Chapter IX: Part 9

Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty. If Piquette had already succeeded in her mission, he couldn't understand why she hadn't returned to her room. Perhaps he had missed her on the way. She might have used the main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not have been probable. During the day he had managed to take a surreptitious survey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated, and it was only Piquette's suggestion to keep the Irishman busy while she searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reach Quinlevin's room from the outside. There was a small portico at the Irishman's windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached by climbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-building where a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good hand hold--something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything else failed.

He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she had been successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doors securely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, if molested, she could summon the servants of the hotel. And Quinlevin would hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant the police, and the police meant publicity--a thing to be dreaded at this time with the battle going against him. Nor did Horton wish to make a row, for Piquette was a burglar--nothing less--and discovery meant placing her in an awkward position which would take some explaining. Monsieur Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of trying to use him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willing to take a share in so grave a responsibility.

So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a small corridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for the Irishman's return, and was just about to go out of the rear door into the garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard the sounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed for travel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column to watch and listen, the Duc's flushed face and gay mien proclaiming the triumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, no doubt a short session with the brandy-bottle. This was Monsieur de Vautrin's incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of his beloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the pains that had been wasted upon him. His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrin walked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he was about to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darkness and stood beside him. A passage of words between the two men and the Duc laughed.

"A great game, Monsieur the Irishman," Horton heard him say, "but you have lost. In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of my avocat. And then--beware!"

Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed off into the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon the step. It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had a companion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light and Horton knew that Quinlevin's forces had been augmented by one. For Monsieur Tricot had arrived.

The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, and went up the stairs.

"There'll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded," muttered Horton to himself. And then in a quick afterthought, "And maybe a worse devil--if she hasn't."

He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to the rear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette's room--aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she been there, for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that in which he had left it half an hour before. He waited for a few moments, then turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly toward Quinlevin's door, waiting for a moment and listening intently. He made out the murmur of voices, a man's and a woman's, but he could not hear it distinctly. But that the man's voice was the Irishman's he did not doubt, nor that the woman's was Piquette's. Cautiously he turned the knob of the door. It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him. There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it. The Irishman had the law on his side. If Horton persisted, Quinlevin could shoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect of acquittal in any trouble that might follow.

Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs, past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden. At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were upon the other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted. Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, he stole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the first floor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from the shelter of which he carefully scrutinized the facade of the building, identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin. Then went nearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched to listen for any sounds that might come from above. Silence, except for the distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.

He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the door upstairs was not Piquette's--that it might have been Moira's or Nora Burke's. But if it was not Piquette's voice, then where was she? And why had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin's wrath at her intrusion? There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed the allotted time and that now they had come in upon her---the Irishman and the rascal Tricot. She was in for a bad half hour--perhaps something worse.

But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired to keep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret. They would not dare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name for respectability. They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, if damaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin. So Horton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainly waited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now beside Piquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in the Rue Charron. He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning the ascent. And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among the twigs just above his head. It was within reach of his hand and he took it--a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled. He fingered and then looked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf was another square of paper--and a letter further off, another, and another hanging in the opposite side of the bush.

In his hands idly he fingered the letter. The paper was fine and it bore an embossed heading or crest. He was about to throw it aside when he looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside Barry Quinlevin's windows--realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery that these papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those of the third--Quinlevin's. Of course they were unimportant--and yet.... He started to his feet and looked around. Elsewhere, so far as he could see, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who was well paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland. Horton bent over searching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others. He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. There was no sign of occupancy, for though one of the windows was open, both were still dark, but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the low murmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a light for a cigarette.

But the papers in his fingers! He realized with a growing excitement that they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been long exposed to the damp sea air. Had Piquette...? Not daring to strike a light he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way. And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly. Their meaning flashed through his consciousness with a shock--a letter from Monsieur de Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printed document bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin--the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin's fortunes hung--and Moira's.

He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting, for the light was dim. And the real significance of his discovery was not to be denied. No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers out of the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate a thing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means of disposing of them. He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust the documents safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to his place beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for any other papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare. Piquette was up there. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why hadn't she escaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin's return with Tricot? But why had she thrown them from the window unless their presence threatened? These and other speculations were to remain unanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men her danger was great.

