Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

"It's very clear why Monsieur Quinlevin left the train at St. Etienne with Madame."

"He was afraid she would make trouble."

"Yes, mon Jeem. Also, 'e t'ought Tricot would have success." She caught his hand and held it a moment. "'E would 'ave kill' me if you 'adn' push' me on de floor."

"Pretty clever, sizing us up like that, then letting Tricot do his dirty work. He didn't think I'd see him. But we know what we're up against now. And they'll waste no time in following. I've got to get a 'gun' somewhere, that's sure, and you've got to stop at Marseilles."

"At Marseilles?"

He nodded. "I'm not going to let you run your head any further into this noose. You see what the danger is – "

But Piquette only smiled.

"I knew what de danger was when I offer'd to come, mon ami. I'm not going to stay at Marseilles. I'm going on wit' you, as I promis'."

"But, Piquette – "

She put her fingers over his lips.

"You do not know my great force of mind. Besides," she added, "dey cannot catch us now."

"I can't have you running any more risks," he muttered.

"I s'all run de risk you run, mon Jeem."

He smiled at her gently. There was something animal-like in her devotion.

In the dusk of the soft illumination from above, the shadows at her eyes and lips seemed more than ever wistful and pathetic.

"Why do you dare all this for me, Piquette?"

"Why should I not tell you?" she said gently. "It makes no difference to you, but I t'ink I should like you to know. It is because I love you, mon Jeem."

"Piquette!"

"It's true, mon ami. It 'as never 'appen to me before. Dat's why I know… No, mon Jeem. It is not necessaire for you to make believe. Voila! You can 'old my 'and. So. But I want you to know. It was from de firs' – at Javet's – 'Ow else should I 'ave care' enough to go find you in de Rue Charron? 'Ow else would I care enough to fin' out de difference between you an' 'Arry?" She took a long breath before she went on. "It did not take me long, I assure you – for you, mon ami, were de man I was to love an' 'Arry – " she paused painfully. "'Arry was jus' a mistake."

"I – I'm not what you think I am, Piquette," he broke in awkwardly.

"Let me finish, mon ami," she said with a wave of the hand. "Confession is good for de soul, dey say. I want you to know about me. I am on'y what de bon Dieumake me – a gamine. If 'E wish' me to be fille honnête, 'E would not make a gamine. C'est la destinée."

"Don't, Piquette. I know."

"Mos' men are si bête– always de same. Dey talk of love – Pouf! I know. Toujours la chair… But you —mon ami– " She held her breath and then gasped gently. "You touch' me gently – wit' respec', like I was a queen – you kiss me on de brows – like I was a fille bonnête. Mon Dieu! What would you? Is it not'ing to be care' for by a man clean like dat?"

"I do care," he said impulsively. "Yes – and like that. I'd give anything to make you happy."

She gently disengaged his arm from about her waist.

"Den care for me like dat – like you say you care," she said gently. "It is what I wish – all I wish, mon petitJeem."

He touched her hand with his lips but there seemed nothing to say.

"C'est bien," whispered Piquette with a smile. "I t'ink you 'ave taught me somet'ing, mon Jeem – "

"As you've taught me," he blurted out, "but I won't lie to you, Piquette."

"Dat is as it mus' be. An' now we on'erstan' each oder. I am ver' content."

Jim Horton, from embarrassment at the astonishing confession, began to understand its motive and sat silent, Piquette's hand in his, aware of the bond of sympathy between them.

"It's a queer world, Piquette," he said at last, with a dry laugh. "I care for somebody I can't have – you care for me – why, God knows. I've made a fine mess of things and will probably go on making a mess of things —herlife, mine, yours – when you and I might have hit it off from the beginning."

"No, mon Jeem, you were not for me."

"Piquette!"

She caught his hand in both of her own and with one of her swift transitions from the womanly to the child-like she pleaded.

"An' now you will not 'ide me away in Marseilles?"

