Chapter VIII: Part 8

The Duc smiled politely, bowed--and stared. Moira, who, as though in duty, had taken a step toward him, paused. And then as she saw the look that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her cheeks. The Duc's rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself. If she were a mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting. This man--this effete boulevardier--her father----? Impossible! And the repulsion she felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere away from the sight of him. What else she had expected, she didn't know, for even Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what would be likely to happen. But there was her mentor at her side, a gentle hand upon her elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the window, which Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather exaggerated gesture of formality.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into another chair. "Ye're not to be blamed for not flying to each other's arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was to say the least a most trivial affair. But in a while, perhaps, ye'll be knowing each other better and I'm sure, Monsieur, ye'll be finding my ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion."

"Ah," said de Vautrin. "I don't doubt that. It would truly be a great pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately----"

"One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the facts in the matter. Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my ward's choosing. She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty which she owed to the memory of her mother. Many years have passed since yer affairs--er--called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame. She knows that ye've provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could. But the time has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs, and it's my duty to be putting her there. To this end, as ye'll see, I've brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye're already acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like to put to her."

Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her feet shifting uneasily.

"I've heard something of Nora Burke's story," said de Vautrin dryly, "but there are parts of it that I have not heard."

"Ye're quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence."

"Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I comprehend. But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I have promised to do so. It can do no harm. _Allons_! Proceed, Nora Burke. My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter was born?"

"She did, yer Highness----" And, as the woman hesitated----

"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin.

"The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul, faded away before our very eyes."

"And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly.

"Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the priest who gave her Absolution----"

"And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly.

"Yes, yer Highness--but the birth certificate I was afther kapin' since no father came near us, nor any relation. Mary Callonby was a lonely kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther her."

"And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly.

"She is."

"It's very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die."

"All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.

De Vautrin shrugged. "Well. What happened then?"

"Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn't know what to be afther doing, so we just followed the advice of Father Reilly."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded.

"In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin--this gentleman here--who lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home. Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' very lonely, he said, his own wife and colleen havin' died a few months before."

"That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin."

"We thought so--yer Highness--but it was kind of Father Reilly too--for nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin was that grateful--he watched the babby like it was his own----"

"That's true enough. He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened then?"

"Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook and me as nurse, bringin' up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin,--alone in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' away to London or Paris on business. But all the whoile I was kapin' the birth certificate an' all the whoile tryin' me best to take the place of poor Mary Callonby."

"And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin.

"I had me wages. It was enough."

"And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years afterward, you received more money?"

Nora's glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly.

"I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand--a proper share of the sum for the support of the child. And they agreed to say nothing." He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper. "This, as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child."

"And the original?" asked the Duc.

"Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.

De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully.

"And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked. "Dead also?"

"Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly. "It's most unfortunate--but her signature can be verified."

"H--m. And Father Reilly also. Of course," said the Duc with a quick glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?"

"Yes," said Quinlevin. "Letters from you--accompanying yer checks--which guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris. The will of Patrick Callonby and a few other trifles which are important to ye."

"And you think your case is complete?"

"Oh, yes, quite. An Irish court won't hesitate very long just at this time in carrying out the provisions of this will."

Monsieur de Vautrin smiled. "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked quietly.

"To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own. Ye know the terms of the will. In the event of the mother dying, her fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child. But she's to be considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father and only daughter. Ye've both formed the habits of yer lives--yerself living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London. Yer daughter is disposed to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the future. She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go on living with me--yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer bachelorhood."

"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.

Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.

"As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling--we'll say twenty millions of francs or thereabouts--since ye're not a man of business and allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two thirds to you----"

Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.

"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.

"It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for depreciation."

"What do ye mean?"

"Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and since the war--pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."

Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.

"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."

"Of course. I commend you to them. And Nora Burke, who might have told me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be generous."

"I've tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her bewilderment.

"And how much more will you tell when there's no money for the telling?" said de Vautrin, rising.

For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim Horton strode quickly into the room.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*JIM MAKES A GUESS*

Horton did not look at Moira and quickly sought out the tall figure of the astonished Irishman, who stood by the table, glaring angrily.

"What's this, Monsieur de Vautrin?" Le asked.

"I beg pardon," said Horton quickly, "but my departure has been delayed by the necessity for presenting some evidence which had been overlooked by Mr. Quinlevin."

"A trick--Monsieur de Vautrin," stormed the Irishman. "I'll have none of him," and moved toward the door into the corridor. But Jim Horton had reached it ahead of him, and quickly locking the door, put the key into his pocket, turned quickly, his height topping Quinlevin's, his bulk dominating him.

"I'm afraid you must," said Horton coolly.

