Front matter (continued 3)

"Some one lay here but a short while ago," he muttered positively, "tied hand and foot. The bed is still warm."

"They can't have gone far then——"

"But the door was bolted on the inside——"

"The window——"

"There would hardly have been time, is it not so, Mademoiselle?"

"I don't know," whispered Moira in dismay. "Is there no outlet to this place? There must be. The light, Monsieur—yonder, in the corners beyond the stone-work——"

The man with the torch, his professional instincts now thoroughly alive, obeyed. They sounded the walls, first one side and then on the other, coming at last, in the further corner, toward the river, upon a stone arch over some steps leading into a dark opening. The man who held the light suddenly extinguished it and a warning sound came from his lips.

"Listen," he whispered.

Scarcely able to breathe, Moira obeyed. From the passage-way at a distance, there came the sounds of voices.

"Come, follow me, Dupuy! Mademoiselle had better remain."

And with that, turning his light into the dark hole, he descended, the other following. But the thought of remaining alone in this terrible house frightened her and she clutched at the hand of the second policeman.

"I dare not stay here, Monsieur. I must go with you."

"Bien. But I warn you it may be dangerous."

And yet what could be more dangerous than remaining in the cellar of the apache, Tricot? With shaking limbs she followed down the passage, stumbling and clinging to the shoulder of the gallant policeman. The man who led them disappeared beyond a turn in the passage, but they reached it and as they turned the corner felt the chill of the night air beating in their faces. And in a moment they came out on the shore of the river near a boat landing.

"Tonnerre de Dieu!" shouted the man with the light, and started running toward the steps that led to the Quai above. The other had reached the boat landing and stared for a moment down into the dark mists above the river. Then he ran up the steps after his companion.

Frightened and mystified, Moira followed up the steps where after a moment the two men joined her.

"We have missed them. We were too late——"

"But the captive—the prisoner," pleaded Moira, in an agony of apprehension.

"That's the point—the prisoner," said the younger man. "Wait a moment, Mademoiselle."

And he ran down the steps to the boat landing again, peering eagerly down the stream. Already far away, merely a blotch in the shadows beyond the Pont Neuf, there was a boat at the Quai du Louvre.

"Vite, Dupuy. There may be yet time."

And the two of them started running toward the distant bridge, leaving Moira to follow as fast as she could.

When Moira reached them on the opposite side of the river, breathless and almost dead of apprehension, they were questioning a man on the Quai du Louvre. He reported that a man had attempted suicide by drowning and that a woman had saved him just as he was about to leap into the water. She herself had asked his assistance and together they had hailed a passing fiacre in which the woman had driven away.

"Did you notice anything extraordinary about the rescued man?" questioned Dupuy.

"Nothing, except that he was very pale. Also that there was an odor of chloroform on his clothing."

"Chloroform! Are you sure?"

The man shrugged. "You may smell for yourself."

And he extended a hand and arm upon which the odor was unmistakable.

She heard the officer take the address of the witness and then turn to her.

"Mademoiselle is no doubt weary. There is nothing more that can be done to-night. If you will permit me to conduct you home."

A woman? Who?

Moira nodded in a bewildered way.

"A fiacre, Monsieur, if you please," she stammered. "I—I am very tired."

CHAPTER IX

PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND

As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was a gamine. She liked the warm nest in the Boulevard Clichy, with which the Duc de Vautrin had provided her, because it satisfied a craving for the creature comforts which she had been so long denied, and because it filled the hearts of other young women of her acquaintance with envy. But she was not happy. After all was she not young and had she not her life to live?

It was enough indeed to have grown in a few short years from a seller of flowers and a model for the figure into a lady of fashion, but her heart was still in the Rive Gauche and there she went when she pleased, searching out her old haunts, and the companions of her days of want, with whom she could throw off the restraint of her gilded cage and laugh with an open throat at the ancient jests and dance her way again into happiness. Life she loved, all shades of it, from the somber in which she had been born to the brilliant artificial high lights of café and restaurant. All sorts of people she knew—cochers, bandits, dancers, poet-singers, satirists, artists, journalists, and she rejoiced in them for what they taught her of the grande vie.

Quite unhampered by morals of any sort, trusting entirely to her impulses, which were often good, the creature of her birth and surroundings, she was a pupil in the school of the world, speaking, after a fashion, three languages. She discovered that she had a brain, and the war had made her think. Without the help of the Americans, France must fall, and so when they came she rejoiced in their splendid soldierly appearance and the promise they gave of rescue and help for France. She met Harry Horton in the Taverne du Pantheon. He was quite drunk and didn't seem to have any Hôtel, so she took him to the Boulevard Clichy in a fiacre and put him to bed. According to her own lights, it was the only natural, the only decent thing for her to do.

Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, on excellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom Barry Quinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman's income. In a reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin's secret. And as the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing her the money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned against her patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemed to promise much. That she repented of her disloyalty the next day when Monsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, who saw a way in which she could be useful to him. Also, Harry Horton was sure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make a confidante of a weathervane.

When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged her pretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory. He had been her bel ami, but ... enfin, even in the Quartier, one got drunk like a gentleman.

The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment. The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, for reasons of his own, had reduced her allowance. The familiar figure in brown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of Monsieur Valcourt. He represented a part of life that she could not taste—and this very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero of Boissière wood. And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, in spite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake. A hero. Saperlotte! Of course she was glad to see him.

But the reserve in his manner had mystified her. He was like another man. He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong. A little triste, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touched with the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose. But Piquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years for nothing. A few months of warfare would not change a man's soul. What was this strangeness? What had come over him? He had packed her home in a fiacre, just when she was becoming most interested in this extraordinary transformation. She had never before suffered from pique, and it annoyed her that he shouldn't have been more eager to resume their ancient fellowship. Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouch hat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? His figure too had a familiar look. His manner had been urgent—threatening even, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to the outer darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.

And he had not written her or telephoned. All day she waited in, expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest and her disappointment. Also, meditation gave her a perspective. They were curious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a striking difference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk in the Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during the few moments they had been together at Javet's, came to her now with startling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of the hands, their touch on hers—and parbleu!

She started upright as a thought came to her like a coup de foudre. The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon. It had bothered him only a few days and it had never been set. She remembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wine glass at Javet's, remarking how strong they were. The little finger was straight!

It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with such significance. It was also curious that she hadn't noticed it at the time. Could she be mistaken? When night came and she had not heard from Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving word where she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight to the café of Gabriel Pochard.

She and Gabriel were friends of long standing. Many years ago, when she was but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around the studios with long hair, for prophets and saints. But he had married some money and opened the café which bore his name.

It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons not of the vrai type, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcasts of all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relished a particular kind of seclusion. For here no questions were asked. It was at Gabriel Pochard's that Harry Horton spent much time, for he had come with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had known Pochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerôme. It was here that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and information which would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that had come rising to her mind. She had the French passion for the mysterious, the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant to leave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of the problem.

She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and the café was blue with tobacco smoke.

"All, mon vieux," she said in the argot. "You wear a worried look. Has Leon Javet been stealing away your customers?"

"Ah, c'est toi, petite! What brings you here alone?"

"Ma foi, my legs, if you would know the truth—and a woman's curiosity."

"Tiens! That is nothing new. How can I help you?"

"I want you tell me what you know of 'Arry 'Orton."

Gabriel frowned and glanced about him cautiously.

"Sh——," he said warningly. And then, in a whisper, "Who told you that Monsieur 'Orton was here?"

She laughed. "Did I not see him myself with my own eyes last night?"

"Where?"

"At Javet's." And then, in a meaning tone, as she looked him in the eyes, "Him—or another."

He glanced at her, his face, which still showed traces of great beauty, twisted unpleasantly, and then beckoned her to follow him through a door nearby into his office. And when they were seated, "What did you mean, Piquette?"

"What I said," put in Piquette, lighting a cigarette. "Him—or another." And then, as Gabriel's frown deepened, she shot straight at her mark. "There are two 'Arry 'Ortons, Gabriel Pochard," she said coolly.

The effect of her words on Gabriel was not lost on her. He looked around him furtively and caught her by the wrist.

"Who told you this?"

"It's true, then?" asked Piquette.

"Who told you?"

"My own eyes. The visitor at Javet's had no twisted little finger."

"And no one else has noticed?"

"Not so far as I am aware."

Gabriel Pochard gave a great gasp of relief.

"Ma foi, child, but you have sharp eyes!"

"If they weren't sharp, mon vieux, I would still be selling flowers outside the Café Soufflet. Tell me the truth of this thing, Gabriel," she said, settling herself in her chair with the air of one who has come to stay, "it is what I came here to find out."

He glanced at her, then frowned at the floor and shook his head.