There was a slight sound from above. He peered upward. In silhouette against the sky was the figure of a man--he couldn't tell whether Tricot or the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then. They had just guessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and there seemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could have failed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage. Desperate! Yes, but worth it--for Piquette. He owed it to her. And, as in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold with purpose and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would not dare to shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a man climbing the wall of his hotel into the window of his room,--that would be a sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense. And yet had Quinlevin considered the possibility of Horton's attempting so dangerous a climb? If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton's favor.

But there was to be no choice for Horton--for as he stood, measuring the height of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voice crying his name. "Jeem!" it called, "Go! Go!"

He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in an outer pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding, crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for a further sight of Monsieur Tricot. He thought he heard sounds now, the creaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds, more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her.... D---- them! Cowards!

Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he would have to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window above him, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation proving unreliable. The window sill which was his objective was at least two feet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of the projection on which he stood. It was not above him and he would have to leap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet to the menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance. But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching, swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until he got a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on the sill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped the room was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility; straightening and climbing the shutter. Quinlevin's portico was within his reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peering upward. No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within.... He heard them again now--fainter, horribly suppressed. He caught the edge of the portico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and in a moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.

There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they ... In the brief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figure below moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden. He crouched below the balustrade instinctively. It was just at this moment that the cautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window to peer over. It was Tricot. Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and the impact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of the room. Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation. Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of Monsieur Tricot's knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand that held it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, just within the door of the room. But the Frenchman was strong and struggled upward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck him under the jaw. That took some of the fight out of him, but he still fought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered why Quinlevin hadn't joined in the entertainment. Tricot in desperation tried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn't pinioned, and it was about time to end the matter. A memory of the night in the Rue Charron was behind Horton's blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatly behind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his head came into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and lay silent.

Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair, into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot's revolver, which he put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look for Quinlevin.

He didn't find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, and gasping horribly for her breath.

"Piquette! It's Jim," he whispered.

Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.

"They choked you, Piquette."

"Tri--cot," she managed to utter painfully.

"I've attended to him. Where's Quinlevin?"

She pointed, soundless, toward the door.

"He went down to look for me?" he questioned.

She nodded.

"Good," laughed Jim. "We'll be ready when he comes back."

He went out and had another look at Tricot. The man was out of it and there was a dark shadow on the stone work where he had fallen. So Horton came back into the room, found a pitcher of water, with which he bathed Piquette's forehead and throat and then gave her to drink. And in a moment she was able to enunciate more clearly. But she was very weak and it seemed that her nerve was gone, for her shoulders shook with hysteria and she clung to Horton still in terror of her frightful experience. But Horton was taking no chances now and did the thinking and talking for them both.

"You're sure Quinlevin went down to look for me?" he asked again.

"Yes, _m-mon ami_. Tricot,--'e saw you below--in--de--de garden."

"He knows you threw out the papers?"

"Yes. Into de garden."

"Not now," said Horton. "In my pocket."

"You found dem?"

"Yes."

"_Dieu merci_! It's what I--I 'ope'."

"But we mustn't lose them again now, Piquette, after all this. Is the door locked?"

"I--I doan know. I----"

Horton strode to the door and turned the key.

"Now let him come," he whispered grimly. And then, "Where's Moira?" he asked.

"Lock' in 'er room--yonder."

"You saw her?"

"Yes, _mon_ Jeem."

"But she must have heard all this commotion."

"I doan know."

"Um." He paused a moment, glanced at the door into the corridor, and then crossed quickly to the door Piquette indicated, knocking softly. There was no reply.

"Moira!" he said through the key-hole. "It's I--Jim."

He seemed to hear sounds within, a gasp, a movement of feet and then silence.

"Moira--it's Jim." There was no sound, so he unbolted the door and turned the knob. It was locked on the inside.

A gasp from Piquette, who had been listening for sounds at the other door, now warned him to be quiet and he straightened. There were footsteps outside and then a knock.

"Tricot!" said the Irishman's voice. "Let me in."

"Quickly!" whispered Horton, into Piquette's ear, "in the chair and gasp like hell."

She understood and obeyed him. Horton went to the door, turned the key and Barry Quinlevin strode in.

"He's gone, Tricot--the papers too----"

So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went around his throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and he crumpled backward in Horton's strong arms, down to the floor, where in spite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him, his weight on the astonished Irishman's chest, his fingers at the man's throat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightest sound. The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important things are, given some intelligence and a will to do.

Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purely psychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of the physical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had so easily mastered him. And Tricot...? Outside upon the balcony was a shadow that had not been there before. The game was up. And so he resorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.

"Well, Horton," he uttered, "ye've won."

"Not yet, Quinlevin," said Horton grimly. And then to Piquette, who had stopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings, "The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please."

She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head to foot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles of apparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between them lifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity. Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as they dragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs of returning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward. Of the two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touch of Horton's revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin, writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.

"And now, Quinlevin," said Horton coolly, "it must be fairly obvious to you that the fraud you've practiced at the expense of Madame Horton is now at an end. The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket, where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur de Vautrin. In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless be released by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be in another part of France!"

He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette's voice.

"We mus' not stay too long, Jeem 'Orton. Some one may come."

"Madame Horton?" he muttered, and went over to the door of Moira's room and listened. There was no sound. "Moira," he said again distinctly through the keyhole. "Will you unbolt the door?"

A small sound of footsteps moving, but they did not come toward the door.

"Moira," he repeated more loudly. "You must let me in. We are going away from here--at once."

No reply.

"It is as I suppose', Jeem 'Orton," whispered Piquette at his ear. "She does not wish to come."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I saw her, Jeem," she whispered. "I talk wit' 'er. It is 'opeless. I do not t'ink she will come. She is afraid."

"Afraid--of me?" he muttered incredulously. "I----"

"Not of you, _mon vieux_," returned Piquette. "Of '_erself_!"

"I don't understand----"

Piquette shrugged. "Try again den, Jeem 'Orton."

He did--to no avail. There was now no sound from within in reply to his more earnest entreaties.

"Something must have happened to her," he mumbled straightening, with a glance toward the bed. "If I thought----"

"But no," Piquette broke in quickly. "Not'ing 'as 'appen' to 'er, _mon_ Jeem. She is quite safe."

"I'm not so sure about that----"

And putting his weight against the door, he tried to force it in. It yielded a trifle, but the slender bolt held. He waited a moment, listening again, silencing Piquette's whispered protestations at the commotion he was creating, but heard nothing. Then moving away a few paces he pushed the door with his full weight and it flew open with a crash, almost throwing him to the floor.

The room was empty, but the unlocked door leading into Nora Burke's room showed which way she had gone. He went in and looked around. Then out into the corridor by Nora's door. There were some people at the other end of the corridor but Moira and her Irish nurse had disappeared.

Uncertainly, he came back through the rooms to Piquette, who stood in Moira's room, watching the prisoners through the doorway.

"It is what I 'ave said, _mon_ Jeem. Madame does not wish to go wit' you."

"But why----? After all----"

"'Ave I not tol' you? She is afraid of 'erself. She knows as I know--she is a woman who loves--but not as I love, _mon_ Jeem. It is 'er God dat stan' between you, 'er God--stronger dan you and what you are to 'er. She is afraid. She knows--if she touch your 'and--she will go wit' you--whatever 'appens."

"What makes you think that?" muttered Horton, bewildered.

"She tol' me so----"

"You?"

"I saw 'er--talk wit' 'er. Dat is why I wait too long ontil Monsieur Quinlevin came."

Horton paused, thinking deeply.

"I must find her, Piquette. She's got to go with us," he murmured, starting toward the door away from her.

But Piquette caught him by the hand.

"No, Jeem. You mus'n't. Do you t'ink you can fin' 'er? Where? An' if you do, your friend Monsieur Quinlevin will be discover' and dey will put you in de jail----"

"Let them. I've got to take her away. She's helpless, Piquette, with him--penniless, if she deserts him."

"Not so 'elpless as you t'ink. But she does not want to see you. Is not dat enough?"

"No," he said, trying to shake loose her clutch on his arm. "I'll find her."

"Jeem," Piquette pleaded desperately. "You will spoil all de good you do. What does it matter if you fin' 'er or not if you lose de paper to Quinlevin again? You mus' go away now before it is too late an' make Quinlevin powerless to 'urt 'er again.. Den, _mon_ Jeem, when 'er future is safe, you s'all fin' 'er. What does it matter now? In time she will come to you. I know. You s'all fin' 'er. An' I, Piquette, will 'elp you."