"Must----!" Quinlevin struggled for his temper and then, realizing that he was doing his cause no good, shrugged a careless shoulder and glanced toward the door into the adjoining room.

"And yer _compagnon de voyage_? Is she to be with us also?" he said insultingly, for Moira's benefit.

Horton met Moira's glance as she took a pace forward toward him.

"By what right do you keep me here against my will?" she asked in angry disdain.

He faced her coolly.

"By every right you've given me--to act in your interest whether you wish it or not."

"I'm quite capable of looking after my own affairs," she cut in quickly.

He smiled quietly.

"If I thought so, I shouldn't be here."

"Will you unlock that door?" she asked icily.

He did not move and his level gaze met hers calmly. "No, Moira----" he said gently, "I won't."

"Oh!" she gasped furiously, then turned her back and went to the window where she stood silently looking down over the garden.

Without noticing her further Horton turned toward Quinlevin.

"You seem to have forgotten your conversation with me in the hospital at Neuilly, Mr. Quinlevin, and the intimate blood-ties that bind me to your fellow-conspirator, Harry Horton."

Quinlevin had sunk into a chair in an attitude of careless grace and playing this old gambler's game smiled grimly up into the face of the enemy.

"Yer talents for the dramatic will be getting ye into trouble, Mr. Horton. I've only to be asking Moira to shout for help from the window to land ye in a jail. But I confess to some idle curiosity as to yer reasons for this behavior. And I warn ye that when ye unlock the door I'll see ye into the prison at Monaco. In the meanwhile I'll tell ye that what ye say will be held against ye."

"And what of the evidence I hold against _you_, Barry Quinlevin?"

"The evidence of a deserter from the American army," Quinlevin sneered. "Let it be brief and to the point, Corporal Horton."

"You don't alarm me," said Horton calmly. "I've discounted that. Give me up to the Provost Guard and my brother will go on the witness stand, against me, but against you too, Mr. Quinlevin, in Monsieur de Vautrin's interests." Horton laughed easily as the Irishman refused a reply. "Come. Perhaps it won't be necessary to go so far as that. If your friend Tricot had done his shooting at Marboeuf a little lower neither Piquette nor I would be here to oppose you."

Jim Horton saw Moira turn from the window with startled eyes at Tricot's name, but he went on carelessly. "But here I am, and I'm not easy to kill, Mr. Quinlevin. If I came through at Boissiere Wood I'm not likely to get hit now. So you'd better listen to me."

"I've been doing little else these ten minutes, Mr. Horton," said Quinlevin, yawning politely.

"I won't waste any more time than I can help, but when you promise Nora Burke five thousand pounds for telling a lie I want to give her her money's worth."

He turned to the old woman with a frown as he caught her off her guard but Quinlevin broke in quickly.

"See here, Horton, I've had about enough of this----"

The Irishman rose furiously, but Horton took a quick pace toward him.

"Keep your hands out of your pockets, Quinlevin," he shouted warningly. "I'm younger than you--and quicker. That's better. And Monsieur de Vautrin, you will please close the window. The interview is apt to be noisy."

The Irishman knew that he was no match in physical strength for the American, and so he sank into his chair again, Horton near him in a commanding position where he could watch Nora Burke. He was conscious of Moira's gaze from the corner by de Vautrin. She had not spoken but he knew that he had her attention again.

"Five thousand pounds for a lie," he said distinctly over Quinlevin's head. "That's true, isn't it, Nora?"

But the woman had had time to regain some of her composure after the sudden shock of his first accusation and turned on him defiantly.

"It is not," she replied. "And the man lies who says it."

"Even if it was Mr. Quinlevin himself?" said Horton.

"Say nothing, Nora," the Irishman's voice broke in quickly. "No one can make you speak."

"But when he says----"

"Silence!"

Horton shrugged. "As you please. But she'll have to answer later, and it won't be so easy then. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money----"

"It's a lie----"

"Silence!" from Quinlevin.

"It's a mighty small sum, Nora Burke, for so big a lie."

When the woman opened her mouth to speak again Quinlevin silenced her with a gesture. But her face was flushed and she shifted from one foot to the other, glaring at her tormentor, who, it seemed, had just begun his inquisition.

Horton smiled at her grimly.

"It's a mighty small sum, Nora--especially as you're not going to get any of it--unless Mr. Quinlevin has other means at his disposal."

"I want no money from Mr. Quinlevin."

"Then you're just lying for the fun of it? Do you happen to know what the penalty for false-swearing is in France?"

"Don't let him frighten you, Nora," interjected the Irishman.

"It's Excommunication," said Horton, grinning at his own invention.

Nora was silent but her face was a study in her varying emotions. She had not bargained for this, and her knees were shaking under her.

Quinlevin's laugh reassured her a little.

