Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

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

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

CHAPTER XXI
THE PETIT BLEU

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

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

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

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

"I'm not sure," said Piquette.

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

"Where, mon Jeem?"

He shrugged. "To America. Where else?"

But she shook her head like a solemn child.

"No, mon petit. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am born, an' if de bon Dieuwill, where I s'all die. As for you, mon ami, all will be well. De vrai gamine is born wit' de what you call – secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."

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

"How, Piquette?" he laughed.

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

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

"Yes. You s'all 'elp 'er, mon ami. I know."

He smiled gently, and then thoughtfully lighted a pipe.

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

"Cassandra?"

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

"An' I guess right too, mon ami. You see."

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

"Silly!" she laughed. "Dat's a good word, mon ami" and then shrugged. "'E will come one day – "

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.

"When did this Petit Bleu arrive?"

"Not an hour ago, Madame."

"You are sure?"

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

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

"Yes, Madame."

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

"Yes, Madame."

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

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

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

"What, Piquette?"

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

"She wants me, – needs me," said Jim, unaware of the pain he caused.

Piquette shrugged.

"I could 'ave tol' you dat at Monte Carlo," she said dryly, "but to ask you to come to 'er – it's different, dat."

"And yet she has done it – "

"De character of Madame 'as change' a great deal in a few days, mon Jeem."

"Something must have happened. Her position! Think of it, Piquette."

"I do. It is mos' onpleasan'. But I t'ink you would be de very las' person she would sen' for."

"Who then – ? Piquette, I – "

She rose, and handed him his message. "You mus' go," she said with a shrug, "an' dere is not much time. But wit' your permission, mon Jeem – " she added firmly, "I will go wit' you."

"You, Piquette!" he stammered dubiously.

But she smiled at him.

"Ah, mon vieux, I s'all not intrude. You know dat, n'est-ce pas? But Madame 'Orton and I, we on'erstan' each oder. Per'aps I can 'elp 'er too. An' where could she go onless to de Boulevard Clichy?"

Jim Horton stood speechless for a moment and then, slowly, "I hadn't thought of that," he muttered.

They dined and then Piquette went to her room to put on her hat, while Jim Horton sat watching the clock which ticked off the minutes before their departure. Of course Moira's appeal for forgiveness was only the weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment – a cry for sanctuary from the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy that he would find in doing her a service. What he hoped was that at last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin. With that he would be content – must be content – for the thing that separated them was stronger than her will or his. "There's no divorce but death." Her words came to him again, the weary tones with which she had uttered them, and he realized again that there was no hope for her or for him. Even if his will were stronger than hers, he must not use it to coerce her.

When Piquette joined him they went forth by a circuitous way toward the Rue de Tavennes. To be certain that they were not recognized they avoided the populous streets and chose narrow by-ways, shadowed and unfamiliar, their coat collars turned up, their hats pulled well down over their eyes, while Horton strode beside her, saying nothing. To see Moira, to speak to her, to take her away from the rogue who had for so long held her in his thrall…

As they turned into the Rue de Tavennes Horton glanced at his watch. It was some moments before the appointed hour. Under a gas lamp, he glanced at Piquette. He thought that she seemed pale, that her dark eyes burned with a deeper intensity, that she was compact of suppressed emotions, as though she were driven forward upon her feet by a power beyond her to control. And something of her tenseness seemed curiously communicated to him. Was it that Piquette knew that the spell that bound her to him was to be broken to-night, that the strange and wonderful friendship that she had found was to be dissipated by a new element. Why had she chosen to come with him – insisted on it even? And the rapt, eager, absorbed look he had seen upon her face made him almost ready to believe that she had in her something of the seer and prophetess at which he had been pleased to jest. He knew that she was "game," physically, spiritually, and that she could walk into the face of danger and suffering to do him a service. It almost seemed as though she had chosen to come with him to-night because it was her final act of self-abnegation, to bring Jim and Moira together – to help the woman he loved to security if not to happiness.

As they neared the familiar gate of Madame Toupin, Horton was conscious of a sense of grave responsibility. It was the same feeling that had come to him there in the trench before the advance upon Boissière Wood, the imminence of great events, the splendid possibilities of success, the dire consequences of failure, a hazard of some kind, with happiness or misery for many as the stake.

At the corner Piquette suddenly caught him by the elbow and held him.

"Wait, mon ami," she whispered. "Wait!"

He looked down at her in surprise at the sudden pause in her eager footsteps.

"Why, Piquette?" he asked.

"I – I don' know, mon Jeem," she muttered breathlessly, one hand to her heart. "I don' know – somet'ing tell me to wait – "

"Do you want to go back?" he asked.

"No, no – "

"What then – ?"

"I can't tell you. Jus' a feeling dat you should not go. I am not sure – "

"But I don't understand – "

"Nor I, mon Jeem," she laughed. "'Ave I not tol' you de vrai gamine 'ave secon' sight? Forgive me. You t'ink I am foolish. But it is 'ere in my 'eart – "

"You do not want me to go to her, Piquette?" he asked.

"Yes. To 'er, mon Jeem. C'est bien. Is it not for dat which I come?"

She hesitated for another long moment, Jim watching her, and then raised her head like some wild creature sniffing at the breeze.

"Allons!" she said. "We shall go now."

He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a moment. The loge was dark and the gate was open. This was unusual, but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood. Two men were chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever known. Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of his overcoat. They met no one. A light showed beyond a transom on the second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe, peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and outlined the rail and baluster.