"Oh, yes, mon vieux, you will tell me that it is none of my business," she said firmly. "Eh, bien, it is my business—my right to know." And then, as he remained silent, "You are aware that I am not one to be refused."

Gabriel rose from the chair at the desk and paced up and down the narrow apartment, but still he did not speak. And then at last, "What devil put it into your head to come here inquiring of this matter?"

"The devil himself—I——," she said with a gesture. And then, with a little shrug and a sober mien, "You may trust me, Gabriel."

He stopped and sat in his chair again.

"Eh, bien! As you have said. It is your right. But it is no matter to be breathed outside this room."

"It will not be the first time I have kept your secrets."

"I should not tell you."

"Speak——"

Gabriel Pochard shrugged. "Last night, late, a man came in here to see me, a man wearing old clothing and a three weeks' growth of beard. It was Monsieur 'Orton. He was very much excited and told me a remarkable story that rivals the tales of Monsieur Hugo."

"Yes, I understand. Go on."

"He said he was wounded upon the battlefield at night, when out of the darkness appeared just beside him the very image of himself. It was his twin brother, whom he had not seen for five years, a brother with whom he did not speak."

"Ah—it was what I thought——"

"The brother took from Monsieur 'Orton his uniform and went on, leading his men to victory. It was the fight of Boissière Wood. You have heard?"

Piquette nodded.

"This interloper took Monsieur 'Orton's uniform, his rank and identity, and now comes back to Paris—to Monsieur 'Orton's own apartment, and Monsieur 'Orton's wife——"

Piquette had started to her feet, her fingers grasping the shoulder of Gabriel.

"His wife!" she broke in.

"Parfaitement, his wife," repeated Pochard. "You did not know?"

"He never told me," she stammered. "Who——?"

"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," said Pochard with a shrug.

"You're sure?"

"As certain as I sit here, ma petite."

Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.

"Go on," she muttered.

"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur 'Orton demanded of his brother to relinquish his identity. He refused. Monsieur 'Orton came to me. It was an act of injustice. Monsieur 'Orton was outcast. Something had to be done. I helped him. Voilà tout."

Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while. As Pochard finished, she searched his face keenly—her frown deepening.

"There's something at the back of this, Pochard. Tell me the rest."

Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder. "I do not like it, you understand. It has worried me all day—an American—a soldier. One cannot tell what would happen if the police——"

Piquette understood at once. Her fingers closed again over the arm of Pochard.

"What have you done with him?"

Pochard bent forward, whispering. "He lies in the house in the Rue Charron by the river. A knock on the head—c'est tout—and chloroform."

Piquette was silent, staring at the wall. Then she fixed her wide gaze on the conspirator.

"Bah! You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch you sure. How much?"

"Two thousand francs."

"And you get half," contemptuously. "Who did it?"

"Tricot and Le Singe Anglais."

"Tricot!"

Piquette got up and paced the length of the room, turning quickly.

"You are an idiot, Pochard," she stormed at him furiously. "An American! Don't you know what you have done? It is the hero of Boissière Wood that you have struck down. An American—who has risked his life for you and me——"

"But Monsieur 'Orton——"

"He has lied to you. I do not believe——" She broke off, caught Pochard by the arm again and shook him. "When did this happen?"

"L-late last right——"

"And 'Arry 'Orton?"

"Was here—this afternoon——"

"Drunk——?"

Pochard shrugged. "No—not bad. He was in uniform."

"Where is he now?"

"I think he has gone to find his wife."

"His wife!"

Piquette sank into her chair, took out a cigarette and smoked rapidly for a moment. And then,

"What were you going to do with this—this twin brother?"

"I?" Pochard gave a gesture of abnegation. "Nothing. I am through. That is the affair of Monsieur 'Orton."

"All, mon ami, but you can't wriggle out so easily. You've received money—blood money——"

Pochard put his hands deep in his pockets and extended his long legs, frowning at the floor.

"I am sorry now. It is a bad business——"

"The man is safe?"

"So far, yes——"

"But Tricot?"

"He waits for orders."

Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with an air of decision.

"This American must be liberated at once!"

Pochard rose and faced her. "It's too late," he growled,

"No. It's not too late. I know the sort that Tricot is—with the river just there—at his elbow."

"I can do nothing. That's what worries me. Tricot and Le Singe will look after their own skins now."

"You mean," she paused significantly. "The Seine——"

He nodded somberly.

"It is the solution of many problems."

She caught him by the shoulders and shook him.