"I'm not believin' ye----" she muttered.

"You don't have to believe me--but you'll wish you'd never left Galway when Monsieur de Vautrin's lawyer gets through with you--and nothing at the end of it all but a French jail."

"I never did any harm in me life."

"Except to forget to speak the truth. You're getting old, Nora. Maybe that's what's the matter with your memory. Because Monsieur de Vautrin is certain that the facts about the birth of his child are quite different from those you've related. You've said that Mary Callonby's child was this very girl called Moira Quinlevin----?"

"I did--she was," blurted Nora, furiously.

"And before she died--that very night--she gave the child a Christian name?"

"She did."

"You're very sure of this?"

"Nora----!" warned Quinlevin.

"I'm sure of it. Why wouldn't I----" cried Nora, "when I was hearin' the very words of her tongue."

"And the child was a girl?"

"Yes--a--a girl----"

Quinlevin rose, glaring at Horton.

"Silence, Nora!"

"Then why," insisted Horton, "if the child was a girl, was it given the Christian name of a boy?"

"A boy----!"

Nora Burke started back a pace, her round foolish face, usually florid, now the color of putty.

"Nora!" Quinlevin roared. "Keep silent, d'ye hear?"

But it was too late to repair the damage done. Horton had not taken his gaze from Nora Burke's face, and he knew that he had struck his mark. He was aware of Moira, who had come forward and was leaning on the table near him, watching as eagerly as he.

Jim Horton shrugged and brought quickly from his pocket a small red book, which he opened at a page carefully dog-cared.

"This little book is a dictionary of French and English, Nora. It's a very good dictionary. Here's a page of Christian names in French and in English. Here you are: Patrice--Patrick. Can you tell me in the name of all that's sensible why Mary Callonby named the child Patrick unless it was a boy?"

Nora gasped for breath once or twice, glancing at Quinlevin, who shrugged and frowned.

"The name upon the birth certificate is Patricia," he growled.

"Then who changed it?" asked Horton keenly, glaring at Nora.

"Not I, sor. I--I can't write," she gasped.

Jim Horton laughed.

"It couldn't have been Father Reilly, or Dr. Finucane. Perhaps Mr. Quinlevin will produce the certificate."

"When the time comes," gasped Quinlevin, "ye'll see it--in a court of law."

"And the death certificate of your own child too, Mr. Quinlevin?" asked Horton amiably.

"Ay--that too," he stammered in his rage as he faced the American, "but you won't be there to see. For on my evidence you'll be shot, my friend the masquerader."

"I'll have to run that chance----"

Moira's voice, tense, shrill with nervousness, broke in as she caught Quinlevin by the arm.

"No, never. You will not dare. I forbid it."

"We'll see to that----"

The Duc, who at last seemed to have recovered his initiative, came forward with an air of alacrity.

"Perhaps, Monsieur Horton, it is just as well if you now unlock the door."

Horton looked at his wrist watch.

"Willingly. Oblige me, Monsieur." And he handed de Vautrin the key. "Unless there are some further matters Mr. Quinlevin wishes to discuss."

Jim's gaze met Moira's for the fraction of a second and brief as it was, he seemed to find a glimpse of that fool's paradise in which he had lived for a while. And then her glance turned from him to Quinlevin as she moved past Horton toward the door. Nora Burke, her stolidity shaken, her arrogant mien fallen amid the wreck of her probity, sent a fleeting glance over her shoulder toward the long mustaches of de Vautrin and stumbled after Moira.

But the Duc was in high feather again and fairly danced to the door.

"Will you give me your Paris address, that I may send you the money, Mr. Barry Quinlevin?" he shouted after him into the corridor.

There was no reply. Quinlevin's clever house of cards had toppled and fallen. But Horton followed down the corridor when they turned the corner and watched what happened. At the landing, the Irishman made a gesture and the two women went in the direction of their rooms, while Quinlevin passed down the stairs.

When Horton returned to the room the Duc closed the door and came delightedly toward him.

"Ah, _mon ami_. It was as good as a play. How did you know that my child was not a girl--but a boy?"

"I didn't know it," sighed Horton, with a laugh. "I guessed it."

"But you must have----"

"I got to thinking--last night. The whole story was a lie--why shouldn't this be a part of it?"

"But a suspicion wasn't enough----"

"Enough for a starter, Monsieur. You'll admit, it _might_ have been a boy. Just because you always _thought_ the child was a girl, that didn't make it one. I lay awake. Phrases in Quinlevin's talk in the studio came back to me and I began to think about the name 'Patrice'--he said, '_a little hard to read. Patricia it is_.' Just phrases, but this meant something. '_Female, me boy. A little illegible_----'" Horton turned with a quick gesture.