She felt his arm relax and knew that she had won. He stared for a long moment toward the open door into Nora's room, then turned with a quick gasp of decision.

"You're right, Piquette. We've got to get away--to draw his claws for good."

"_Parfaitement_! You need not worry. 'E will not 'urt 'er now."

And so they returned to the Irishman's room and looked carefully to the bonds of the prisoners. Nothing was disarranged. They had done their work well, and continued it by methodically making all arrangements for departure; shutting the French window, putting an extra turn on the bindings of the prostrate men, who glared at them sullenly in the obscurity. Then they went out, locking all three rooms from the outside and leaving the keys in the doors. Unobserved, they went up to their rooms--packed their belongings, descended to the office where Jim coolly paid their bills, and went out into the night.

There was a garage nearby, where they hired a car, paying for it in advance, and in less than twenty minutes, Jim Horton driving, were on their way to Vingtimille, on the border line between France and Italy. There they left the machine in the care of a hotel and wrote a postcard to the owner of the garage at Monte Carlo, telling him where he would find his machine. This message they knew would not reach him until some time the next day, by which time they would be lost in Italy.

*CHAPTER XX*

*FREEDOM*

Meanwhile, Destiny was at her loom, weaving with careless hand. The American and French armies were moving closer to the Rhine, but the Infantry regiment to which Harry Horton belonged lay at Chateau Dix awaiting orders. There Harry went upon the morning following the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. Upon his breast he wore the _Croix de Guerre_, but in his soul was a deathly sickness, the inward reflection of the physical discomfort with which he had awakened. The prospect that lay before him was not to his liking. The period during which he had been out of uniform, the weeks of secrecy, of self-indulgence and abasement, had marked him for their own, and unfitted him for the rigorous routine of discipline that awaited him. And so he faced the ordeal with a positive distaste for his old associations, aware of a sinking feeling in his breast that was not entirely the result of his heavy potations while in Paris.

He felt the burden of his failure and a terror that he would not be able to live up to the record Jim Horton had made for him. There would be no more fighting perhaps, but always beside him there would stalk the specter of his military sin, of which the medal at his breast was to be the perpetual reminder. On the train down from Paris, the medal and its colorful bit of green and red seemed to fill the whole range of his vision. D---- the thing! He tore it off and put it in his pocket, and then, somewhat relieved, sank back into his seat and tried to doze. But his nerves were most uncertain. Every sound, even the smallest, seemed to beat with an unpleasant staccato, upon his ear drums. And he started up and gazed out of the window, trying to soothe himself with tobacco. That helped. But he knew that what he wanted was stronger drugging--whisky or brandy--needed it indeed to exorcise the demons that inhabited him. And the thought of the difficulties that would lie in the way of getting what he craved, to-day, to-morrow, and the long days and nights that were to follow still further unmanned him.

Before Moira had left for Nice, he had given her his promise to report for duty fit and sober, and he had put his will to the task, aware that the first impression he created with his Colonel was to be important. It was for this reason that he did not dare to open his valise and touch the bottles hidden there because he knew that one drink would not be enough to sooth either his nerves or the dull pangs of his weary conscience. That he had a conscience, he had discovered in the house in the Rue Charron when the desire of Monsieur Tricot and _Le Singe_ to put Jim Horton out of the way for good had brought him face to face with the evil image of himself. He hated his brother Jim as much as ever, because he was all the things that Harry was not, but the plans of Quinlevin which seemed to stop at nothing, not even Moira herself, now filled him with dread and repugnance. His nerve was gone--that was it. His nerve--his nerve....

But arrival at regimental headquarters restored him for awhile. His Colonel gave him a soldierly welcome, fingered with some envy the _Croix de Guerre_, which Harry had pinned on his breast again before leaving the railroad, and summoned Harry's Major, whose greeting left nothing to be desired. And for the moment it almost seemed to Harry as though he might be able to "put it over." But the next day was difficult. He managed a drink early and that kept him going for awhile; but they gave him his company in the morning, and from that moment the intimate contact with those who had known him began--a lieutenant he had never liked, a sergeant who was a psychologist, and a familiar face here and there associated unpleasantly with the long weary days of training and preparation until the regiment had been worked up into the advanced position. But his long sickness in the hospital and his unfamiliarity with recent orders served him well for excuse, and the _Croix de Guerre_ upon his breast served him better. A corporal and a sergeant with whom in the old days he had had nothing in common, each of whom wore decorations, came up to him, saluting, and reported that it was they who had carried him back to the dressing station from the rocks at Boissiere Wood. He shook them by the hands with a cordiality which did not disguise from himself the new terror, and when they attempted a recital of the events of the great fight in which they had shared, he blundered helplessly for a while and then cut the interview short, pleading urgent affairs.

