"

"No. He got away clean through a passage to the river----"

"You've no idea who helped him?"

"No. And Tricot's no fool--nor Pochard----"

"But they lack imagination--like yerself----"

Harry Horton aroused himself. "He was drugged, I tell you--to the limit. I saw him before I came here to see Moira. He was clean out. Tricot was for dropping him into the river when we 'got' him--but I wouldn't let them do that--no--not that."

"Ye were always lacking in a pinch, Harry----"

"But my brother--my own brother----"

Quinlevin shrugged. "I can see yer scruples. A brother's a brother, even if he does wean away yer wife."

Harry started up, his face livid at the cool, insulting tones.

"And ye can't blame Moira," continued Quinlevin coolly, "if he's turned out a better man than yerself."

His fiery eyes burned in his pale face and challenged the other man--intimidated him until the hot words on Harry's tongue died unuttered.

"A fine mess! And he's no baby--this frolicsome brother of yours! How much does he know of the de Vautrin affair?"

"Enough," muttered Harry sullenly, "from the letters and what you told him in the hospital----"

"He can't go far--" He broke off and then, with a quick change into eager inquiry. "He'd hardly have had time to find the Duc, and if he did----"

"No," said Harry sullenly. "De Vautrin is in Nice."

"Good. Then we'll have time."

"For what?"

"To meet the situation as it should be met. I intend to take a hand in this affair myself."

"What can you do?"

"I'll find a way. There's one thing sure. I don't intend to have the ingenious plans of half a lifetime spoiled by any blundering hay-maker from Kansas City. He's not my brother. I won't have your scruples. And if Moira has learned to be fond of him, so much the worse for her. I asked her to marry you because I didn't want any strange young man to come poking about my affairs or hers. She's a good girl--too good for the likes of either of us. She was never much after the men, being wedded to her art, and I thought you'd do as well as another--that ye'd make good over here and turn out the husband she deserved." He paused to give his words more weight. "Instead of making good--ye've made a mess of it--to say nothing of falling short with Moira. I might have known. But it's too late now for me to be crying over my spilt milk or yours. And whatever happens I'd like ye to know, my boy, that this affair means too much--to be balked for a mere sentiment. If she doesn't love you that's yer own affair. And as for yer brother, Jim--all I say is let him look out for himself."

He had sunk into his chair again, his lips compressed, his eyes closed to narrow slits and his voice, husky a moment ago with his passion, enunciating his words with icy precision.

"But how are you going to find him? Haven't I told you that he's slipped away--lost in Paris? And you know what that means."

"How could he slip away--drugged--after being knocked out and unconscious?" He leaned forward in his chair, his white fist clenched on the table. "Somebody helped him----"

"It's not possible."

"Why not? How do ye know? Ye were all so frightened of the police that ye took to yer heels without a look around."

"But nobody but Pochard's crowd knew about the old passage to the river----"

"Then somebody in Pochard's crowd did the helping."

"It can't be. They're all in on it."

Quinlevin shrugged. "Perhaps, but I'll be looking into that phase of the question myself."

"Go ahead. I wish you luck. But how is that going to help?"

"It'll find Jim Horton. And that's the only matter I'm concerned about."

There was a pause, and another voice broke the silence.

"And when you find him what will you do about it?"

In her place of concealment Moira trembled at the sound. For there was a harsh scraping of chairs as Harry and Quinlevin rose, startled, and faced Jim Horton, who had opened the door of the closet and stood revealed before them.

Harry Horton drew back a pace, leaning on a chair, his face gray, then purple again. Quinlevin stared, one eye squinting, his face distorted in surprise and curiosity at the astonishing apparition.

"So," he said, "the skeleton in the closet!"

"You'll find me far from that," said Jim Horton, striding forward to within a few paces of them. "You thought I might be hard to find. I'll save you that trouble."

"I see," said the Irishman, finding his composure and a smile. "So ye're the interloper--the comic tragedian of the piece, all primed and set for trouble. Well, I can't say that ye'll be disappointed--" He reached deliberately for his trousers pocket and drew out a weapon. But Jim leaped for him at the same time that Moira, rushing into the room, shrieked Quinlevin's name.

The sound disconcerted him and the shot went wild and before he could shoot again Jim Horton had caught his arm and given his wrist a vicious twist which wrenched the weapon away and sent him hurling into a chair. Harry Horton hadn't moved. His feet seemed riveted to the floor.

"Father!" Moira gasped, her face white as paper. "You might have killed him."