"Why should the name Patricia be illegible when all the rest was clear?"

"But you said nothing of this to me," muttered the Duc.

"I wasn't sure. I sent out for the dictionary. It had the Christian names in the back. Patrice was Patrick. There wasn't any Patricia. You French have a way of giving males and females the same names anyway. Madeleine--I knew a Frenchman in America with Madeleine for a middle name. Aulnoy might be anything----"

"A family name----"

"Yes. Your wife wanted your family name in it--but she wanted her father's name too--Patrick--so she called the boy Patrice--we can prove this now, I think."

"Assuredly, Monsieur," said de Vautrin, "you are a genius."

"No. I'm only a good guesser. But it worked. I got the poor thing rattled. And when I saw Nora's face I knew I'd hit with the second barrel."

Outside it was getting dark. Horton went to the window and peered out.

"Monsieur de Vautrin, there's nothing to keep you here now," he said. "It may be even dangerous to remain. You must go away incognito and by the first train. You've been very careless with your affairs. Lay your entire case in the hands of your lawyer--telling him all that has happened here and sending to Ireland for a careful search of the birth records of the parish of Athlone----"

"But you, Monsieur. What will you do?"

"I shall stay here awhile. There's something else that I must do."

"And Piquette----?"

"I will see that she returns safely."

"You are very good, Monsieur," said the Duc. "Will you forgive me for my suspicions?"

"Yes. If you will promise to give Piquette the affection she deserves. She is a child, Monsieur, with great impulses--both good and bad--what she becomes will depend upon your treatment of her."

"She has saved me from great trouble, bringing you, my savior----"

Horton moved into the bed room and picked up his hat. "Don't let that trouble you," he said, and then offered his hand. "Glad to have met you, Monsieur. _Au revoir_. I will see you in Paris in a week. But don't waste any time getting out of here. _Allez--tout de suite_, you understand. Paris in a week, Monsieur."

And with a quick wave of his hand Horton went out and walked rapidly down the corridor. The interview with Quinlevin had served a double purpose. He had succeeded beyond all hope in finding out what he had wanted to know; and he had so occupied the Irishman's time that Piquette could proceed unmolested in making an investigation of her own. He hurried up to her room to meet her, as agreed. Watching the corridor, he knocked by a preconcerted signal. There was no reply. After a moment he opened the door and entered. The room was empty.

* * * * *

Piquette was fearless but she was also clever. It was her thought that Barry Quinlevin would take no chances with the original birth certificate and other papers in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin. It was her suggestion that she be permitted to take advantage of the absence of Quinlevin and his party to make a thorough search of the rooms for any private papers. And in this she was aided and abetted by Monsieur Jacquot, in the office of the hotel, to whom she explained as much as was necessary, and who provided the keys and wished her luck in her undertaking.

Jim had allowed her an hour for the investigation, during which period he had promised to keep Quinlevin prisoner. Here then, Piquette reached new heights of self-abnegation, for in helping Jim in the cause of Moira, she worked against her own interests, which had nothing to do with Moira Quinlevin. Jim had opened her eyes to her obligations to Monsieur de Vautrin but she had done her duty merely because Jim had asked it of her. He had kissed her as though she were a queen. She could never forget that.

But in spite of any mental reservations she may have had in doing something in the interest of the girl Jim Horton loved, she was conscious of a thrill of keen interest in the task that she had set herself. And Piquette went about her investigation methodically, waiting on the steps from the upper landing until Quinlevin and the two women had entered the room of the Duc, when, keys in hand, she made her way quickly to the rooms Quinlevin had engaged. There were three of them _en suite_, with connecting doors, and with a quick glance along the empty corridor she entered the nearest one.

An ancient valise, and a flannel wrapper, proclaimed its occupant--Nora. There might be something of interest here--but it was doubtful, for Barry Quinlevin was hardly a man to leave Nora in possession of any documents that were better kept in his own hands. But Piquette nevertheless searched carefully and for her trouble, found nothing. The door into the adjoining room, that of Madame Horton, was open, showing how quickly and easily an _entente_ had been re-established between Moira Quinlevin and her old nurse.

At the threshold of this room Piquette paused, glancing with a delicate frown at the articles of feminine apparel on bed and dressing stand.

"H--m," she sniffed, scenting the air delicately, her chin raised. "Violette!" Then she approached the bed and took a white garment and rubbed it critically between thumb and forefinger. "H-mph!" said Piquette again. A pair of stockings next--a small slipper which she measured with her own, shrugged, and then searched the suit case and dressing table thoroughly. Of paper there was nothing--not even a post-card.