He smiled at her earnestness and it wasn't in his heart any longer to refuse her.

"No, Piquette. You shall go."

And impulsively, with the innocence that was a part of her charm, she kissed him fair upon the lips.

"Ah, mon Jeem. You are ver' good to me."

But at Marseilles he armed himself with a new automatic and with the weapon in his pocket felt a reasonable sense of security, at least until they reached their destination.

Piquette was resourceful. And on the train to Nice found the answer to the problem that neither of them had been able to solve.

"De ol' woman, wit' de gray hair," she said with an air of conviction after a long period of silence – "it is Nora Burke."

"By George!" cried Jim, awakening. "I believe you're right, Piquette. Nora Burke! And he's bringing her along to clinch the thing – down here – at Nice."

She nodded. "But we s'all reach Monsieur le Duc firs', mon Jeem – "

Delays awaited them when they reached the Hôtel Negresco. Piquette was provided with the name which Monsieur the Duc chose to use when traveling. Upon inquiry of the polite gentleman who presided over the destinies of the guests of this newest addition to the luxuries of the Promenade des Anglais, they were informed that Monsieur and Madame Thibaud had gone upon a motor-journey along the Cornice Road.

At the information, Piquette laughed outright and the polite Frenchman frowned.

"Is there anything so extraordinary in a motor-trip with Madame?" he asked frigidly.

"No – nothing, Monsieur," she replied and laughed again. But Jim Horton understood. Monsieur the Duc was relieving Piquette of a great moral responsibility.

They were shown adjoining rooms where they removed the traces of their journey, and then met for dinner, when they held a consultation as to their future plans. If Monsieur the Duc had gone on a motor-trip he might be back that night, or he might be away for a week. They found that Monsieur and Madame had taken only a suitcase and the chances were that they would return to the Negresco by the morrow. But time was precious – and it would not be long before Quinlevin and his queerly assorted company would be arriving in Nice, ready in some nefarious way to interfere with their plans. And so after dinner they took the train for Monte Carlo, hoping that de Vautrin's weakness for gaming would have led him to that earthly paradise of loveliness and iniquity.

It was late when they reached there, but Piquette had made no mistake, for they found their man at the tables, so deeply engrossed that he did not notice their approach or even look up when Piquette, ignoring the wonderfully accoutered lady at his side, addressed him in her most mellifluous tone.

Jim Horton took him in with a quick glance of appraisal – a man still in his fifties, about the age of Barry Quinlevin, but smaller, with a thin nose, sharp, black eyes, a bald head, and a dyed mustache waxed to long points. And the hands upon the green baize of the table wore large rings, one set with a ruby, the other with an emerald. That he was losing some money was indicated by the pucker of his bushy eyebrows and the nervous tapping of his jeweled fingers upon the cloth.

It was not until Piquette had spoken his Christian name several times that he seemed to hear and then looked up, his face a cloud of impatience and ill-temper.

"It is I, Olivier," she repeated – "Piquette."

"You – Madame!" he said with a glance at his companion.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette coolly, "and it seems that I've brought you luck," for at that moment a pile of gold and bank notes was swept in his direction.

"Ah – perhaps," he said confusedly. And then, "But it isn't possible. I was told that you were coming. I can't see you or this monsieur who comes with you. Go away if you please."

His attitude was uncompromising, his announcement bewildering, but Piquette was undismayed.

"The red, Monsieur," she said calmly, and before he could prevent, shoved a pile of the gold coins upon the color. And the Duc, aghast at her impudence, sat for a moment scowling at his pile of money, the gambler in him arrested by the fascinating click of the little ball.

"Red wins," announced Piquette, echoing the croupier. "You see, Monsieur, it will be wise for you to treat me with more politeness."

And as he still sat as though fascinated by the turn of his fortune, and made no motion to prevent her, she put all the money she had won for him on the black. Black won and Piquette laughed gayly, while the woman beside de Vautrin sat in silence.