Then, too, there was the nasty business of the wounds. He hadn't any. He was scathless. He had tried the ruse of the adhesive tape on Moira with disastrous effect. Here the result of the discovery of his unblemished skin would prove still more disastrous. And so at once he discouraged familiarity, kept to his billet and attempted with all the courage left to him to put through his daily round with all credit to his new office. But it irked him horribly. His supply of strong drink did not last long, and the thin red wines, the only substitute procurable, were merely a source of irritation.

And there were others in his company of whose approbation he was not at all certain. There was the sergeant, who had had the platoon that had been caught with his own in the wheat-field. There were four or five men of one of his own squads who had been close beside him in the same wheat-field when he had been taken ill and they had left him face to face with the grinning head of the hated Levinski. And there was the late Levinski's own "buddy," Weyl, who had sometimes shared in Harry's reprobation. Weyl annoyed him most perhaps, with his staring, fishy eye and his Hebraic nose, so similar to that of his lamented tent-mate. Weyl had been in the wheatfield and his heavy face seemed to conceal a malevolent omniscience. The large staring eyes followed the new Captain of infantry, inquisitive, accusing and contemptuous. Whenever Corporal Weyl came within the range of Harry's vision, their glances seemed at once to meet and hold each other and it was the Captain who always looked away. Weyl's fishy eye fascinated and haunted him. He saw it by day, dreamed of it by night, and he cursed the man in his heart with a fury that did nothing for his composure.

One day as Harry was making his way to mess, he came upon Corporal Weyl standing at ease just outside his billet. The man's eye seemed more round, more fishy, and his demeanor more contemptuous than ever. The last of the whisky was gone. Harry Horton's heart was behaving queerly within him, and muscles with which he was unfamiliar announced their existence in strange twitchings. The breakfast coffee would help. In the meanwhile--he glared at Corporal Weyl, his fists clenched.

"What the H---- do you mean by staring at me all the time?" he asked.

Weyl came to attention and saluted in excellent form.

"I beg pardon, sir. I don't understand," he said.

"Why the H---- do you stare at me?"

"I didn't know that I did stare, sir."

"Yes, you did. Cut it out. It annoys me."

But Corporal Weyl still stared as the regulations demand, looking his Captain squarely in the eye. And the Captain's gaze wavered and fell.

"When I'm about," he ordered, "you look some other way. Understand?"

"Yes sir. I understand," said Weyl, saluting again as Harry turned away, but still staring at him. And Harry felt the fishy stare, more than ever omniscient, more than ever contemptuous, in the middle of his back, all the way down the road to mess. But he had just enough of self control to refrain from looking around at the object of his fury.

And at mess a disagreeable surprise awaited him, in the person of a medico who had just joined the outfit. The new Captain had barely finished his coffee when he found himself addressed by the officer, a Major, who sat just opposite him at table.

"How are you, Captain Horton?" asked the man cordially, extending a hand across. "Didn't recognize you at first. How's the head?"

Harry stammered something.

"I'm Welby--looked after you down at Neuilly, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Harry. "Of course. Glad to see you again, Major."

"Things were a bit hazy down there, eh?"

"Yes, rather," said Harry.

"Delicate operation that. Touch and go for awhile. But you came through all O.K. Delusions. Thought you were another man--or something----"

"Oh yes," said Harry faintly, "but I'm all right."

"Glad to hear it. How's the head?"

"Fine."

"No more pains--no delusions?"

"No sir."

"I'd like to have a squint at the wound presently, if you don't mind. Interesting case. Very."

Harry rose suddenly, his face the color of ashes.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered, "I've got a lot to do now. Later perhaps," and then without a word took up his cap and fled incontinently from the room.

There were but two other officers present, but they stared at him as he went out, for the conversation across the table had drawn attention.