The door into Barry Quinlevin's room was bolted on the side where Piquette stood. She went back through the rooms that she had passed, to be sure that nothing had been disarranged, locked the outside door of Nora Burke's room as she had found it, and then went back to Quinlevin's door which she opened quickly and peered around. Here there was a field for more careful investigation, a suit-case, a dressing-stand, a bed, some chairs, a closet--all of them she took in in a quick inspection. The suit-case first--and if locked she meant to take it bodily away.

It wasn't locked. She had a slight sense of disappointment. It contained a change of under-linen, some collars, socks, a box of cigars, and a bottle of Irish whisky. All of these she scrutinized with care, as well as the cloth lining and the receptacles in the lid, and then arranging the contents as she had found them, straightened with a short breath, and looked elsewhere. No. Monsieur Quinlevin would have hidden such important papers more cleverly than that. Where then? In a place so obvious that no one would think of looking there for them? That was an ancient trick well known to the police. But after she had looked around the room, she examined the bed minutely, running her nimble fingers along the ticking of the mattress, the pillows, dismantling the bed completely, and then satisfied that she had exhausted this possibility, remade it skillfully.

Next, the dressing-stand, inch by inch inside and out, then the upholstery of the chairs, straightening at last, puzzled. And yet she knew that the birth certificate must be in these rooms somewhere. She moved the rugs, examined the ashes in the fireplace, the base board and molding, took down the pictures from the walls and then, baffled, sank into the arm chair for a moment to think. Could Quinlevin have taken the precaution to leave the documents in the safe at the Hotel Ruhl in Nice, or would he perhaps have deposited them downstairs in the strong-box of the Hotel de Paris? In that event Monsieur her friend would help....

But her hour had not yet expired. There were a few moments left. Where else was she to look? She glanced at the picture molding, the walls, the electric light brackets by the bed and dressing-stand, then rose for a last and possibly futile and despairing effort. She ran her sensitive fingers over the bracket by the bed. It was affixed to the wall by a hexagonal brass plate held by a small screw. She tried to move the screw with her fingers but it resisted, so she ran to the dressing-stand for a nail file and in a moment had moved the brass plate from the wall. A patch of broken wall-paper and wires in a small hole--but no papers.

She screwed the plate carefully into place and turned to the other fixture over the dressing-stand. This was her last venture, but she had determined to make it, and felt a slight thrill of expectation when the screw of the first bracket moved easily in her fingers. She loosened the plate and as it came out from the surface of the wall, there was a sibilant rustle and something slipped down behind the dressing-stand to the floor. Eager now with excitement, she thrust her fingers behind the plate and brought forth some papers. These she examined quickly in amazement, then carefully screwed the bracket into its place, recovering the other paper that had fallen to the floor--success! The papers that she had taken from behind the bracket she could not understand, but the paper that she had recovered from the floor was the much desired birth certificate of the dead child. The light was failing, but in the shadow of the hangings of the French window she stood and read the name Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin.

She was filled with the joy of her success and so absorbed in the perusal of the paper that she did not hear the small sounds that came from the adjoining room, nor was she aware of the tall dark figure of the girl with the pale face who for a long moment had stood in the doorway watching her in silent amazement. And it was not until Moira spoke that Piquette turned, the papers hidden behind her, and met the steady gaze of the woman Jim Horton loved.

"What are you doing in this room?" asked Moira steadily.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*AT BAY*

Piquette sent one fleeting glance at her, then stepped out upon the sill of the French window which extended to the floor. When she turned toward Moira, a little pale and breathing rapidly, her hands were empty.

"What did you throw out of the window? What are you doing here?" Moira asked again, moving quickly to the push-button by the door. "Answer me or I'll ring."

Piquette by this time had recovered some of her composure. "Oh, Madame, it is not necessaire to ring," she said easily. "I can explain myself if you will but listen."

"You have no right in this room--unless you are a servant of the hotel. And that you are not----"

"No, Madame," said Piquette coolly, "I am no servant of de hotel. But strange to say, even agains' my will, I am your frien'."

"My friend! Who are you?"

Piquette glanced toward the door into the hall rather anxiously.

"If you will permit me to come into your room I will answer you."

Moira hesitated for a moment, and then indicated the door by which she had entered. Piquette preceded her into the room, as Moira stood by the door, still uncertain but curious as to this stranger who claimed friendship. Piquette indicated the door.

"You will please close it, Madame," she urged with a smile. "I am quite 'armless."

And Moira obeyed, catching the bolt into its place and turning with an air very little mollified.

"Who are you?" she demanded shortly. "Answer me."

instead of replying at once Piquette sank into a chair, crossed one knee over the other and leaned forward, her chin on her fingers, staring frankly at her companion.

"You are 'andsome, Madame 'Orton," she murmured as though grudgingly. "Ver' 'andsome."