"It does not do to venture here with strange Goddesses."

She glanced rather scornfully at the Duc's companion and straightened.

"Again, Madame," muttered de Vautrin, "the wheel runs for you."

"I have finished," said Piquette firmly. "It is enough."

"No," growled the Duc, thrusting his winnings again upon the black.

"You will lose," said Piquette calmly, watching the leaping of the little ball. He did – all that she had won for him. He tried again, lost more, then turned on her with a frown.

"Sacré– " he began.

"Sh – ," she silenced. "Allons. I did not come to interfere with your games, but if Madame Thibaud will permit us – " and she smiled with diabolical irony at de Vautrin's companion – "I would like to have a word with you at once."

"I will not listen to you – or him." He scowled at Jim. "I know what it's all about. I don't wish to see you."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"Then what do you mean by this? I've come to save you from a great financial disaster – "

"You – ?" he sputtered. "What are you doing here, with this man? It is infamous. I want no more of you. Go."

"No, Olivier. I stay," she said quietly. "You will kindly compose yourself and tell me who has been sending you lying telegrams."

"A – a friend in Paris."

"Ah! What did he say?"

"What does it matter to you what he said?" gasped de Vautrin. "You are in love with this monsieur. Eh bien! Go to him. I don't care. I'm through with you."

"Ah, no, you're not, Olivier," said Piquette, smiling calmly, "not until I'm through with you." And then, soberly: "Don't be a fool. Your petit bleu was sent by Monsieur Quinlevin. He has the best of reasons for not wanting you to see us. Will you listen to me now?"

Quinlevin's name had startled him.

"What do you mean?" he sputtered.

CHAPTER XV
GREEN EYES

For a moment after Jim Horton's departure Moira sat in her arm-chair, her head buried in her arms, more than half stupefied. One horrible revelation had followed another with such rapidity that she was aghast at the complete disruption of all the ties that had made her life. And this last tie – the strongest and the weakest of all – that too had been broken as relentlessly as the others.

She straightened slowly, her face haggard with her suffering, but she did not move from her chair and her fingers clutched its arms fiercely. Her eyes, staring blankly past Quinlevin, were following Jim out into the darkness of the Rue de Tavennes, but her fingers still clung to the chair-arms and her body did not move. It seemed that her limbs refused to obey her will to follow. Then after a moment, she sank down again, crushed, bruised and nerveless.

She felt the touch of Quinlevin's hand upon her shoulder and his voice whispering at her ear.

"There, acushla! I'll be explaining it all to you in the morning. Go to your room now, child, and rest."

She obeyed him silently, mechanically, not replying or looking at him or at Harry. Her throat like her eyes was dry, and parched, as though with fever, but her hands, like her heart, were ice cold. In the sanctuary of her own room with the doors closed, she threw herself headlong upon the bed, racked for a while by shuddering soundless sobs – and then after a while merciful tears came.

"Jim," she whispered hopelessly into the darkness. "Jim, forgive me!"

Her fingers groped for her crucifix and clung to it, seeking strength and courage. And after a long while the spasm of weeping stopped and she lay motionless and soundless, scarcely breathing. She knew in her heart that what she had done was best for Jim's soul's good and her own, but her heart cried out against the cruelty of it. And yet she was sure that if she had followed him beyond the studio door, she would have gone out with him into the world, glorying in her shame. She had chosen. Her one brief, gorgeous, pitiful romance was over.

And what was there left for her here at the studio but the shattered fragments of ruined affections? She had lived a lie – was living it now – like her father… She started up at the horror that she had forgotten and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect her thoughts; then she rose with an effort, groped for the matches and lighted her candle. Her father? By his own admission – her father no longer. Who was she then? A waif? The daughter of de Vautrin? Her mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale, somber, but with blue-black eyes that gazed steadily from their swollen lids. Strength she had prayed for, and courage to do what was right to do, and she needed them both now…

There was no sound from the studio. She glanced at her clock. For hours it seemed she had lain upon her bed of pain.