"That was the exact intention," said Quinlevin, making a wry face and nursing his wrist.

But Jim Horton, frowning at the two men, held the weapon in his hand, in command of the situation.

"Why did you come out, Jim--why?" Moira pleaded, wringing her fingers and staring from one to the other.

But Jim Horton didn't even hear her. His gaze was fixed steadily on Barry Quinlevin, who had shrugged himself back into self-possession and was smiling up at the intruder as though in appreciation of an admirable joke.

"We'd better have this thing out--you and I," said Jim, coolly, eliminating Harry from the discussion.

"By all means," said Quinlevin. "And I'm glad ye know a real enemy when ye see one."

"You've hardly left any doubt about that. There's not much to say, except that you're not going to drag Moira into this dirty business with the Duc. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly--but ye'll hardly be less perspicuous if the muzzle of the revolver is twisted a bit to one side. It's a hair trigger--thanks. As you were saying----"

"I won't waste words. I gave Harry his warning. Instead of heeding it, he hired a pair of thugs to put me out of business. But I'll take no chances for the future. I'm in no mood to die just yet."

"I like yer nerve, Jim Horton. I may add, it suffers no disadvantage in comparison to yer twin brother." He shrugged and folded his arms. "Well. Ye seem to have turned the odd tricks--the ace of clubs--the ace of hearts. Now what are ye going to be doing with us all entirely?"

"I told Harry what I'd do, and I'll repeat it now. Drop this affair of the Duc de Vautrin--without dragging Moira through the dirty mess, and I quit--leaving Harry with his rank and honors."

"And if I refuse----?"

Jim Horton shrugged carelessly.

"I'll tell the truth--that's all."

"Brevity is the soul of wit. Permit me to say that I admire the succinctness of yer statement. But the alternative is impossible."

"You mean, that you'll go on with this affair----"

"Ye've guessed it, me son--as sure as ever ye find it convenient to remove the imminent and deadly weapon and yerself from my presence."

"That's final?"

Quinlevin laughed and very coolly poured himself out a glass of whisky.

"What's the use of quarreling? By a bit of mistaken heroics ye've fired yerself into the midst of my little family circle and exploded. Maybe ye've done some damage. But I'm an old bird, and I don't scare so easily. Come now. Ye wouldn't kill me out of hand. Ye're not that kind. And so--let's be reasonable. Can I pour ye a drink?"

"No, thanks----"

"As ye please. But ye've got to admit that there are two sides to this question. If the information in my possession is correct, d'ye see, ye're a deserter from the army of the United States. A word to the nearest private of the Military Police and ye're jugged, to do yer explaining to a judge advocate."

"You can't--you won't do that."

Moira seemed to find her speech with an effort, for the rapidity of events and their portentous consequences to her own destiny had robbed her of all initiative. But her courage came back with a rush as she faced this man who had deceived her all these years--and charmed her even now with his reckless grace and magnetism.

"You won't do that," she went on breathlessly. "I can't permit it. I've heard all you said. I've been listening---there----"

"Ah, you heard," said Quinlevin with a quick glance at her. "Then perhaps it's just as well. I would be having to tell you some day." And then, with quick decision. "Ye're not my daughter. Ye're the child of the Duc de Vautrin."

As he shot this bolt at her, he watched its effect. Moira grew even paler and stared at him as though he were a person she had never seen before.

"The daughter--of the Duc de Vautrin?" she stammered.

"That's not true, Moira," broke in Jim's voice, "but you're not _his_ daughter either. I'll take my oath on it."

She glanced at Jim as though the deep tones of his voice had steadied her for a moment.

"Not his daughter--then who----?" She paused and sought Quinlevin's eyes uncertainly.

"I've told ye the truth, my dear. It was my crime not to have told ye before--but that's all ye can lay against me--that and the love for ye that has made the confession difficult."

Moira faltered. But Barry Quinlevin's eyes were upon her, alive, it seemed, with the old affection. And across her brain flitted quick visions of their careless past, their years of plenty, their years of privation, in which this man, her father she had thought, had always loomed the dominant figure, reckless perhaps, aloof at times--but always kindly--considerate.... But there was Jim Horton just beside her.... She felt his presence too--the strength of him--the honesty and the love of her that gave him the courage to face oblivion for her sake. The silence was deathly, and seemed to have gone on for hours. Jim did not speak. There was Harry too, standing like a pale image, the ghost of her happiness--staring at her. Were they all dumb? Something seemed to be required of her and her instinct answered for her. She moved toward Jim Horton, her fingers seeking his.