Moira flushed a little and returned the other woman's look, a sudden suspicion flashing across her mind that this woman--this was----

"Who are you?" she stammered.

"I--I am Madame Morin--and I am called Piquette," said the visitor clearly.

Moira recoiled a pace, her back as flat as the door behind her.

"You----! Piquette Morin! You'd dare!"

"Quietly, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette gently, "I 'ave tol' you I am your frien'."

"Go, Madame," said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door. "Go."

But Piquette did not move.

"Ah! You do not believe me. It is de trut'. I am your frien'. I am proving it by coming in here--by trying to 'elp you in dis----"

"I do not need your help, Madame. Will you go?"

"Yes, Madame 'Orton. I will go in a minute--when I tell you de risk Jeem 'Orton an' I 'ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool."

Moira gasped at the impudence.

"What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does. I wish to hear no more----"

"Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de _vilain_ Tricot, to shoot at us in de train----" Piquette shrugged. "_Sapristi_! Madame 'Orton,--if we 'ad been kill' you would perhaps t'ink it a proof of friendship."

She had caught the girl's attention, but Moira still demurred.

"I ask no favors of you, Madame Morin," she said haltingly.

"No, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette quietly, "but I 'ave give' dem freely, for you--for _heem_. Perhaps you t'ink dat is not'ing for me to do. _La, la_. I am only human after all."

So was Moira. Piquette's purposeful ambiguity aroused her curiosity and she turned toward the French girl, her glance passing over her with a new interest.

"I don't understand you, Madame," she said coldly.

"I did not 'ope dat you would. But it is not so _difficile_. I try to 'elp Monsieur Jeem 'Orton, because 'e 'as taught me what it means to be brave an' fait'ful an' honorable to de one 'e love', an' because you are blind, an' will not see."

"Not so blind that I have not seen what you would have hidden."

"I 'ave not'ing to hide from you, Madame 'Orton. I am proud of de frien'ship of Jeem 'Orton. I would go to de en' of de worl' to make 'im 'appy."

"Friendship!" gasped Moira.

"Or love, Madame," said Piquette gently, "call it what you please."

"And you dare to tell me this--you!"

Piquette only smiled faintly.

"Yes, I love 'im." And then, with the simplicity of a child, "Don't you, Madame?"

Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn't heard correctly.

"No. No. This is too much. You will oblige me----"

"You wish me to go?" said Piquette with a shrug. "In a moment. But firs' let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin 'as tol' you about us is a lie--all lies."

"You forget, Madame," said Moira, "that I have seen."

Piquette smiled.

"Because I go to sleep wit' my 'ead on 'is shoulder. An' what is dat? For shame, Madame. Jeem 'Orton care' not'ing for me. I bring 'im out of de 'ouse in de Rue Charron--I nurse 'im in my apartment. You t'ink 'e make love to me when 'e t'ink of you?"

Piquette laughed scornfully.

"What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones' man an' not remember it, for de greates' t'ing dat come' in a woman's life? 'Is eyes! _Mon Dieu_, Madame. I know de eyes of men. 'E on'y love once, Jeem 'Orton--an' you t'ink 'e make love to me. I would give myself to 'im, but what Jeem 'Orton give' to me is much more sweet, more beautiful. 'E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil', when I would give 'im my body." Piquette stopped, and then, gently, "A woman like me, Madame, can on'y worship a man like dat."

Moira was leaning against the bed rail, her head bent, her eyes searching out Piquette's very soul.

"And you, Madame," said Piquette, her voice gathering scorn in its very suppression. "You, Madame, who love 'im too, you listen to everyt'ing 'is enemies say agains' 'im--you believe dese lies, you let dem try to keel 'im, you 'elp dem bring you to _deshonneur_. You try to keep 'im from saving you from disgrace! What kind of a woman are you, Madame, to 'ave a love like dat t'rown at your feet an' walk away an' leave it like a dead flower upon de groun'? Mus' it take a woman like me to show you what is fine and noble in de worl'? You sen' 'im away into de night. _Juste ciel_! Is dere no blood in your heart, Madame, no tenderness, no pity, for de love of a man like Jeem 'Orton? Love! You do not know what love is, you----"

"Stop, Madame!" gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under the wrist that masked her eyes. "You dare not tell me what love is. You don't know--everything."

"Yes," said Piquette quietly. "I know everyt'ing. But only God could keep me from de man I love."

"Yes, God!" whispered Moira tensely. "Only God."

The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on the table and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up at Moira partly in pity, partly in scorn. Piquette's education had not fitted her to understand the motives of women different from herself, but she saw in Moira's face the scars of a great passion and the marks of suffering not to be denied. And so after a painful moment for Moira, she turned her glance aside.