With a new resolution she bathed her face and wrists in cold water, then went through the kitchenette into the studio to find Barry Quinlevin. He was not there, but her husband was, – crouched in the armchair by the table and the whisky bottle was empty.

She shuddered a little but approached him resolutely. He tried to rise but, with a dull laugh and fumbling the arm of the chair, fell sideways into a grotesque attitude.

"Where is – ?" she began, and halted.

"Gone out," he mumbled, struggling into a straighter posture, "back soon."

"Where has he gone?"

He shook his head. "Dunno. Asked me to stay – take care of you, m'dear."

She turned away from him, in disgust.

"Oh – don' worry," he went on – "not goin' bother you. After t'morr' – won' see me, y'know – "

She turned quickly and he laughed again.

"Goin' join m'regimen'. Furlough up t'morr'."

She whispered a "Thank God" below her breath as she stood looking at him. And then aloud, gently, in a new kind of pity for him.

"You'd better lie down, Harry, and get some sleep," she said, "or you'll be in no condition to go on duty."

"Thanks. Ought to sleep. Haven' slep' f'r weeks, seems to me. Don' seem to care though."

"You'd better. There's a room outside. Your baggage is there too."

"Um – that's nice of you, Moira. R'turnin' good for evil. Baggage. He brought it – didn' he?"

"Yes, Harry."

He paused a moment and then leaned forward in his chair while she watched him curiously.

"Rotten mess! What?" he mumbled.

She didn't reply. And he went on, concentrating thought with difficulty. "He told you I tried – kill him – didn' he?" He wagged his head comically. "I couldn' do that – not kill 'im – wouldn't do y'know – m'own brother – no – not that – "

He put his hands to his eyes a moment and swayed, but Moira steadied him by the shoulder.

"Harry – come. I'll help you. You must go to bed."

"Not yet – in a minute. Somethin' – say."

He groped for her hand on his shoulder, found and clung to it.

"Shame I'm such rotter, Moira. Beas'ly shame. I'm not half bad sort if leave me 'lone. I was sick – out there. Head of Levinski – grinned at me. Gold tooth – grinned at me – in wheatfield – "

"Come, Harry," she broke in again, "lean on me. I'll help you to bed."

"Ah, I was sick awright – " he shuddered, oblivious of her. "Makes me sick now – think of it. Jus' a head, Moira, nothin' else. But God! What a head!"

"It won't do you any good now to think about that," she put in quickly, for he was shivering as though with a chill.

"No. No goo' now. Awf' rotter, ain't I?"

"Come – "

He stumbled to his feet and she helped him to support himself.

"Will you forgive me, Moira?"

"Of course."

And as she urged him out of the door toward the vacant room, "Knew y'would," he mumbled. And then, "Goo' ol' Moira!"

In the room she helped him off with his coat, puttees and shoes and then pulling a blanket over him left him to his own devices and went back to the studio to wait for Barry Quinlevin.

But she wasn't weary now. From the same reserve force from which she drew the strength to stand for hours and paint even when her sitters were weary, she gained new courage and resolution for the return of Quinlevin. But for a moment she was tempted again. The way was clear. What was to prevent her from going and finding Jim? For a moment only. Then she sank, into the chair by the fireplace – to fight her battle with herself and wait. Her glance restlessly passed from one familiar object to another, the portrait on the easel, the lay figure in the corner in its fantastic pose and heterogeneous costume, the draperies for her backgrounds, hanging just as they had hung this afternoon, and yet all so strangely changed. The door of the closet where Jim had been hidden remained open, exhibiting its untidy interior. Instinctively she rose and closed it, her sense of order triumphant even over her mental sufferings. Then she went back and sat down to think. There was much that she and her – that she and Barry Quinlevin would have to say to each other.