"H-m," remarked the Major into his coffee-cup. "Surly chap that. Considering I saved his life--_Croix de Guerre_, I see?"

"Yes sir," said a Lieutenant. "Just joined up. Worried, maybe."

"Not much worried about me, apparently," said the Major.

Harry went straight out to his billet, locked the door of his soom and sank on the edge of his bed. The situation was horrible. This man of all men who had seen Jim Horton through the hospital! Suppose out of professional curiosity the fool came nosing around! Was Welby now with the regiment? Harry cursed himself for the hurry of his departure. Would the man suspect anything? Hardly. But Harry couldn't take a chance like that again. A second refusal of the Major's request would surely make him an object of suspicion. And the wound in the shoulder--there was none! D--n them all! Why couldn't they leave him alone?

He couldn't face the thing out. It was too dangerous. Already he had had enough of it. And yet what was he to do? Yesterday he had thought he read suspicion of him in other men's eyes. They seemed to strip him naked, those hundreds of eyes, to be gazing at the white uninjured flesh where his wounds should have been. All this in a week only--and what was to happen in the many weeks to follow? If this fool Welby had come why wouldn't there be other men of the regiment, of the battalion, who had been at the hospital at Neuilly also? They would catch him in a false statement, force him into a position from which he could not extricate himself, and then what? The Major,--the Colonel,--what answer could he give them if they asked to see his wounds?

To Harry's overwrought imagination the whole army seemed joined in a conspiracy to bring about his ruin. To go about his work seemed impossible, but to feign illness meant the visit of a doctor, perhaps Welby himself. He would have to go on, at least for the day, and then perhaps he would think up something--resignation, a transfer to some other unit....

He managed to put through the day, still wondering why men looked at him so strangely. Was there anything the matter with his appearance? In the afternoon, the youngest of his Lieutenants approached him kindly.

"Hadn't you better take a run down to the hospital, sir?" he asked. "You look all in."

Harry stared at him stupidly for a moment.

"Oh, I'm all right--just--er--a little stomach upset----"

The youngster saluted and disappeared and Harry went back to his quarters. There was no wonder that he looked "all in." He hadn't dared to go to the mess table since morning and he hadn't had a drink since yesterday. Tobacco had ceased to have the desired effect upon his nerves. He felt like jumping out of his skin. The thing couldn't go on. He _was_ "all in." A short leave of absence which might give him time to pull himself together meant being gone over by a doctor--it meant showing his scarless shoulder--impossible! There was only one thing to do--to quit while there was time--before the truth came out. The more he thought of his situation, the more clearly this course seemed indicated. To disappear silently--in the night. It could be managed--and when he didn't come back, perhaps they would think that the wound in his head was troubling him again, and that he was not responsible for what he did. Or that he had met with foul play. They could think anything they chose so long as they didn't guess the truth. And they could never learn the truth, unless they examined his body for the wounds.

But they would never find him to do that if he ever got safely back of the lines. He had managed it before. He could do it again now; because he wouldn't have to trust to blind luck as he had done back of Boissiere Wood. The more he thought of his plan, the more he became obsessed with it. At any rate it was an obsession which would banish the other obsession of the watching eyes. It was the dark he craved, the security and blessed immunity of darkness--darkness and solitude. He wouldn't wait for the ordeal of the morrow ... to-night!

And so, driven by all the enemies of his tortured mind, and planning with all the craft of a guilty conscience, he arranged all things to suit his purpose, passing beyond the village with the avowed purpose of visiting a friend in another unit and then losing himself in the thicket.

He traveled afoot all night, using his map and making for the railroad at St. Couvreur, and in the early morning breakfasted at a farmhouse, telling a story of having lost his way and craving a bed for a few hours' sleep. He was well provided with money and his host was hospitable. He slept a while, awoke and no one being about, searched the house for what he sought. He found it in a wardrobe upstairs--a suit of clothing which would serve--and leaving some money on a table, made off without ceremony into the thicket, covering a mile or so in a hurry, across country, when he found a disused building in which he tore off his uniform and donned the borrowed clothing, leaving his own, including its _Croix de Guerre_, under a truss of straw.

It grew dark again. But he did not care. In a village he managed by paying well to find a bottle of cognac. His cares slipped from him. Nothing mattered--not even the rain. His soul was set free. He paid for a good lodging and slept, warm inside and out; purchased the next day a better suit of clothing and then boldly boarded a train for Paris.