"I cannot speak of this to you, Madame," she heard the girl stammer. "You have no right to judge me or to question my motives. And if I've misjudged you--or Jim Horton, God knows I'm sorry for it. But you--Madame--why should _you_ come and tell me these things?"

Moira's breath seemed suspended while she waited for the woman's answer. Piquette traced for a moment with her finger on the arm of the chair.

"You may be' sure it 'as cos' me somet'ing," she said slowly.

"Does he know--does Jim Horton know?"

"No, Madame. He knows noding."

"Then why----?"

"Because," said Piquette, rising with some dignity, "because it pleases me, Madame. What Jeem 'Orton wish'--is my wish too. 'E love you. _Eh bien_! What 'e is to me does not matter."

Moira stared at her dully. She could not believe.

"If you do not on'erstan' me, Madame," Piquette continued, "it is because you do not wish to on'erstan', because all de sacrifice 'e make for you is in vain. You listen to deir lies, become a partner in a crime to get money which does not belong to you----"

"How do you know this?"

"'Arry 'Orton--your 'usband--tol' me de trut'."

"Harry!"

"Yes, Madame. I was a frien' to your 'usband."

"You----?"

The glances of the two women met, held each other--read each other, omitting nothing. It was Piquette who looked away. If self-abasement was to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.

"An' now," she said quietly, "if you please, I shall go away."

"Not yet, Madame," said Moira gently. "Not until I tell you that I know what you have done--that I believe what you have said."

"Thank you."

She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.

"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me."

"It is Jeem 'Orton who should forgive."

"I have done him a great wrong--and you. And I must do him another great wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the man you love. God _has_ kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again."

"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly.

"No, perhaps not," wearily, "but you have taught me something. If sacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it----"

"An' make Jeem 'Orton suffer too----!" cried Piquette wildly. "What for you t'ink I tell you dese t'ings, Madame? You mus' go wit' 'im to Paris."

"No. I can't."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know yet. I must think."

"You will do what 'e ask of you."

"No."

"You mus' see 'im."

"No. Don't ask me, Madame----"

There was a knock upon the door into the corridor--repeated quickly. The two women exchanged glances, Moira bewildered, Piquette dismayed. She had remained too long.

"Monsieur Quinlevin----!" she whispered.

Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into Nora Burke's room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin entered quickly, followed by another figure.

"Moira, why didn't ye----" the Irishman began, and then his glance passed to Piquette. "Ah--you here, Madame," he frowned with quick suspicion, glancing toward the door into his own room. And then suddenly beckoned his follower in. It was Monsieur Tricot, bent, hobbling, but full of every potentiality for evil.

Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key into his pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion, unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared. Moira had scarcely time to note the villainous look the _apache_ cast in Piquette's direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon of vengeance.

"Ah, Madame Morin," he snapped, "it seems as though I were just in time. What have ye done with the papers?"

The little patches of color upon Piquette's lips and eyes seemed suddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot's evil face nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whose secrets she had betrayed. She was horribly frightened, but she managed to control her voice as she replied steadily.

"What papers, Monsieur? I know nothing of any papers."

"The papers referring to the de Vautrin case. _Your_ papers, Moira, yer birth certificate and the letters which went with it."

Moira stood near the door into Nora's room, pale but composed. And now she spoke bravely.

"Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it. I know nothing of any papers."

Piquette smiled inwardly. Her embassy had not been entirely without success. But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming a certainty.

"Oh, we'll see about this." And striding quickly to Nora Burke's door locked it securely. And then to Piquette.

"Ye'll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin," he said dryly. "Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips."

Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.

"You will let Madame Morin go," pleaded the girl to the Irishman.

"No!" he thundered. "There will be no more trickery here. And ye'll stay here too--under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks."

The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot's sharp talons had closed on Piquette's shoulder, but with an effort at composure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which Barry Quinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness. Piquette caught just one glimpse of Moira's white face before the door closed between them. Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sank rather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.

"This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame," said Quinlevin easily, in French. "Our friend, the deserter, locks me in with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keep you prisoner until they are found. Where are they, Madame?"

His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires played forbiddingly in his little eyes.

Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though in search of a resting place. She feared Quinlevin, but more than him she feared the evil shape just beside her shoulder. She could not see Tricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bent shoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lust burning in his little red eyes. For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owed her, here she knew was her real enemy.

"The papers, Madame," Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.

Still no reply.

"You took them from behind the bracket yonder. What did you do with them?"

"They are gone," she said quickly.

"Where?"

"That I shall not tell you."

She felt the claws of Tricot close upon her shoulder until she shrank with the pain, but she made no sound.

"One moment, Tricot," said the Irishman, "there are first other ways of making Madame speak. Release her."

Tricot obeyed.

"Of course Tricot and I can search you."

Piquette laughed.

