* * * * *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.The thing was simplicity itself. The window into the corridor was like a dispensation. He passed the compartment once or twice to make sure that the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when it grew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head on Horton's shoulder. Then he acted quickly."Come," he said to Moira. "It is time I showed you who is the liar."And resolutely she followed him, looked—and saw.* * * * *Nothing seemed to matter to her after that. Incredulity, surprise and then guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton's face in the brief moment when their glances had met. The pretty painted face upon his shoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman's waist, her sudden awakening as he started—all these brief impressions so vivid, so terrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courage to hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. He watched her with admiration. Her heart might be breaking but she'd never whimper now. He knew her."Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked."Yes. Quite," she gasped."And you'll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?""I will.""Good. I must be leaving ye for a while to talk with my friend. And don't be distrusting me again, alanah."Moira was silent and gazed out of the window into the darkness until Nora came. And she listened to the tale that Nora Burke told, or seemed to listen, and thus Quinlevin found them later, the girl's hand in that of her old nurse.The announcement that they were to get out of the train at St. Etienne created no astonishment. Moira moved as in a dream, obeying blindly as she had always been accustomed to obey the suggestions of her protector, caring nothing for their significance and reassured as to the integrity of his intentions with regard to herself. There was no doubting that he loved her in his strange way. And the fury he had expended upon Jim Horton seemed scarcely less than that she now felt for him. A man could kill—but a woman could only despise.She was at least thankful when she saw the train bearing the couple pass out of her sight into the darkness, and followed Quinlevin where he led—to a hotel for the night—to another train in the morning, to Marseilles, to Nice, and the Hôtel Ruhl, where in the privacy of a room of her own, she threw herself upon the bed and gazed dry-eyed at the ceiling.CHAPTER XVINORA SPEAKSThe attention of Monsieur de Vautrin having been attracted by Piquette's news of the immediate threat against his fortune, it was no longer difficult to persuade him to listen to what Jim Horton had to say. Madame Thibaud was therefore conducted with scant ceremony to an apartment in the Hôtel de Paris, after which the Duc rejoined Piquette and Jim in the Casino. The unflattering opinion Jim Horton had formed of this French nobleman was, upon closer acquaintance, in no way modified. The peevish and supercilious air with which he had greeted Piquette had changed to one scarcely less unpleasant,—a fidgety anxiety and apprehension which revealed weaknesses of fiber one would not have expected to discover between the points of so long and so imposing a mustache. He gave Jim the impression of being very weary in the pursuit of a will-o'-the-wisp. And in repose, his face bore the scars worn by those who live for pleasure alone. Altogether he seemed a person scarcely worth borrowing so much trouble about. His attitude of suspicion toward Jim Horton was illy concealed, but he listened, frowning and questioning, until at last convinced of the reality of his danger at the hands of the renegade Irish adventurer to whose venial cleverness he had so long paid handsome tribute."But they can do nothing," he said at last in excellent English, with an air of bravado which was meant to be effective, and which was only pitiful."I'm not so sure about that," said Jim, "the mere fact of your having paid for the support of the child for so many years makes it seem as though you believed in the thing.""What do I care? I have the money. Let them take it if they can.""Oh, they'll take it all right, if you don't find some way to meet their evidence.""Lies.""Yes, of course. But you've got to prove that they are. Where's your defense? You didn't even know you had a daughter until Barry Quinlevin told you you had. What proof have you that your own child died? And if you believed Quinlevin then, why shouldn't you believe him now——?""I had my suspicions——""Pardon me. Suspicions won't satisfy an Irish court or a French one. What proof have you that Madame Horton isn't your own child? None? Exactly! But everybody who could have known anything about the matter is dead except Nora Burke, and you've already heard what she has to say.""H—m. And what isyourinterest in this matter, Monsieur?""That's a fair question," said Jim slowly. "I'll give you a fair answer. Madame Horton is my brother's wife. The story I've given you is straight—as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from my brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My interest in this affair is personal to this extent. I don't intend to have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer.""Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me this unpleasantness——""Yes—I've told her," said Jim slowly, "but she's helpless. Can't you see, Monsieur? It has all been very sudden—for her. She doesn't know what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate and the testimony of the nurse.""But if Madame Horton is an honorable woman——""You can count on that," put in Horton quickly. "She doesn't want your money—she isn't Quinlevin's kind——""Then why doesn't she renounce him?""She might—but what difference would that make? She might permit herself to think she was Joan of Arc, but that wouldn't make her any one but Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin, if Barry Quinlevin has evidence enough to prove that she is...."De Vautrin frowned darkly and twitched his jeweled fingers."But she would have something to say about her own desires in the matter," he said."Her own desires haven't anything to do with it. See here, Monsieur de Vautrin—Barry Quinlevin proves her birth by a certificate; he also proves by the nurse that she was the child brought into his house, and the child he has brought up as his ward, bearing his name and accepting your money for twenty-one years—hush money, monsieur, that you paid to keep her out of a fortune you thought belonged to her.""But it doesn't belong to her," cried de Vautrin, gesticulating. "It's mine since the child is dead. Monsieur Harry Horton——"Piquette broke in. "Monsieur 'Arry 'Orton could be call' to the stan' of course, but 'is testimony is not to be relied upon.""Your brother, Monsieur——?""Yes, Monsieur de Vautrin," replied Jim, "my brother—but an intimate of Barry Quinlevin's——""Ah, I comprehend—an accomplice?""You might call him that—if you like." He shrugged and turned aside. "We don't get along, my brother and I, but I don't think you'll find much to gain by putting him on the witness stand. Besides, it won't look very pretty in the papers. It's as much to my interest as yours to keep it out."The Duc eyed him suspiciously again."But you must have some other interest besides this in wishing to help me. What's the ax you have to grind, Monsieur?"Jim Horton grinned and shrugged."For myself—nothing.""That is difficult to believe.""Then I would advise you to tax your imagination to the utmost. I don't want Madame Horton to figure in an affair that she will regret the rest of her life.""But why——?""Monsieur is in love wit' Madame 'Orton——" Piquette's voice broke in very calmly.There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette, Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other in astonishment.His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a situation such as this. But Piquette met his gaze clearly."It is de trut', Olivier," she repeated. "An' now perhaps you on'erstan'.""It is extraordinary," he gasped. "And you two——?""I brought 'im to you. Your interests are de same—and mine, wit' both.""Parbleu! If I could believe it——!"Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if they were real."You needn't believe it, if you don't want to," he said carelessly. "And you don't have to believe my story. But I've given you your warning. Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate and his Nora Burke." He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the door. "I think I'll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly, and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur.""One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what you say is what I wish to believe? It is all very bewildering. I should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."Jim Horton turned with a smile."It's about time. And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur. I don't mind being shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin's affairs, but I might have been hit—or Piquette might—which would have been worse, and I don't relish having my word doubted—or hers.""I beg forgiveness. You have been shot at?"Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin's watery eyes grew larger."Mon Dieu! And you say they are coming here?""Yes. If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination. I'm afraid you're in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly."I will not see them. I will go away."Jim Horton nodded. "That's all right—but it's only putting off the evil moment. When they get their evidence working you'll have to meet it, someway. And then what will you do?"De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the seat beside him. And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of conviction,"I shall fight, Monsieur.""With what?""With the evidence you've given me.""It's not enough."Horton shook his head and laughed."It looks to me as though you were elected President of the Quinlevin Endowment Association.""But there must be some way of getting at the truth," cried the Frenchman, now really pitiful in his alarm."Ah, that's it," laughed Jim. "Youknow Madame Horton is not your daughter andIknow it, but that doesn't beat Quinlevin.""What then, Monsieur?""You've got to kill his evidence.""But how?""With stronger evidence of your own. You haven't it, or any prospect of getting it that I can see. So there's only one course open.""And that, Monsieur?" asked de Vautrin eagerly."To break