"I--I love him," she found herself saying. "I--want you both to know. It has all been a horrible mistake--But it's too late to cry over. It has just happened--that's all. I can never love any one else----"

"Moira----," whispered Jim.

"But I know that--that there's nothing to be done. I only wanted you to know," she finished firmly, "that any one who harms him, harms me----"

"Moira," Jim's voice broke in pleadingly at her ear. "Come away with me--now. You can't stay here. The situation is impossible."

She felt Barry Quinlevin's eyes before he spoke.

"I don't need to remind ye, Moira--of yer vows at the altar----"

"What vows!" broke in Jim, fiercely facing his brother. "A travesty--a cruel hoax. There's no law that will keep it binding----"

"She married me--with her eyes open," muttered Harry. "And unless I release her----"

"Stop! For God's sake," Moira's voice found itself in pity for her own humiliation. "There's no release--no hope for either of us. There's no divorce--except death----"

"I ask nothing of you, Moira," Jim was pleading again, "only to go with me--away from here--to-night--for your own self-respect."

"An outcast----," sneered Quinlevin.

He saw how the game was going, but he went too far. She turned on him defiantly.

"An outcast!" she said. "I would be proud to be facing the world alone with such an outcast as Jim Horton--the shame and the glory of following blindly where my heart was leading me----"

"Come, then," said Jim.

"No. Don't you see? I can't. What Harry says is true. I married with my eyes open. I swore to a lie. And I've got to abide by that lie. I've got to, Jim. For God's sake, have pity."

She sank helplessly into a chair, relinquishing his hand. All hope, all life, it seemed, had gone out of her. Jim Horton stood regarding her for a moment and then silently walked to the door, when he heard her voice again.

"Jim," she cried despairingly.

He turned in the doorway and their glances met for a moment.

"Will you come, Moira?" he asked quietly.

"I can't, Jim. I can't----"

He waited a moment, and then laying Quinlevin's weapon on the table in front of him, turned again and walked out of the door and into the darkness of the corridor.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*BEGINNING A JOURNEY*

It would have been easy for Quinlevin to have shot him in the back, and at the moment Jim Horton wouldn't much have cared if he had. He went down the stairs slowly, across the court and out into the street, wandering aimlessly, bare headed, with no sense of any intention or direction. "There's no divorce--but death." Moira's words rang again and again in his brain. That was a part of her creed, her faith, her religion. She had once spoken of what her Church had always meant to her--her Mother, she had called it,--and she was true to her convictions. "There's no divorce--but death." The revelation of her beliefs was not new to him, yet it came to him with a sense of shock that she had chosen at the last to remain with Harry and Quinlevin and all the degradation that the association meant to her. It had been a choice between two degradations, and force of habit had cast the last feather into the balance. In the bitterness of his own situation--isolated, outcast, with no hope of regeneration, he tried to find it in his heart to blame her. But the thought of the pain and bewilderment he had seen in her eyes made him only pitiful for her misfortunes. It seemed as though the shock of the many revelations of the evening had deadened her initiative, enfeebled her fine impulses and made her like a dependent child--at the mercy of custom and tradition. And he could not forget that he had gone to her asking nothing, expecting nothing, and that in spite of all the barriers that she recognized between them, in spite of the deception he had practiced, she had still clung to him and even acknowledged him in the presence of her husband and the man she called her father. Love had glowed in her eyes and in her heart, lifting her for a time above the tragic mystery of her origin and the broken ideals of a lifetime. It was almost enough for him to ask of her.

It didn't seem to matter much now what happened to him. But almost unconsciously he found himself casting an occasional glance over his shoulder to see if he was followed. He had no fear of Harry. His brother had shown to-night in his true colors, but the picturesque scoundrel whose name Moira bore was clearly a person to be reckoned with. Why Quinlevin hadn't taken a pot-shot at him on the stairs was more than Jim Horton could understand, unless some consideration for Moira had held his hand. The impulse of fury that had made him draw his revolver had faded. But their controversy was still unsettled and Jim Horton knew that the one duty left him must be done at once. After he had told what he knew to de Vautrin, Quinlevin could try to kill him if he liked--but not before....

Would the memories of the past prevail in Moira's relations with Quinlevin? Would he be able to convince her that she was the Duc's daughter? He remembered that most of what he had heard from his place of concealment could be susceptible of a double interpretation under the skillful manipulation of the resourceful Irishman.