He came at last, expecting to find Harry and not the straight figure of the woman who faced him like a pale fury. The shadows of pain at her eyes were gone, lost in deeper shadows of anger and determination.

"You! Moira," he said in surprise.

"Yes, I – "

"Where's Harry?"

"I put him to bed. He was drunk," she said shortly.

"The devil he was!" He frowned darkly and then seemed as ever, quite the master of himself. If the glance he cast at her discovered her state of mind, he gave no sign of uneasiness. He approached her with his easy air as if nothing unusual had happened, but when he spoke again his voice was pitched low and his eyes were soft.

"I thought you'd be in bed, child – "

"I've something to say to you – " she cut in quickly.

"Oh, very well, – say on, my dear. You don't mind if I smoke a cigarette?"

As she made no reply he lighted one and sank into the most comfortable chair with a sigh of content.

"At least you owe me something, Barry Quinlevin," she began tensely, trying to keep her voice under control, and announcing her leit motif, so to speak, in her first phrase. "I'm no chattel of yours, no infant any longer, to be bandied about as a dupe in your wild plans for the future. It's my future you're dealing with just as you've dealt with my past – "

"Have ye had any cause to complain of my treatment of ye?" he broke in calmly.

"You've cheated me – lied to me all my life – isn't that enough? Kept me in ignorance of the source of our livelihood – God knows what else – made me a partner in a crime – without my knowledge – made me help you to get dishonest money – "

"Hardly," he said. "It was yer own money."

"I don't believe you," she said icily, "if it was my money you would have gotten it for me – all of it – long ago."

"And lost yerself, my dear, to the Duc de Vautrin," he countered quickly.

She started slightly. That possibility hadn't occurred to her. But she went on rapidly.

"You forget that I heard what you said to Harry – That I know what has been in your heart all these years. I was your decoy and you used me as you pleased, glad of my working, which kept me busy so that I couldn't be inquiring what was going on. You forget that I heard why you wanted me to marry Harry, but I can't forget it – would to God I could – and you'd dare to ask me if I have anything to complain of, knowing all that and knowing that I know it. Do you think I'm a mere piece of furniture without a soul, not to care what my heritage is, not to cherish my traditions – ? You've built my life on a lie, destroyed my very identity in a breath, torn down all the sacred idols of my girlhood and young womanhood and ground them under your feet. You!"

She caught at her heart and took a step nearer him.

"My mother – who was my mother?" she gasped.

He shrugged. "Mary Callonby – the Duchesse de Vautrin," he said easily. "And you are Patricia Madeline Aulnoy de Vautrin."

"Impossible. I'm no longer credulous."

"You'll have to believe the truth!"

"And who are you to ask me to believe? You who dared to speak to me of the sanctity of motherhood, who taught me that I was your own daughter – and that my mother, your wife – "

She broke off with a sob, quickly controlled.

"It was because I loved ye, Moira dear," he said very quietly.

She halted, aghast at this tenderness, the familiar tones of which made her wonder for a moment whether she weren't dreaming all the dreadful accusations on her tongue's end. But a pain shot through her heart to remind her of her sufferings.

"And was it because you loved me that you dared obliterate me, sneered at my pitiful love affair – the only passion I've had in my life or will have – and even tried to murder in cold blood – the – the object – of it? Answer me that – Barry Quinlevin!"

The Irishman's manner now changed. His brows drew together in a tight knot and the long fingers upon the chair-arm clenched until the knuckles were white.

"I'll answer ye that," he said abruptly. "And more. I've heard what ye had to say with patience and chagrin. I'll take the blame for me sins of omission where blame is due, trusting to yer conscience to be forgiving me presently for yer harsh tones to one who sinned for the very love of ye. But when ye speak of this other man who by a trick forces his way into yer lodgings and yer affections, learns yer family secrets and mine, reads yer letters and mine, makes love to his own brother's wife behind his back, – yer own brother-in-law, mind ye – and then tells one lie after another to make his story good, its time there was a man about the place to protect ye, if ye can't protect yerself – "

"Stop – !"