down Quinlevin's. I'm no lawyer, but that's only common sense. Nora Burke is a liar bribed with five thousand pounds. And there never was a lie that didn't have its weak points. You've got to make her speak the truth——""How?""I don't know. But I wouldn't mind trying. Then you've got to get that birth certificate——""I don't see how you expect to do that.""Neither do I—Quinlevin is no fool, but then he's not super-natural either."The Duc was silent, appalled by the undertaking which had presented itself. And the calm way in which his visitor discussed his projects filled him with wonder."Justice, Monsieur de Vautrin, is on your side. Will you fight for it?""Assuredly, Monsieur—if you will but help."Jim Horton laughed."Then you no longer believe I have an ax to grind?""No—no, Monsieur.""And you no longer cherish evil thoughts of Piquette?""Upon my honor," said the Duc, a jeweled hand at his heart. "And yet, Monsieur, you can hardly blame me for some irritation at meeting her here with you."Jim Horton glanced toward the door significantly. And then dryly, "You hardly deserve her, Monsieur de Vautrin. I am proud of her friendship. It's the finest thing in my life."De Vautrin wagged his head foolishly and then shrugged a futile shoulder."What do you want me to do, Monsieur?" he asked peevishly.Horton lighted a cigarette carefully and took Piquette by the hand."First, Monsieur de Vautrin," he said coolly, "you will send Madame Thibaud about her business——""Monsieur!" said the Duc with a show of dignity."Suit yourself. But she's in the way. This is no time for fooling. Does she go or doesn't she?"De Vautrin's injured dignity trembled in the balance for a moment and then fell away, merged in his apprehension for the immediate future."That can—can doubtless be arranged," he said with a frown."Good," said Horton jovially. "And the sooner the better. It will clear the atmosphere amazingly. Then we will prepare to fight Monsieur Quinlevin with his own weapons.""Yes. You—I—Piquette. That's what we came here for. You've made the mistake of under-rating Barry Quinlevin. He's desperate. He is playing a big game and if you don't want to be the goat you'll do what I advise.""I'm listening.""If I'm not mistaken he will reach here to-morrow afternoon with Madame Horton and Nora Burke. And you've got to see them.""I—Monsieur?""Yes—you—here in your rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. You will give it out that you are here for a week. They must take rooms in Monte Carlo. Then you will listen politely to everything Quinlevin has to say—to everything Nora Burke has to say, but you yourself will say nothing.""But you, Monsieur?""I shall be in an adjoining room, but they must not know it.""But Barry Quinlevin will discover that you have been here.""Of course. You will tell him that. They will tell you that I have lied. But you won't believe them. And then you will tell them that I have gone away.""But when will you come in to my assistance?""That depends upon what I hear through the keyhole.""But would it not be simpler to pay this Nora Burke for telling the truth?"Horton laughed. "It does seem simple, doesn't it? I don't know much about French law, but I wouldn't want to be caught at it out where I come from. Let's play this game straight and trust to luck. If Quinlevin is too sharp for us we'll try something else. Do you agree?""Of course, Monsieur."And so it was settled. On the following morning Madame Thibaud was sent back to Paris. And Piquette and Jim Horton ostentatiously took the train for Nice, returning subsequently by automobile to Monte Carlo, where they were hidden in rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. In this they were aided by an official of the Hotel who proved to be an old acquaintance of Piquette's in Paris. And so when Barry Quinlevin arrived from Nice in the afternoon, with Moira and Nora Burke, inquiring for the Duc, the information was conveyed directly to Horton, who was happy to learn that Tricot had not yet caught up with the party.Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play, seemed to enter into the game with some spirit, and was sent over to the Casino to playtrente et quarantewhere after awhile Barry Quinlevin found him, deeply absorbed in his game of chance. The Duc manifested polite surprise, Quinlevin polite insistence, and then they talked for awhile, the Duc indifferently, Quinlevin impressively,—to the end that an appointment was made for an hour later the following afternoon in the Duc's apartment, where he would listen in all good nature and tolerance to what his visitors would have to say. He hoped his "daughter" was handsome. It would be a pity if all this money was to go to one who could not use it with dignity. All this in an ironic and jocular mood which only brought a dour smile upon Quinlevin's face.But the main object of the preliminary encounter was achieved, for Barry Quinlevin accepted without reservation the Duc's assertion that Jim Horton, having performed his mission, had returned to Paris.When the hour of the appointment arrived, Jim Horton sat behind the door into the bedroom of Monsieur de Vautrin, carefully studying the pages of an English-French dictionary. The Duc sat over his paper with an air of unconcern he was far from feeling. Piquette, at