Jim Horton knew that Piquette had told him the straight story, from Harry's own lips, but he could not violate her confidence by using her name. It meant danger for Piquette from Quinlevin and perhaps a revelation of her breech of Pochard's confidence and a greater danger even from Tricot. He knew that he must move alone and reach the ear of de Vautrin at once with his testimony.

He approached the cafe of Leon Javet when he heard the light patter of feet behind him and stopped and turned. It was Piquette, divested of her fine raiment and dressed in the simple garb of a _midinette_.

"Jeem----," she said. "I 'ave been waiting for you--outside----"

"Oh, Piquette----"

"You mus' not go in Javet's--come, _mon ami_, to de oder side of de street----"

"Why, Piquette?" he asked curiously.

"Because Tricot and _Le Singe_ are looking for you and dey will watch Javet's."

"H-m. Who told you this?"

But he let her take him by the elbow to the darkness opposite.

"Pochard. De house in de Rue Charron is watch' by de police. Dey are afraid you will give de evidence----"

"They needn't worry just now," he muttered. "I've something else to do."

"But you mus' keep away from de _Quartier_----"

"I expect to. I'm going away, Piquette----"

"Jeem! Where?"

"To Nice. I've got to see your friend de Vautrin, at once."

"Ah--de Vautrin!"

She walked along with him for a moment in silence.

"Where is your 'at, _mon ami_?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, aware for the first time of his loss.

"I left it----"

"In the Rue de Tavennes?"

"Yes."

"Ah, you mus' tell me. Come to de Boulevard Clichy. It is safer."

"I've taken a lodging in the Rue Jean Paul."

"No," she insisted. "You mus' take no more chances on dis side of de river jus' now--nor mus' I."

"You mean that they suspect----?"

"Not yet--but dey will if dey see us--you and I----"

"You can't run that chance, Piquette."

"We are quite safe in de Boulevard Clichy. Come."

And so he yielded to her persuasions and followed her by a roundabout way across the Pont Carrousel and so toward their destination, while he told her in general terms of the events of the evening. She listened, putting in an exclamation or a brief question here and there, but made no comments until they reached her apartment, where she made him comfortable in her best chair, gave him a cigarette and getting out of her street dress, slipped into her dressing gown. To the western mind, unused to the casual ways of the _atelier_, this informality might have seemed indecorous. But Jim Horton was deeply absorbed in his own thoughts and for the moment did not think of her. And when she drew her robe around her and took up a cigarette, she seemed for the first time to be aware of his abstraction. To Piquette's mind those things which were natural to her must be natural to every one else, and this, after all, is only the simple philosophy of the child. As she curled herself up on her _chaise longue_ and lighted her cigarette he smiled at her.

"Well, _mon_ Jeem*," she said, "what you t'ink of Monsieur Quinlevin?" (She pronounced it Canl'van.)

"He's just about the smoothest proposition that ever happened," he replied. "He'd have gotten me, if I hadn't moved in close."

"An' 'Arry----? 'E did not'ing?"

"No. Just stood there. He's lost his nerve again. He won't bother me, but the Irishman is in this game for keeps."

"He is dangerous, _mon ami_. You 'ad better not go on wit' dis affair."

"Yes, Piquette, I must," he said quietly. "I got into this situation by being a moral coward, I'm not going to get out of it by being a physical one. Besides, I've promised."

"Who?"

"Myself. It's a duty I owe----," he paused.

"To Madame 'Orton? An' what t'anks do you get?" She shrugged expressively. "A bullet or a knife in de ribs, perhaps. You 'ave already almos' enough been shot and beaten, _mon vieux_."

"And yet here I am quite comfortable in your best chair, and none the worse--thanks to you, Piquette."

"But you cannot always be so lucky. I would be ver' onhappy if you were kill', _mon_ Jeem."

"Would you, Piquette?" he said, taking her hand impulsively and kissing it gently.

"An' den it is too late to be onhappy----," she sighed and put her other hand over his. "Oh, _mon_ Jeem, life is so short, so sweet. It is not right to take a chance of dying before one's time."

"I don't want to die just yet, and I don't expect to, but life doesn't mean a whole lot to me. It's too complex, you understand?--_difficile_----" He gave a sigh and sank back in his chair, relinquishing her fingers. "I guess I was meant for the simple life," he said, with his slow smile.

She was silent for a moment, regarding him soberly.

"What 'as happen', _mon ami_? She 'as let you go?"

He paused, frowning at the ash of his cigarette.

"What else could she do?" he asked quietly. "I asked nothing--expected nothing of her."

