CHAPTER IXPIQUETTE TAKES A HANDAs Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was agamine. 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 theRive Gaucheand 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 thegrande 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 afiacreand 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 herbel ami, but ...enfin, even in theQuartier, 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 littletriste, 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 afiacre, 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—andparbleu!She started upright as a thought came to her like acoup 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 thecaféwhich bore his name.It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons not of thevrai 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."Hiswife!" 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 andLe 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 andLe Singewill 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 ofthisproblem. 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 theBoule' 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 wasLe 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 orLe Singewere 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'vegotto 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 afiacreand so to the Boulevard Clichy.CHAPTER XTHE SAMARITANWhen 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——""Avoiturean' 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 devrai gamine. I know datvilainPochard 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 andLe 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'hehad 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 theQuartiershe 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.
CHAPTER IX
PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND
As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was agamine. 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 theRive Gaucheand 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 thegrande 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 afiacreand 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 herbel ami, but ...enfin, even in theQuartier, 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 littletriste, 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 afiacre, 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—andparbleu!
She started upright as a thought came to her like acoup 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 thecaféwhich bore his name.
It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons not of thevrai 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.
"Hiswife!" 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 andLe 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 andLe Singewill 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 ofthisproblem. 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 theBoule' 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 wasLe 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 orLe Singewere 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'vegotto 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 afiacreand 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——"
"Avoiturean' 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 devrai gamine. I know datvilainPochard 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 andLe 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'hehad 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 theQuartiershe 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.