"No. I've heard you. Now ye'll be listening to me. If Harry isn't man enough to be looking out fer what belongs to him, then I am. Ye've given this man yer heart, acknowledged yer affections before us all. God be praised that's all it amounts to! But when ye hear me out, ye'll be wishing yer tongue had rotted before ye'd made such an admission."

He saw her shrink and he rose from his chair, following up his advantage quickly. "There – there my dear, Ye've almost had enough of trouble for one night – "

"Go on," she murmured stanchly, "but if you're going to speak ill of Jim Horton I won't believe you."

"Ye can do as ye please about that, but I'll be telling ye what I know of him just the same. And when I tell ye I wish I'd shot him dead before yer eyes, I'd only be satisfying the conscience of yer life-long guardian and protector – "

"Conscience! You!" she laughed hysterically. "Go on."

"I will, little as ye'll like it. When I went from here where d'ye suppose I went? To Pochard. And I wrung from him the truth about yer friend Jim Horton. It was Piquette Morin who helped him from the house in the Rue Charron – "

"I know it. I thank God for it."

"It was Piquette Morin who took him back to her apartment in the Boulevard Clichy and kept him there until he recovered."

"I know that too. Go on – "

"But ye didn't know that Piquette Morin was a woman without a shred of conscience or morals, a woman of the streets, who glories in her infidelities to the Duc de Vautrin, whose mistress she is – "

"I care nothing for that," stammered Moira.

"Ye may not care, since Jim Horton has lied about that too, but ye will care about the relations that exist between the two of them."

"I won't listen," said Moira, making for the door. But he barred her way.

"Oh, yes, ye'll listen, Moira dear, and I'll be giving ye all the proofs ye need before I'm through."

"Proofs! I dare you."

"All in good time. If ye'll be patient. Where do ye think I went from Pochard's? To the Boulevard Clichy, where yer precious friend had returned to the arms of Madame Morin – "

She waved a hand in protest.

"I watched the door of the apartment. He came out. I followed, and where do you suppose he went? To the ticket office where he booked a compartment for two – on the twelve o'clock train to-morrow for Marseilles."

"And what of that?" she stammered.

"Merely that yer friend Jim Horton, failing of success with his brother's wife, has decided upon a honeymoon to the Riviera with a lady who is more complaisante than yerself."

"I don't believe it."

"Ye'd find it less difficult to believe if ye guessed how mad she was for him, how handsome she is and how skilled in the wily arts of her sex and trade," he said keenly. "Oh," he said, with a shrug, "it could only have been a great passion that would have dared the rescue from the house in the Rue Charron. And no man remains long ungrateful for such an act of unselfishness."

Moira leaned against the mantel-shelf, staring at him wide-eyed, but he met her look with one more steady than hers, hardy, indignant, but injured and grieved too at her attitude. Skillfully he had baited his hook with a truth that she knew. He saw the fleeting question in her eyes and answered it quickly.

"If ye want the proofs – go to the Boulevard Clichy now." He paused to give the suggestion weight, "Or if ye've no heart to-night for such a brutal encounter – to-morrow – on the train to Marseilles."

He had caught her ear. He knew it by the sudden shutting of her teeth over her words, the proud lift of her chin, the hard look that came into her eyes. And though she answered him still defiantly, her tone had no body in it and trembled with the new uncertainty.

"I don't believe you."

"I don't ask ye to. But ye will believe in the evidence of yer eyes, and I'll be providing ye with that, my dear."

"How you hate him!" she gasped.

He shrugged and turned half toward her.

"Hate? Hardly. I merely despise him. I would have killed him to-night with a clean conscience, knowing what I do." He dropped the cigarette he had taken up and approached her a pace or two. "Oh, Moira, alanah, won't ye see? Is it blind ye are to the truth that lies before yer very eyes – ? Can't ye see that it's the love of ye that drives me to protect yer happiness? Have I ever failed ye, all these years? Haven't I given ye yer share of all I had? Answer me that – aye – even when there was not too much for the both of us?"