"Then you cannot be disappoint'!" said Piquette dryly. "She is not worth de trouble. You run a risk of being kill', to save 'er from 'er 'usban' who is a _vaut rien_, you offer 'er de bes' you 'ave an' she send you away alone into de darkness. You t'ink she loves you. _Saperlotte_! What she knows of love! If I love a man I would go wit' 'im to de end of de worl', no matter what 'e is."

He sat watching her as she spoke--listening to the clear tones of her voice, watching the changes in her expressive features.

"I believe you would, Piquette," he muttered.

"An' you," she went on shrilly, "you who 'ave save' 'er 'usban' from disgrace, you who win 'im de _Croix de Guerre_ an' den go into de darkness an outcas'--she let you go--she let you go----!"

"Sh----," he broke in. "She had to--I understand--she is a Catholic----"

She paused and then went on. "Why 'as she marry your broder if she does not love 'im? La la!" She stopped and shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Perhaps you onderstan' now, _mon petit_ Jeem, why I 'ave not marry. Not onless I love, and den----," her voice sank to a tense whisper, "and den ontil deat' I would be true----"

"Yes, Piquette. You are that sort. But this----," and he glanced about the room.

She shrugged as she caught his meaning.

"Monsieur 'as much money. Why should I not be content as well as some one else?"

Deep in his heart he was sorry for her, but he could see that she was not in the least sorry for herself. And the unconventionality of her views, the total lack of moral sense, seemed somehow less important than the rugged sincerity of her point of view and the steadfastness of her friendship.

"And you have never loved well enough to marry?" he asked.

"No, _mon_ Jeem," she said gently.

Their glances met, his level and friendly. And it was her look that first turned away. "No, _mon_ Jeem," she repeated slowly. "One does not meet such a man, ontil it is too late." She gave a sharp little gasp and sat up facing him. "An' I speak of my troubles when you 'ave greater ones of your own. I want to 'elp you, _mon ami_. You 'ave in your mind a duty to do with Monsieur the Duc de Vautrin. You 'ave make me t'ink. Perhaps it is my duty too."

"I've got to see him at once, before Quinlevin does."

"_Eh bien_. He is on the Riviera--Nice. We s'all find 'im."

"We?"

"_Parfaitement_! Perhaps I can make it easier for you to see him----"

"You'll go with me?"

"Why not? Onless you do not want me----?"

"Of course I'll be only too happy, only----"

"What, _mon petit_?"

"It seems a great deal to ask. You've already done so much."

"No," she said with a smile. "It will perhaps be safer for both of us away from Paris. An' you are onhappy. Will I perhaps not cheer you up a little?"

"There's no doubt of that, Piquette----"

"I would like to go wit' you. It will give me pleasure--if you do not mind."

"But Monsieur the Duc----"

"_Je ne me fiche pas_. Besides, shall I not now be doing him a service?"

"Yes, that's true." He stopped as a thought came to him. "The Duc suspects something. What made him go to Ireland and question Nora Burke?"

"Perhaps I talk' a little too much dat night----"

"Has he spoken of it since?"

"Yes. But I tol' 'im not'ing. I did not wish to get 'Arry in trouble. But now----," she shrugged and lighted a fresh cigarette. "I do not care about what 'appen to 'Arry or Monsieur Quinlevin. It is only what 'appens to you dat matters, _mon_ Jeem.

"But in befriending me you've made enemies of all that crowd----"

"Not onless dey find out. It is you who are in danger. After what you 'ave 'eard to-night, you are more dangerous to Quinlevin dan ever."

"I gave him his chance. He didn't take it."

"But he'll make anoder chance. You do not know dat man. Even Tricot is afraid of 'im."

"Well, I'm not. He thinks the world owes him a living. But he wouldn't last half an hour out in the country where I come from. He's clever enough, to put it over Moira all these years----"

"Yes, _mon_ Jeem. An' 'e may 'put it over' still--now dat you go from 'er----"

"Perhaps," he muttered, with a frown. "But that doesn't matter. She's not de Vautrin's daughter--or his--I'd take an oath on it. I've got to clear her skirts of this dirty mess. She wouldn't come. They've got her there now--a prisoner. She can't help herself. I can't be losing any time."

He rose suddenly as though aware of the passage of time and took a few paces away from her.

"Not to-night?" said Piquette.

"The first train. I've got to go and find out."

She glanced at the small enameled clock upon the mantel.

"It is too late. Dere would be no fas' express until de morning."

"Very well. I'll see." And he strode toward the door.