the American's instructions, was elsewhere.Quinlevin, shown to the door of the room by a servant of the hotel, met the Duc with his most amiable smile and introduced the women of his party. Moira was pale, Nora Burke uncomfortable but arrogant."Monsieur de Vautrin," Quinlevin began with something of an air, "permit me to present to ye yer daughter, Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin."The Duc smiled politely, bowed—and stared. Moira, who, as though in duty, had taken a step toward him, paused. And then as she saw the look that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her cheeks. The Duc's rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself. If she were a mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting. This man—this effete boulevardier—her father——? Impossible! And the repulsion she felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere away from the sight of him. What else she had expected, she didn't know, for even Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what would be likely to happen. But there was her mentor at her side, a gentle hand upon her elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the window, which Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather exaggerated gesture of formality."Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into another chair. "Ye're not to be blamed for not flying to each other's arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was to say the least a most trivial affair. But in a while, perhaps, ye'll be knowing each other better and I'm sure, Monsieur, ye'll be finding my ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion.""Ah," said de Vautrin. "I don't doubt that. It would truly be a great pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately——""One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the facts in the matter. Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my ward's choosing. She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty which she owed to the memory of her mother. Many years have passed since yer affairs—er—called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame. She knows that ye've provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could. But the time has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs, and it's my duty to be putting her there. To this end, as ye'll see, I've brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye're already acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like to put to her."Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her feet shifting uneasily."I've heard something of Nora Burke's story," said de Vautrin dryly, "but there are parts of it that I have not heard.""Ye're quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence.""Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I comprehend. But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I have promised to do so. It can do no harm.Allons! Proceed, Nora Burke. My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter was born?""She did, yer Highness——" And, as the woman hesitated——"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin."The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul, faded away before our very eyes.""And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly."Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the priest who gave her Absolution——""And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly."Yes, yer Highness—but the birth certificate I was afther kapin' since no father came near us, nor any relation. Mary Callonby was a lonely kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther her.""And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly."She is.""It's very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die.""All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.De Vautrin shrugged. "Well. What happened then?""Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn't know what to be afther doing, so we just followed the advice of Father Reilly.""And what did he tell you to do?"Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded."In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin—this gentleman here—who lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home. Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' very lonely, he said, his own wife and colleen havin' died a few months before.""That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin.""We thought so—yer Highness—but it was kind of Father Reilly too—for nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin was that grateful—he watched the babby like it was his own——""That's true enough. He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened then?""Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook and me as nurse, bringin' up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin,—alone in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' away to London or Paris on business. But all the whoile I was kapin' the birth certificate an' all the whoile tryin' me best to take the place of poor Mary Callonby.""And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin."I had me wages. It was enough.""And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years afterward, you received more money?"Nora's glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly."I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand—a proper share of the sum for the support of the child. And they agreed to say nothing." He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper. "This, as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child.""And the original?" asked the Duc."Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully."And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked. "Dead also?""Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly. "It's most unfortunate—but her signature can be verified.""H—m. And Father Reilly also. Of course," said the Duc with a quick glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?""Yes," said Quinlevin. "Letters from you—accompanying yer checks—which guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris. The will of Patrick Callonby and a few other trifles which are important to ye.""And you think your case is complete?""Oh, yes, quite. An Irish court won't hesitate very long just at this time in carrying out the provisions of this will."Monsieur de Vautrin smiled. "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked quietly."To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own. Ye know the terms of the will. In the event of the mother dying, her fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child. But she's to be considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father and only daughter. Ye've both formed the habits of yer lives—yerself living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London. Yer daughter is disposed to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the future. She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go on living with me—yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer bachelorhood.""And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table."As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling—we'll say twenty millions of francs or thereabouts—since ye're not a man of business and allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two thirds to you——"Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh."Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily."It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for depreciation.""What do ye mean?""Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and since the war—pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper."There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur.""Of course. I commend you to them. And Nora Burke, who might have told me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be generous.""I've tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her bewilderment."And how much more will you tell when there's no money for the telling?" said de Vautrin, rising.For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim Horton strode quickly into the room.CHAPTER XVIIJIM MAKES A GUESSHorton did not look at Moira and quickly sought out the tall figure of the astonished Irishman, who stood by the table, glaring angrily."What's this, Monsieur de Vautrin?" Le asked."I beg pardon," said Horton quickly, "but my departure has been delayed by the necessity for presenting some evidence which had been overlooked by Mr. Quinlevin.""A trick—Monsieur de Vautrin," stormed the Irishman. "I'll have none of him," and moved toward the door into the corridor. But Jim Horton had reached it ahead of him, and quickly locking the door, put the key into his pocket, turned quickly, his height topping Quinlevin's, his bulk dominating him."I'm afraid you must," said Horton coolly."Must——!" Quinlevin struggled for his temper and then, realizing that he was doing his cause no good, shrugged a careless shoulder and glanced toward the door into the adjoining room."And yercompagnon de voyage? Is she to be with us also?" he said insultingly, for Moira's benefit.Horton met Moira's glance as she took a pace forward toward him."By what right do you keep me here against my will?" she asked in angry disdain.He faced her coolly."By every right you've given me—to act in your interest whether you wish it or not.""I'm quite capable of looking after my own affairs," she cut in quickly.He smiled quietly."If I thought so, I shouldn't be here.""Will you unlock that door?" she asked icily.He did not move and his level gaze met hers calmly. "No, Moira——" he said gently, "I won't.""Oh!" she gasped furiously, then turned her back and went to the window where she stood silently looking down over the garden.Without noticing her further Horton turned toward Quinlevin."You seem to have forgotten your conversation with me in the hospital at Neuilly, Mr. Quinlevin, and the intimate blood-ties that bind me to your fellow-conspirator, Harry Horton."Quinlevin had sunk into a chair in an attitude of careless grace and playing this old gambler's game smiled grimly up into the face of the enemy."Yer talents for the dramatic will be getting ye into trouble, Mr. Horton. I've only to be asking Moira to shout for help from the window to land ye in a jail. But I confess to some idle curiosity as to yer reasons for this behavior. And I warn ye that when ye unlock the door I'll see ye into the prison at