"I – I've heard enough – to-night," she said wearily.

"I'm sorry. I – I've done what I thought was the best. I'm still yer guardian – until ye come into yer own – "

"I can't listen to that," she shuddered. "De Vautrin – my father!"

He bowed his head with tragic grace.

"The same – bad cess to him."

She sank into a chair, bewildered and helpless.

"I want nothing – only to go away somewhere alone. I've heard enough."

"That you shall do presently, alanah," he said, touching her gently, the familiar voice close at her ear. "But now you must be going to bed and trying to sleep. 'Tis a cruel day ye've had – cruel! But to-morrow when ye've had some rest – "

"To-morrow – ?" she raised a despairing face.

"Ye've got to be facing it. But no more to-night. Come."

She let him take her by the arm to the door.

"Forgive me, acushla," he whispered.

But she made no reply and left him standing there. And Quinlevin watched her merge into the darkness within, then turned and picked up the cigarette he had dropped, lighted it with great care, and sat and smoked, ruminating over the ashes in the fireplace.

But he had played his cards with the true gambler's knowledge, of the psychology of his victim. Jealousy! Such a weapon at his very hand. It was almost a pity to use it. Poor child. As if she hadn't already suffered enough! But there was no choice. And she would get over it. Love never killed – only hate … only hate. He finished one cigarette and then glanced toward the door through which Moira had passed. Then lighted another and composed himself for awhile longer.

It was not until he was near the end of this cigarette that a slight sound caused him to look up over his shoulder. Framed against the black opening Moira stood, pale, dark eyed, her black hair streaming over her flimsy dressing-gown, and then came forward noiselessly.

"Moira, child – !" he cried, rising, with an air of surprise.

"You must show me the proof – ," she stammered, "what you said – to-morrow."

"Yes. If ye insist – "

"I do. It's a test – of the truth – between you and – and him – "

"I'll provide it. Ye'll leave with me on the twelve o'clock train for Marseilles?"

"Yes – anything."

"Very well," he muttered. "I'll arrange for it. I've some business in Nice. It's just as well if you come along."

"Anything – ," she whispered, shivering and still protesting, "but I don't believe – I don't believe – "

"Go to bed again, child. I'll call ye in the morning."

As she disappeared he turned toward the mantel, hiding the smile of triumph that crossed his lips. Then he leaned for a long while looking into the hearth.

"Poor child!" he whispered. "'Tis a cruel pity, but – " He paused and then turned toward the bottle upon the table, which he raised and examined carefully, then set down with an air of disgust. "The drunken scut!" he muttered, then swore softly below his breath.

* * * * *

What remained of Quinlevin's task was not difficult, for he had already anticipated his success with Moira by making arrangements with Nora Burke and Tricot, Nora to face de Vautrin with her confession and her evidence, Tricot to help him in keeping Jim Horton from reaching the Duke.

By the expression of Moira's face when they met in the studio in the morning, he discovered that his poison had worked its slow course through her veins. Irish she was – all Irish now – slow to love and quick to jealousy – proud to the quick, and capable of a fine hatred when the proofs were brought as Barry Quinlevin intended to bring them. She listened with an abstracted air as he told her that her old nurse, Nora Burke, and a man, a friend of his, were to be the other members of their party. She showed some surprise and then a mild interest, but he could see that to Moira her companions meant very little. She was thinking, brooding somberly over what he had told her, and his air of confidence in his undertaking did nothing to give her courage for her decision. And yet he knew that she would abide by it – a choice between Jim Horton and himself. And he knew already what that choice was to be. For reasons of his own it was important that Jim Horton and Piquette should not see him on the train; nor that Moira should be presented merely with the evidence of the two of them entering the train. The evidence must be condemnatory. He would wait and trust to circumstances.