"But not of this problem. You understand. It will not do. I will not have it."

"You," he laughed. "What can you do?"

"You shall go with me now—and liberate him——"

He took her hands from his arms roughly and turned away. "No," he growled, "not I. Have I not told you that I am through?"

"Yes. You will be through, when the police come to find out what you know about the matter."

"They will not find out."

"Don't be too sure. 'Arry 'Orton is a fool when he drinks. He will betray you——"

Pochard scowled. "And betray himself——?"

"You can't be too sure."

"I can't. But I must trust to luck."

Piquette stamped her foot.

"I've no patience with you." And then, "You will not liberate him?"

"No. I refuse to have anything more to do with the matter."

"You will regret it."

"Perhaps. That will be my own lookout."

She stared at him in a moment of indecision, and then with a shrug, turned toward the door into the café.

"You are an idiot, Gabriel."

Pochard grunted as he followed her.

"You will say nothing?"

"Naturellement," scornfully. "I am not an informer. But I should like to knock you on the head too."

She put her hand on the knob of the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the Rue Charron."

He caught her hand away from the knob and held her.

"You——! Why should you intrude in this affair?"

"It amuses me."

"I warn you that you will run into danger."

"They will not harm me."

"You must not go."

"Yes. I shall save you from the results of your cupidity—since you will not save yourself."

"I will not permit it——"

"You have nothing to say in the matter—since you've washed your hands of it."

She threw his hand off and opened the door.

"Piquette!" he called, but she went rapidly into the other room before he could intercept her, ran quickly out into the street and disappeared in the darkness.

She was throbbing now, deep with purpose. It was only in moments like these that life ran swiftly in her veins. The excitement of the venture was like a tonic, and she went on rapidly toward the Boule' Miche'.

As she walked she went over in detail the conversation she had had last night in the Café Javet. It was not surprising that she had not guessed the truth last night, for the new Harry Horton's information as to his brother's affairs had blinded her to the physical differences such as there were, between them. Perhaps it was the glamor that his heroism had thrown about him, perhaps it was his gravity, or perhaps the depth of his voice or the penetrating quality of his steady gaze, but she had not been able to deny all day a new and extraordinary appreciation of the newcomer, whose virtues, half guessed at, seemed to bring Harry Horton's deficiencies into higher relief. And the mystery of his sudden appearance and the strange tale of Gabriel Pochard provided the added touches to stimulate her interest in him. As she had told Gabriel, there was something back of this mystery of dual identity, and she meant to discover the truth. As to one thing she was resolved, the beautiful young soldier of the Café Javet should not die, if there was anything that she could do to prevent it.

Tricot was a bad one. So was Le Singe Anglais. Either of them was capable of anything. She was acquainted with them both, but she did not fear them, for she knew the freemasonry of their evil calling and had even been in the little room of Gabriel Pochard when they had discussed their business affairs. But this matter concerned a human being in whom she was interested. No harm should come to him. It could not be. She wanted him for herself.

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

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

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

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

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

"It is Piquette," she whispered again.

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

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

"Sh——," she whispered, "Silence!"

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

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

His lips moved again. "Who——"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—upstairs. I—I'm weak as a cat."

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

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

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

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

"You—Piquette—How did you——?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" growled a voice in English.

"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."

An oath from Tricot as the other translated.

"Who told her?"

"No one. She guessed it."

"Parbleu! We shall take no chances then."

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

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

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

"The river!" growled Tricot.

And then the other voice.

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

"To-morrow. But—I can't——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

THE SAMARITAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jim Horton glanced about the small room.

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

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

"You brought me here——?"

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

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

"A voiture an' den—here," she added as he paused.

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

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

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

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

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

"C'est la grande vie, Monsieur l'Americain," she said with an expressive gesture. "You remember perhaps what Monsieur Valcourt 'as said. I am still de vrai gamine. I know dat vilain Pochard since I am so high."

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

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

"You saved my life——"

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

"My name is Jim Horton."

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

Jim Horton was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her for a long moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was silent for a while, watching him.

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

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

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

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

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

He thought for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

"They weren't my honors——"

"But you bear de wounds——"

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

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

"The police?"

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

"Who could this have been?"

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

"If that is your wish, Piquette——"

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

His eager look inquired her meaning.

"Émile Pochard would never trus' me again."

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

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

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

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

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

"What a boy you are!" she laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed again. "Allons! For dat—I shall kees you, mon ami."

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

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

"You do not mind my keesing you, mon petit?" she asked.