"At de Hotel Gravelotte--at de corner you will find out, but wait----" She had sprung up and running out of the apartment, returned in a moment with a soft hat, which she gave him.

"Thanks, Piquette--you're my good angel. I do seem to need you, don't I?"

"I 'ope you do, _mon vieux_," she said quietly. And then, "Go an' 'urry back. I will wait for you."

Thus it was that the next day found Jim Horton and Piquette together in a compartment of the Marseilles Express on their way to the Riviera. Jim had managed to get reservations in a train which was now running regularly, and then, after advising Piquette, had returned to his lodgings in the Rue Jean Paul, meeting her at the Gare de Lyon at noon. Piquette seemed to have thought of everything that he had forgotten, and greeted him with an air of gayety which did much to restore his drooping spirits. It was very cozy, very comfortable, in their compartment _a deux_, and Piquette looked upon the excursion from the angle of the child ready and willing to take a new pleasure in anything. Curiously enough, she had traveled little--only once to the Cote d'Azur, and looked forward with delight to the southern sunshine, the blue of the sea, and the glimpse of the world of fashion which was once more to be seen upon the _Promenade des Anglais_. The passing landscape she greeted with little childish cries as she recognized familiar scenes--the upper reaches of the Seine, Juvisy, then Arpajon, Etampes and Orleans.

And Jim Horton sat watching her, detached by her magnetism from the gloom of his thoughts, aware of the quality of her devotion to this newly found friend for whom with joyous carelessness she was risking the good-will of her _patron_, the displeasure of her bloodthirsty friends of earlier days and even perhaps her very life. She was a new event in his experience, giving him a different meaning for many things. There had been no new passages of anything approaching sentiment between them and he watched her curiously. It seemed that what she wished him to understand was that she was merely a good friend that he could tie to and be understood by. Even when he took her hand in his--a natural impulse on Jim's part when it lay for a moment beside him--she only let it rest there a moment and then gave a careless gesture or made a swift useful motion which dispelled illusions and exorcised sentiment. And yet of sentiment of another sort she was full, fairly bubbling over with sympathy and encouragement, inviting him to share her enjoyment of the gray and brown pastoral from the car window, peaceful, beautiful and untouched by the rough hand of war. It was a kind of friendship he couldn't understand and wouldn't have understood perhaps even if he had been skilled in the knowledge of women. And yet, there it was, very real, very vital to him in all its beauty and self-effacement.

Whatever her past, her strange philosophy of life, her unique code of morals, he had to admit to himself that she was a fine young animal, feminine to the last glossy hair of her head, and compact of splendid forces which had been diverted--of virtues which refused to be stifled by the mere accident of environment. But most of all was she that product of the Latin Quarter, which knows and shares poverty and affluence, friendship and enmity,--the _gamine_, the _bonne camarade_.

She thought nothing of her exploit in rescuing him from the house in the Rue Charron, nor would she permit a repetition of his admiration and gratitude. The impulse that had driven her to the rescue was spontaneous. He was one she knew, an American soldier, a friend of France, in trouble. Was not that enough?

As the day wore on Piquette grew tired looking at the scenery and after yawning once or twice, laid her head quite frankly upon his shoulder with all the grace of a tired child and immediately went to sleep. Jim Horton smiled down at her with a new sense of pride in this strange friendship, admiring the fine level brows, the shadows on her eye-lids, slightly tinted with blue, the well-turned nose, the scarlet curve of her under lip and the firm line of her jaw and chin. Two outcasts they were, he and she, strangely met and more strangely linked in the common purpose of protecting the destinies of a decadent French gentleman whom Jim Horton had never seen and in whom he had no interest. And Piquette----? What was her motive? Her loyalty to de Vautrin, unlike that which she had shown for him, was spasmodic, actuated by no affection but only by the humor of the moment. She did not love this man. He had never been to her anything more than a convenience.

He smiled. The word suggested a thought to him. Convenience! Was this relation of Piquette to her patron any worse than those marriages of the ambitious girls of his own country, without love, often without hope of love, to bring themselves up in the world? Piquette at least was honest--with the _patron_ and with herself.

The vows at the altar were sacred. He knew how sacred now. He had not dared to think of Moira and he knew that it was well that Piquette had kept his thoughts from her. But now as his companion slept, his arm around her slim figure, he began to think of Moira and the tragic decision that he had given her to make. She had chosen to remain there in the Rue de Tavennes because that was the only home she knew, and in the agony of her mind she felt that she must find sanctuary in her own room with her thoughts and her prayers. And the love she bore him, he knew was not a mere passing fancy, born of their strange romance, but a living flame of pure passion, which could only be dimmed by her duty to her conscience--but not extinguished.