It was extraordinary how easily his liberty had been accomplished. They would look for him, of course. The M.P. would bustle about but he had given them the slip all right and they would never find him in Paris. Paris for awhile and then a new land where no questions would be asked. Curiously enough the only human being he seemed to think about, to regret, in what he had done, was Moira. His thoughts continually reverted to the expression on her face the night that Jim had surprised them in the studio. Its agony, its apprehension, so nearly depicted the very terrors that had been in his own soul. He remembered hazily too, that she had been kind to him when Quinlevin had left him there to watch her and he had finished the bottle of Irish whisky. Then, too, again in the morning she had awakened him and started him upon his way back to his post, while the expression of her face had shown that she was trying to do her duty to him even when her own heart was breaking. She had had a thought that even at this last moment he still had an opportunity to "make good." He felt that Moira, his wife in name only, would know the pain of his failure. Quinlevin would sneer, Jim would shrug, but Moira would weep and pray--in vain.

He had cared for Moira in his strange selfish way, permitted Quinlevin to use him for his own purposes, hoping for the fortune that would bring ease and luxury for them all, and with it a glamour that he might turn to his own account and win the girl to a fulfillment of their marriage vows. But Jim had dashed the cup from his lips, Jim--his hero brother--now like himself an outcast! So there were to be two of them then after all. "It served him right--D--n him!" Harry Horton found a malicious pleasure in the situation. If _he_ wasn't to have her, Jim shouldn't either. He wasn't going to give his brother the pleasure of reading _his_ death notice in the morning paper. He, Harry Horton, would just go on living whatever happened, and he knew that without the evidence of his death, Moira would never marry again.

He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira's consent to go with Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night. But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking. It looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission was dubious. And yet Quinlevin might succeed. If he did there would be enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the world. This was the price that they would pay for immunity--and Harry would go. He knew now that Moira was not for him. She had settled that matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue Charron.

He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old haunts. There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes? He would have to sober up. Things weren't bad at all now. What difference did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became? It was his own life to do what he pleased with. And it pleased him to do what he was doing with it. He laughed at the amusing inversion. Good joke, that!

But he would have to go down to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes and talk things over. No use quarreling with Quinlevin. Everything amiable and friendly. No. 7 Rue de Tavennes. If Moira wasn't there, he'd go in and wait. Her studio ... his too. Perhaps a little of the Irish whisky and a doze....

*CHAPTER XXI*

_*THE PETIT BLEU*_

The road to Paris was long by the way Jim Horton and Piquette had chosen, but without mishap they came through Geneva and Lyons, reaching their destination at the end of the second day. Of the further adventures of Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and his apostle Tricot they had learned nothing, though they had scanned all the newspapers upon their way for any echoes of the adventure at the Hotel de Paris. Jim Horton had spoken little of Moira, but as they neared their journey's end, the birth certificate and other papers still secure in Jim's inner pocket, he was sure that however difficult and painful his decision to desert Moira at the critical moment, Piquette's counsel had been wise. Moira had fled from him and he knew now that her convictions had laid a barrier between them which no further effort that he could make would ever pass. Pity he felt for her, deep and abiding, for she was so helpless and now more than ever alone. But he had done his duty as he had seen it, drawn Quinlevin's sting and opened Moira's eyes to his perfidy, throwing a light along the path into which that perfidy was leading her.

He and Piquette had tried to picture events in the hotel at Monte Carlo after their flight: The helpless men lying in the dark, awaiting the morning, Moira's probable return with Nora Burke and their liberation. As to what Moira would do after that, they could not decide. Her flight to Paris without money seemed impossible, and yet for her to remain with her spurious father after this awakening seemed also impossible. Piquette had related to him parts of her conversation with the girl and Horton had listened, aware of Piquette's motives and the hopeless impediments to the success of her efforts.