"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself seemed no more than a whisper.

"I can't see any yet," muttered Jim. And then, as his head came in line with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed.

"Ah! Elle est là," she gasped, falling into her native tongue unconsciously.

Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly. Silence again. Then he put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering curiously over his shoulder, and around the room. The gas-light, turned low, cast a dim light over the room. The corners ware bathed in shadow, and Horton's gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there. The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty. With Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette. It was locked and the key was in the door. It had been fastened from the studio side.

"That's curious," muttered Jim. "She may have gone out for a moment."

"Perhaps," said Piquette.

Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch.

"We're a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered.

"I will go down, mon ami, and ask when she come back," she ventured.

And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them. But Jim Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door.

"I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered. "Eight o'clock. I don't understand – "

"Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis. I am afraid – "

She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her lips.

"Some one is coming," she murmured. "It is – " she paused, listened, and then caught him by the arm. "It is not a woman, – it is a man. Listen."

He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly. The footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor below creaked heavily.

"A man! Who?" he muttered.

"It is what I fear'. We mus' 'ide – somewhere – quick!"

The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them. Tiptoeing over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob. It yielded and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that they could look out. The man was now climbing up the stair and reached the landing. If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim Horton's, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat. And while they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully behind him. Jim Horton had felt Piquette's fingers clutch his arm and questioned in a whisper.

"What is it, Piquette?"

"Your broder – 'Arry," she gasped.

"Impossible. He's at camp – "

"I would swear it – "

"In civilian clothes? He knows better than that." He laughed gently. "You're nervous, Piquette – "

"It's 'Arry, I tell you," she insisted. "I am not mistake' – "

"H-m. It did look like him – but what – ?"

"I doan know. Its strange what I t'ink – "

"But why should Harry come here when Moira sent me – "

"An' what if she did not send you de Petit Bleu?"

"You mean – ?"

"I doan know – "

"That Harry sent it? Why would he want to meet me?" he shrugged. "But it's queer, Piquette. If he's here to worry her again I'll break his head."

"Sh – ," whispered Piquette, calming him. "She mus' go wit' me, mon ami."

He nodded.

"But she isn't there. I don't understand."

"We mus' wait 'ere."

And so they stood at the door, listening for sounds from below. Silence. And then a strange commotion close at hand.

Suddenly Piquette clutched Jim's arm.

"Jeem!" he heard her whisper in sudden terror. "What is it?"

He had heard the same thing too, a faint sound, like a cough, followed by a groan as though some one were struggling for breath. Another pause while they listened again. There was no mistaking it now. Jim Horton had heard the same sounds before from the throat of one of the Engineers who had been horribly gassed. Another groan, then the impact of a heavy body falling.

Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again, again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.

In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man, quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body. And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering gas-jet was that of his brother – Harry.

"Sainte Vierge," came from Piquette in an awed tone. "'E 'as kill' 'imself."

But Jim was bending over the body.

"Impossible. A knife under the arm – in the heart. It's murder!"

He straightened, keenly alert, and searched the room quickly, weapon in hand, thoroughly, aware of its possibilities for concealment. A chair was overturned but the lay figure, the draperies, the easel were undisturbed, and the door into the kitchen was locked, the key on the outside, as before. The thing was unbelievable, and the mystery deepened as he searched. Moira was not here – had not been here – he was sure of it now. This trap, super-natural it seemed, had been set to catch Jim Horton and Harry – God knows how or why – Harry had walked into it.

As Piquette bent over to examine the dead man, Horton hauled her away quickly. He had just wits enough left to know how dangerous was his own position.

"Don't touch anything – this is a case for the police. Come."

And he led the way down the stairs to the second floor, shouting incoherently for help, while Piquette, her tongue loosened, now ably seconded him. And in a moment, it seemed, the entire household appeared in the hallway, while people from the court and from the street came crowding up.

Horton, who knew that there was no possibility of the murderer's escape by the window, stood at the stair on the second floor, guarding it, still bewildered by the mystery, trying to explain while the crowd surged up and a police officer who had been passing, forced his way through. To him Piquette, gathering her courage, explained, telling him briefly what had happened while they had watched from the room upstairs. The police officer went up with Horton and Piquette, and entered the studio, the crowd following to the door, where the policeman commanded them to stop. Then while he questioned Piquette he lighted all the burners and examined the body, then the closet, the windows and with drawn weapon approached the door to the kitchenette. It was still locked, the key still in the door. He turned the key – then locked it again.

"You say you tried this door when you first – entered the room?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette promptly. "We thought that Madame Horton might be inside. But finding it locked we did not go in."

The policeman drew back muttering.

"Most extraordinary!" he said. "There is a door from these other rooms into the hallway outside?"

"Yes."

The policeman pushed a way through the crowd and tried the door from the outside. It, too, was locked.

He turned to the crowd.

"No one came out of this door?"

"No one, no one, Monsieur."

"And this other door?" indicating the hall room.

"There was no one there," said a man who seemed much at home. "One of us went in when we came up the stair and came out saying it was empty. Look! You may see for yourself." And he threw the door open while the officer investigated. He came out more puzzled than ever, rejoining Horton and Piquette at the door of the studio, summoning the man and one or two of the others, with Horton and Piquette, as witnesses, taking the names and addresses carefully.

"This is a case for the Commissaire," he said to them. "You will please wait."