Monaco. In the meanwhile I'll tell ye that what ye say will be held against ye.""And what of the evidence I hold againstyou, Barry Quinlevin?""The evidence of a deserter from the American army," Quinlevin sneered. "Let it be brief and to the point, Corporal Horton.""You don't alarm me," said Horton calmly. "I've discounted that. Give me up to the Provost Guard and my brother will go on the witness stand, against me, but against you too, Mr. Quinlevin, in Monsieur de Vautrin's interests." Horton laughed easily as the Irishman refused a reply. "Come. Perhaps it won't be necessary to go so far as that. If your friend Tricot had done his shooting at Marboeuf a little lower neither Piquette nor I would be here to oppose you."Jim Horton saw Moira turn from the window with startled eyes at Tricot's name, but he went on carelessly. "But here I am, and I'm not easy to kill, Mr. Quinlevin. If I came through at Boissière Wood I'm not likely to get hit now. So you'd better listen to me.""I've been doing little else these ten minutes, Mr. Horton," said Quinlevin, yawning politely."I won't waste any more time than I can help, but when you promise Nora Burke five thousand pounds for telling a lie I want to give her her money's worth."He turned to the old woman with a frown as he caught her off her guard but Quinlevin broke in quickly."See here, Horton, I've had about enough of this——"The Irishman rose furiously, but Horton took a quick pace toward him."Keep your hands out of your pockets, Quinlevin," he shouted warningly. "I'm younger than you—and quicker. That's better. And Monsieur de Vautrin, you will please close the window. The interview is apt to be noisy."The Irishman knew that he was no match in physical strength for the American, and so he sank into his chair again, Horton near him in a commanding position where he could watch Nora Burke. He was conscious of Moira's gaze from the corner by de Vautrin. She had not spoken but he knew that he had her attention again."Five thousand pounds for a lie," he said distinctly over Quinlevin's head. "That's true, isn't it, Nora?"But the woman had had time to regain some of her composure after the sudden shock of his first accusation and turned on him defiantly."It is not," she replied. "And the man lies who says it.""Even if it was Mr. Quinlevin himself?" said Horton."Say nothing, Nora," the Irishman's voice broke in quickly. "No one can make you speak.""But when he says——""Silence!"Horton shrugged. "As you please. But she'll have to answer later, and it won't be so easy then. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money——""It's a lie——""Silence!" from Quinlevin."It's a mighty small sum, Nora Burke, for so big a lie."When the woman opened her mouth to speak again Quinlevin silenced her with a gesture. But her face was flushed and she shifted from one foot to the other, glaring at her tormentor, who, it seemed, had just begun his inquisition.Horton smiled at her grimly."It's a mighty small sum, Nora—especially as you're not going to get any of it—unless Mr. Quinlevin has other means at his disposal.""I want no money from Mr. Quinlevin.""Then you're just lying for the fun of it? Do you happen to know what the penalty for false-swearing is in France?""Don't let him frighten you, Nora," interjected the Irishman."It's Excommunication," said Horton, grinning at his own invention.Nora was silent but her face was a study in her varying emotions. She had not bargained for this, and her knees were shaking under her.Quinlevin's laugh reassured her a little."I'm not believin' ye——" she muttered."You don't have to believe me—but you'll wish you'd never left Galway when Monsieur de Vautrin's lawyer gets through with you—and nothing at the end of it all but a French jail.""I never did any harm in me life.""Except to forget to speak the truth. You're getting old, Nora. Maybe that's what's the matter with your memory. Because Monsieur de Vautrin is certain that the facts about the birth of his child are quite different from those you've related. You've said that Mary Callonby's child was this very girl called Moira Quinlevin——?""I did—she was," blurted Nora, furiously."And before she died—that very night—she gave the child a Christian name?""She did.""You're very sure of this?""Nora——!" warned Quinlevin."I'm sure of it. Why wouldn't I——" cried Nora, "when I was hearin' the very words of her tongue.""And the child was a girl?""Yes—a—a girl——"Quinlevin rose, glaring at Horton."Silence, Nora!""Then why," insisted Horton, "if the child was a girl, was it given the Christian name of a boy?""A boy——!"Nora Burke started back a pace, her round foolish face, usually florid, now the color of putty."Nora!" Quinlevin roared. "Keep silent, d'ye hear?"But it was too late to repair the damage done. Horton had not taken his gaze from Nora Burke's face, and he knew that he had struck his mark. He was aware of Moira, who had come forward and was leaning on the table near him, watching as eagerly as he.Jim Horton shrugged and brought quickly from his pocket a small red book, which he opened at a page carefully dog-cared."This little book is a dictionary of French and English, Nora. It's a very good dictionary. Here's a page of Christian names in French and in English. Here you are: Patrice—Patrick. Can you tell