Piquette spoke no more of love, nor did Jim Horton revive the topic which had given him a more awkward half an hour than he had ever spent in his life, but he showed her by every act a consideration that touched her deeply and made the friendship that she asked of him a sacred thing to them both. What the future held for him was yet to be fully revealed, but as yet he could not see it clearly. With the collapse of Quinlevin's scheme it was probable that all the vials of his wrath would be turned upon Horton, who would be denounced to the military authorities, no matter what happened to his unfortunate brother Harry. It was necessary therefore, until the birth certificate and the evidence of Horton and Piquette was all placed with Monsieur de Vautrin's legal representative, that Horton remain hidden and that Piquette avoid all contact with her friends of the _Quartier_. It seemed also the part of prudence for Piquette to remain for awhile away from her apartment, keeping in touch with her maid who would bring her clothing and letters to a designated place.

"It would have been much more sensible to have killed Tricot," laughed Horton when they were established in rooms in his obscure lodging in the Rue Jean Paul. "He'll come poking about with a brand new knife and revolver, and then we'll have the devil to pay all over again."

"I'm not sure," said Piquette.

"We'll take no chances. And when this business is finished, if Monsieur de Vautrin doesn't do his duty by you I'd like to take you away from Paris, Piquette."

"Where, _mon_ Jeem?"

He shrugged. "To America. Where else?"

But she shook her head like a solemn child.

"No, _mon petit_. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am born, an' if de _bon Dieu_ will, where I s'all die. As for you, _mon ami_, all will be well. De _vrai gamine_ is born wit' de what you call--secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."

He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words and manner.

"How, Piquette?" he laughed.

She shrugged. "I doan know, but I believe you s'all be 'appy yet."

"With her, you mean?" he asked. "Not a chance, Piquette. That's done. But if I can help her----"

"Yes. You s'all 'elp 'er, _mon ami_. I know."

He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe.

"You've got Cassandra beaten by a mile, my little Piquette."

"Cassandra?"

"The greatest little guesser in all history. But she guessed right----"

"An' I guess right too, _mon ami_. You see."

He smiled. "Then I wish you'd guess what's happened to your silly friend de Vautrin."

"Silly!" she laughed. "Dat's a good word, _mon ami_" and then shrugged. "'E will come one day----"

"In a week--and here we sit cooling our heels with our evidence all O.K., burning in our fingers. If he doesn't arrive to-morrow I'm going to find his _avocat_."

They had examined the birth certificate with a magnifying glass and there was not a doubt that the final "a" of "Patricia" had been added to "Patrice," also that the word "male" had been changed to "female" by the addition of the prefix. With Nora Burke as Quinlevin's only witness and Horton and Piquette to oppose her, there would not be the slightest difficulty in disposing of Barry Quinlevin's pretensions. But Horton still worried much about the fate of Moira, for it was difficult for him to conceive of her resumption of the old relations with the Irishman. And yet it could not be long before Quinlevin returned to Paris, and what would be Moira's fate unless she accompanied him to the Rue de Tavennes? Perhaps she was there now. Already four days had elapsed since the flight from the Riviera and of course there had been ample time for Quinlevin and his illy-assorted company to return. Horton wanted to go to the Rue de Tavennes and try to learn what had happened, but Piquette advised against it. Until the responsibility for the papers was shifted to de Vautrin, she did not think it wise for him to take any risk of danger. Jim Horton demurred, but when he saw how much in earnest she was, he consented to remain in hiding a few days longer.

And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened, for Piquette's maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement) brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was a _Petit Bleu_ addressed to Jim Horton. He picked it up gingerly in his fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the envelope. It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people knew so readily where he was to be found. De Vautrin perhaps----? Or----

He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder. It was in French, of course, and he read,

"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight. Forgive and don't fail. MOIRA."

He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance. "Forgive." That was the word that stood out in black letters. What had come over her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with him for sanctuary? Or was it help that she needed? Whatever the real meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton's mind as to where his duty lay.

But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.

"When did this _Petit Bleu_ arrive?"

"Not an hour ago, Madame."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, Madame, positive. I myself received it from the messenger."

"Very well, Celeste. You will return to the apartment and if any other message arrives, be sure to bring it at once."

"Yes, Madame."

"And be sure to take the roundabout way and be sure that you are not followed."

"Yes, Madame."

When the woman departed, Piquette took the blue slip from Jim Horton's fingers and sat by the gas-light, rereading it slowly and thoughtfully.

"I must go, of course, Piquette," said Jim quietly.

"Yes, _mon ami_, you mus' go. An' yet there are some t'ings I don' on'erstan'."

"What, Piquette?"

"It is strange, dis sudden change of min' of Madame 'Orton," she replied.