* * * * *

Piquette stirred slightly in her sleep and spoke his name. "_Mon_ Jeem," she muttered, and then settled herself more comfortably against his shoulder. Jim Horton did not move for fear of awakening her, but his gaze passed over her relaxed features and a generous wave of gratitude swept over him for all that she had done for him. What a trump she was! What a loyal little soul to help him with no hope of reward but the same kind of loyalty she had given him. He must not fail her. If there were only some way in which he could help her to happiness. In sleep she was so gentle--so child-like--so confiding. Thinking of all that he owed her, he bent over and kissed her gently on the brow.

She did not waken, and Jim Horton raised his head. Then suddenly, as if in response to an impulse, looked at the small, uncurtained window that let out upon the corridor of the carriage. There, two dark eyes stared at him as though fascinated from a pallid face, the whiter for its frame of dusky hair--the face of Moira Quinlevin. He thought for a moment that the vision was a part of his obsession and for a second did not move--and then started forward, awakening Piquette, for behind the face, in the obscurity of the corridor, he made out another head--and the iridescent eyes of Barry Quinlevin.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A NIGHT ATTACK*

And even as he looked the faces were merged into the obscurity and vanished.

Piquette clung to his arm, whispering.

"I'd such a dreadful dream-- Why, Jeem, what is it?"

He started to his feet.

"Barry Quinlevin--there!" he gasped. "With _her_!"

Her clutch on his arm tightened.

"Here--impossible!"

"I saw them."

"You dreamed, like me. I can't believe----"

"They were there a moment ago. Let me go, Piquette."

"No," she gasped in a frightened whisper. "You mus' not follow----"

"I've got to--to explain," he muttered.

But she only clutched his arm the more firmly and he could not shake her off, for she held him with the strength of desperation.

"Not now, _mon_ Jeem," she pleaded. "I--I am frighten'----"

He glanced at her quickly and it seemed as if this were so, for her face had gone so white that the rouge upon her lips looked like the blood upon an open wound.

"It is jus' what 'e want', _mon_ Jeem, for you to go after him."

"What do you mean?"

"It would give him de excuse he want' to shoot you----"

"Nonsense."

"_Defense personnelle_. He knows de law. He will kill you, _mon_ Jeem."

"I'm not afraid. I've got to go, Piquette----"

"No. You s'all not. An' leave me here alone----?"

"There's nothing to be frightened about on a train full of people----"

He managed to reach the door with Piquette clinging to him and peered out into the corridor. A guard was approaching.

"_Ou est ce monsieur et cette dame_----" he stammered,

Ollendorf fashion, and then his French failed him and he floundered helplessly, pleading with Piquette to finish what he wished to say.

But the man understood, rattled off a rapid sentence and disappeared.

"It is dat dey have gone into anoder carriage," she translated. "You see. It will be impossible to find dem."

"No," he muttered, but he knew that the delay had cost him his opportunity.

"You mus' not leave me, _mon petit_," Piquette pleaded at his ear. "I 'ave fear of him. 'E 'as seen us together. Now 'e knows that it is I who 'ave tol' about Monsieur le Duc--I who 'ave 'elp you from de house in de Rue Charron--everyt'ing. I 'ave fear----"

Jim laid a hand over hers and patted it reassuringly.

"Don't worry. He can't harm you."

"I am not afraid when you are 'ere,----" she whispered.

And she won her way. It was the least that he could do for her; so he sat again thinking of the look in Moira's eyes and frowning out of the window, wondering how best to meet this situation, while Piquette clung to his arm and patted his hand nervously.

"We should 'ave watch' for 'im, _mon_ Jeem--at de Gare de Lyon. I don' on'erstan'----"

"Nor I--how he got her to come with him," muttered Jim fiercely.

"'Ave I not tol' you 'e is a man _extraordinaire_--a man to be watch'--to be fear'----?"

"How did he get her to come?" Jim repeated, as though to himself. "How did he----?"

There seemed no necessity to find a reply to that, for there she was, in the next carriage, perhaps, with this shrewd rascal, whose power and resource seemed hourly to grow in importance.

It was difficult to believe that Moira had listened to Quinlevin, had believed the story he had chosen to tell her, directly after the convincing proof of his villainy, directly after Jim Horton's own plea to save her. What art--what witchcraft had he employed?

The answer came in a shrewd guess of Piquette's.