"Search me, Monsieur. It is your privilege. I am not squeamish."

The Irishman frowned. There was no doubt that what he had proposed had no terrors for a life model. But there were other means at his disposal, to find out what he wished to know.

"I should have remembered your metier, Madame," he sneered. And then, "Our friend Tricot has a long memory. He is not a man who forgets. If you will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much to his liking."

Piquette did not dare to look.

"It seems," the Irishman went on, "that the betrayal of the secrets of the small society to which you belong is a grave offense."

"I've betrayed no secrets," said Piquette, finding her voice. "No one knows of the affair of the Rue Charron----"

"Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy----"

"No. He will tell nothing----"

"Tricot is not willing to take that chance. Eh, Tricot?"

"No," snapped the vulture. "Piquette knows the penalty. She'll pay it."

"And if I pay it," said Piquette bravely, "you'll know no more about what has become of your papers than you do now."

Quinlevin made a sign to Tricot.

"There's something in that.--but I'm in no mood to be trifled with. That ought to be pretty clear."

"It is. I'm not trifling."

"Then speak. Or----" Quinlevin paused significantly.

Piquette continued to glance around the room as though in a hope that something might happen to release her from her predicament. It had now grown dark outside, but her captors showed no disposition to make a light. And yet it seemed impossible that they would dare...

She tried to gain time.

"And if I could tell you what has happened to the papers," she asked uncertainly, "will you let me go?"

"Yes--speak."

"And if I cannot tell you----"

"I will tell you, Madame. You will be left here alone in this room with the good Tricot." And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, "He is a very ingenious rascal, Tricot. Never yet has he been caught by the police." Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of the open window, as though listening. "An open window," he mumbled. "I left it so--perhaps. But do you go, Tricot, and look out. Perhaps there is some one below."

The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon the small portico.

"No one can help you, Madame," Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper, "for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent." He caught Piquette furiously by the wrist and twisted it. "What have you done with my property?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You are lying."

Tricot's silhouette appeared at the window.

"Monsieur," he whispered tensely, "there's a man--below."

"Horton!" said Quinlevin. "What is he doing?"

"Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur."

The clutch on Piquette's arm grew tighter.

"What did you do with the papers?"

"I burned them in the fireplace," she said desperately.

Quinlevin rushed to the hearth and struck a match, examining the ashes minutely. Then he straightened quickly.

"You lie, Madame. I burned some letters here this morning. The ashes are just as I left them." In one stride he was at her side again, a pistol in his hand.

He caught her roughly by the arm and she bit her lip to keep from crying out with pain.

"He is down there. What did you do with the papers? Answer me."

"Let me go."

"No."

"What will you do?"

"Unless you tell me the truth--shoot him from the window."

"You would not dare----" she whispered, in spite of her pain, "the people of the hotel--will investigate. The police----"

"Bah! A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls--will you tell the truth? Are the papers in this room?"

"I won't tell."

"Very well." And then turning to his companion at the window, "What is he doing now, Tricot?"

"He does not move----"

The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.

"A better chance for a shot, then," he snapped. "Here, Tricot." And he moved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.

Piquette sprang up despairingly.

"Monsieur," she cried, "for the love of God. Don't shoot. I will tell."

"I thought so. Where are they? Quick."

"I--I----"

He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot's skinny hand threatened her throat.

"Speak----!"

"I--I threw them out of the window," she gasped.

It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth. With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window while Tricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.

"Jeem!" she shrieked in a last despairing effort. "Go! Go!" And then the fingers of the _apache_ closed and the sound was stifled as she fell back in a chair helpless.

"Shut up, damn you," growled Quinlevin. "Keep her quiet, you. Not death, you understand. We may need her."

Piquette heard these things dimly. A torrent was roaring at her ears and her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought for her breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.

"And you, Monsieur?" she heard Tricot ask.

"I'm going down--into the garden. If she speaks the truth I'll find it out."

Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock, while she fought Tricot. But strong as she was, she knew, that she was no match for him. His arms were like steel springs, his fingers like iron. But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that would arouse the hotel. But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even the dim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes. She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed, choking--choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came at her side.

"Be quiet," croaked Tricot's voice at her ear--"or I'll----"

And she obeyed. For death was in his voice and in his hand.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*IN THE DARK*

Jim Horton looked at his watch again. He had kept the visitors in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour. He hurried cautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied by Quinlevin's party. There was no one in sight and so he stole along the corridor, listening. Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms. But Piquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin. No sound. And so he waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any moment to see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman at least had probably not yet come up. But the suspense and inaction weighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the back stair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette, Monsieur Jacquot. But to his disappointment he found that the man had gone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice. Quinlevin, he discovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate danger from him was not to be expected.