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

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

* * * * *

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

She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.

"An' now, mon Jeem, you will be going away, n'est ce pas?"

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

"Oh, ça!" she said with a quick gesture. "Il est bête. He would never know."

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

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

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

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

"And you——," she faltered.

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

She started.

"You will leave Paris?"

"I do not know."

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

"And de oder woman——"

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

"Piquette, I——"

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

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

"I know, mon petit," she said with a smile. "I 'ave known it from de firs'. You love 'er. C'est dommage. It is a pity. She is ver' beautiful, dey say."

"I am a fool, Piquette."

"You are not de firs' in de worl'——"

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

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

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

Piquette faced him gravely.

"Yes, mon ami," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.

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

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

"Well, mon ami, 'as anyt'ing 'appen' to make you change your mind?"

He looked up at her in wonder.

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

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

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

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

"A thief——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are right, mon petit Jeem. You s'all go to 'er and tell 'er——"

"Piquette——!"

"Je ne me fiche pas. Go. It's nothing to me."

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

"You are too good for him, Piquette."

She stirred uneasily in his arms and then released herself.

"Go, Jeem——", she said. "Go."

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

"Yes. Au revoir, mon brave."

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

* * * * *

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

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

"Madame Horton?" he asked.

"Oui, Monsieur. She is in. Do you know the way?"

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

CHAPTER XI

CONFESSIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You—," she faltered.

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

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

"I—I know," she murmured.

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

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

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

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

"You know of that?"

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

"It was you? Good God!"

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

He stared at her in incomprehension.

"You mean that he confessed to you?"

She nodded and then laughed nervously.

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

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

"You know—the truth?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.

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

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

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

"Yes, I understand."

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

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

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

He paused a moment.

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

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

"Mr. Quinlevin—has mentioned him?"

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

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

"Mine?"

He paused painfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wish me to read——?" she asked.

"Yes, please, Moira."

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

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

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

She rose and faced him, her breast heaving.

"Blackmail! My father——"

He bowed his head.

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

She raised the letter again and read.

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

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

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

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

"I can't believe—Who has told you?"

"Piquette Morin——"

"Piquette—?" Her brows drew together——

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

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

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

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

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

"The Irish rents——?"

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

"Holy Virgin—! Then I——?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You remember her——" he said.

"My old nurse——!"

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

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

Jim Horton turned away again.

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

"Holy Virgin! You mean that Nora——?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! It is infamous!"

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

"I—her heiress?"

He nodded.

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

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

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

"Piquette Morin—Harry told her."

"And—and Harry—?"

"His interests and yours were the same."

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

She was silent a moment, breathing hard.

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

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

She bowed her head and he went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He relinquished her fingers and turned away.

"I deceived you, Moira—cheated you——"

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

"You mean—that you will forgive me?"

He leaned forward toward her, searching her face eagerly.

"Yes—yes," she whispered.

"Moira!"

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

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

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

"You poor child——"

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

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

But she shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want me to go?"

But her fingers still held him.

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

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

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

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

"The cruelty of it! You!"

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

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

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

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

"And you'll let me see you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll have patience. Some day——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Moira——"

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

CHAPTER XII

QUINLEVIN SPEAKS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh—nothing—I'm just tired."

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

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

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

Harry fumbled at his glass nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But the birth certificate——"

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

"And the other servant—who knew—?"

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

Harry Horton frowned.

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

"What d'ye mean?"

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

Quinlevin laughed.

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

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

"I didn't hear anything."

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

"Why do you ask?"

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

"Who told you this?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"This de Vautrin business."

Quinlevin calmly stared at him.

"Yer feet aren't getting cold now?"

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

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

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

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

Barry Quinlevin leaned forward, his shaggy brows thatched unpleasantly.

"What the devil are ye talking about?"

"I—I've got to tell you."

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

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

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

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

"He's turned up—here—in—Paris."

"What have you got to do with him?"

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

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

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

"Go on. I'm listening."

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

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

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

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

"She did not guess?"

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

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

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

"You've no idea who helped him?"

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

"But they lack imagination—like yerself——"

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

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

"But my brother—my own brother——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good. Then we'll have time."

"For what?"

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

"What can you do?"

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

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

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

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

"It's not possible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if I refuse——?"

Jim Horton shrugged carelessly.

"I'll tell the truth—that's all."

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

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

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

"That's final?"

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

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

"No, thanks——"

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

"You can't—you won't do that."

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