"Dis was de firs' fas' express to de Mediterranean," she said. "'E knew you would go to Monsieur de Vautrin. Las' night 'e foun' out I would go wit' you."

"But how----?"

"Who knows----?" she shrugged uneasily.

He turned with a frown and examined Piquette with quick suspicion, but her gaze met his frankly. The thought that had sped through his mind was discreditable to her and to him for thinking it. There was no possibility of her collusion with Quinlevin. Her fear of him was too genuine.

"H-m. He arranged things nicely. To show her _me_ with _you_----"

"_Parfaitement_! It is dat only which made 'er come, _mon petit_."

"Smooth!" muttered Jim. "And she saw me, all right," he finished bitterly.

Piquette was silent for awhile.

"She is ver' 'andsome," she said at last. And then, "An' she foun' me asleep wit' my 'ead on your shoulder."

"Yes," muttered Jim. "She did."

At the moment he could not think how much his words wounded her.

"I am sorry, _mon petit_," she said gently.

His conscience smote him at the tone of contrition.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, of course," he said. "There was no hope--for me--none. But it complicates things a little."

"Yes, I comprehend. Monsieur hopes to keep you from reaching the Duc."

"He won't succeed--but I'd rather he hadn't seen me in the train."

"Or Madame."

Jim Horton made no reply and was at once enwrapped in his thoughts, which as Piquette could see, excluded her. And after a glance at his face, she too was silent. The train, stopping here and there, rushed on through the darkness, for hours it seemed to Piquette, and her companion still sat, staring at the blank wall before him, absorbed in his problem. He seemed to have forgotten her--and at last she could bear the silence no longer.

"_Mon pauvre_ Jeem, you love 'er so much as dat?" she asked.

He started at the sound of her voice and then turned and laid his hand over hers.

"I'm a fool, Piquette," he muttered.

"Who s'all say?" She shrugged. Then she turned her palm up and clasped his. "I am ver' sorry, _mon ami_."

The touch of her hand soothed him. In spite of the danger that she now ran, only half suggested by what she had said, she could still find words to comfort him. Selfish brute that he was, not to think of her!

"Piquette! I have gotten you into trouble."

"No. I got myself into it, _mon_ Jeem."

He made no reply--and sat frowning. The train had stopped again. By contrast with the roar to which their ears had become accustomed, the silence was eloquent as though their train had stopped breathless upon the edge of an abyss. Then small sounds emerged from the silence, a complaining voice from an adjoining compartment, the buzzing of an insect, a distant hissing of steam. Then suddenly, the night was split with a crash of sound and glass from the window was sprinkled over them. Another crash. And before Piquette had realized what was happening Jim had seized her bodily and thrown her to the floor of their compartment, and was crouching over her, while the missiles from outside, fired rapidly, were buried in the woodwork above the place where they had sat.

Six shots and then a commotion of voices here, there, everywhere, and the sound of feet running inside the train and out.

"Lucky I pulled that blind," said Jim as he straightened, glancing at the bullet holes.

"Quinlevin," gasped Piquette as she rose to a sitting posture.

Jim Horton got up and opened the door just as the guards came running with excited inquiries, and seeing Piquette upon the floor.

"Madame has been shot----?"

But Piquette immediately reassured them by getting up, frightened but quite unhurt.

"By the window--the shots came," she explained quickly in French, while Jim exhibited the damaged paneling. "Some one outside has fired at us----"

They understood and were off again, out into the darkness where there was much running about with lanterns and many cries of excitement, while the other passengers crowded into the compartment and examined the bullet holes, mouths agape.

"Is it the Boches?" asked an excited _mondaine_ of her _compagnon de voyage_.

"Not unlikely," replied the other.

But Jim Horton knew better. Consideration for Moira's position had kept him silent and inactive until the present moment, but he was angry now at Quinlevin's dastardly attempt at the murder of either or both of them, so nearly successful. And so, when the officials of the train led by a fussy, stout, black-bearded individual in buttons, returned to question him, he answered freely, his replies quickly translated by Piquette, describing Quinlevin.

"A monsieur with a mustache and _Imperiale_?" echoed the stout official, taking notes rapidly on a pad. "And mademoiselle had dark hair and blue eyes----?"

"They were of the party of four in the second carriage----," broke in the guard whom Jim had questioned earlier in the day.

"It is impossible, Monsieur. They left the train at St. Etienne."

"A party of four?" questioned Piquette, astonished.

"_Oui, Madame_. The two you mention besides another man and an older woman."

"What did the other two look like?" asked Jim, thinking of Harry.