me in the name of all that's sensible why Mary Callonby named the child Patrick unless it was a boy?"Nora gasped for breath once or twice, glancing at Quinlevin, who shrugged and frowned."The name upon the birth certificate is Patricia," he growled."Then who changed it?" asked Horton keenly, glaring at Nora."Not I, sor. I—I can't write," she gasped.Jim Horton laughed."It couldn't have been Father Reilly, or Dr. Finucane. Perhaps Mr. Quinlevin will produce the certificate.""When the time comes," gasped Quinlevin, "ye'll see it—in a court of law.""And the death certificate of your own child too, Mr. Quinlevin?" asked Horton amiably."Ay—that too," he stammered in his rage as he faced the American, "but you won't be there to see. For on my evidence you'll be shot, my friend the masquerader.""I'll have to run that chance——"Moira's voice, tense, shrill with nervousness, broke in as she caught Quinlevin by the arm."No, never. You will not dare. I forbid it.""We'll see to that——"The Duc, who at last seemed to have recovered his initiative, came forward with an air of alacrity."Perhaps, Monsieur Horton, it is just as well if you now unlock the door."Horton looked at his wrist watch."Willingly. Oblige me, Monsieur." And he handed de Vautrin the key. "Unless there are some further matters Mr. Quinlevin wishes to discuss."Jim's gaze met Moira's for the fraction of a second and brief as it was, he seemed to find a glimpse of that fool's paradise in which he had lived for a while. And then her glance turned from him to Quinlevin as she moved past Horton toward the door. Nora Burke, her stolidity shaken, her arrogant mien fallen amid the wreck of her probity, sent a fleeting glance over her shoulder toward the long mustaches of de Vautrin and stumbled after Moira.But the Duc was in high feather again and fairly danced to the door."Will you give me your Paris address, that I may send you the money, Mr. Barry Quinlevin?" he shouted after him into the corridor.There was no reply. Quinlevin's clever house of cards had toppled and fallen. But Horton followed down the corridor when they turned the corner and watched what happened. At the landing, the Irishman made a gesture and the two women went in the direction of their rooms, while Quinlevin passed down the stairs.When Horton returned to the room the Duc closed the door and came delightedly toward him."Ah,mon ami. It was as good as a play. How did you know that my child was not a girl—but a boy?""I didn't know it," sighed Horton, with a laugh. "I guessed it.""But you must have——""I got to thinking—last night. The whole story was a lie—why shouldn't this be a part of it?""But a suspicion wasn't enough——""Enough for a starter, Monsieur. You'll admit, itmighthave been a boy. Just because you alwaysthoughtthe child was a girl, that didn't make it one. I lay awake. Phrases in Quinlevin's talk in the studio came back to me and I began to think about the name 'Patrice'—he said, 'a little hard to read. Patricia it is.' Just phrases, but this meant something. 'Female, me boy. A little illegible——'" Horton turned with a quick gesture."Why should the name Patricia be illegible when all the rest was clear?""But you said nothing of this to me," muttered the Duc."I wasn't sure. I sent out for the dictionary. It had the Christian names in the back. Patrice was Patrick. There wasn't any Patricia. You French have a way of giving males and females the same names anyway. Madeleine—I knew a Frenchman in America with Madeleine for a middle name. Aulnoy might be anything——""A family name——""Yes. Your wife wanted your family name in it—but she wanted her father's name too—Patrick—so she called the boy Patrice—we can prove this now, I think.""Assuredly, Monsieur," said de Vautrin, "you are a genius.""No. I'm only a good guesser. But it worked. I got the poor thing rattled. And when I saw Nora's face I knew I'd hit with the second barrel."Outside it was getting dark. Horton went to the window and peered out."Monsieur de Vautrin, there's nothing to keep you here now," he said. "It may be even dangerous to remain. You must go away incognito and by the first train. You've been very careless with your affairs. Lay your entire case in the hands of your lawyer—telling him all that has happened here and sending to Ireland for a careful search of the birth records of the parish of Athlone——""But you, Monsieur. What will you do?""I shall stay here awhile. There's something else that I must do.""And Piquette——?""I will see that she returns safely.""You are very good, Monsieur," said the Duc. "Will you forgive me for my suspicions?""Yes. If you will promise to give Piquette the affection she deserves. She is a child, Monsieur, with great impulses—both good and bad—what she becomes will depend upon your treatment of her.""She has saved me from great trouble, bringing you, my savior——"Horton moved into the bed room and picked up his hat. "Don't let that trouble you," he said, and then offered his hand. "Glad to have met you, Monsieur.Au revoir. I will see you in Paris in a week. But don't waste any time getting out of here.Allez—tout de suite, you understand. Paris in a week, Monsieur."And with a quick wave of his hand Horton went out and walked rapidly down the corridor. The interview with Quinlevin had served a double purpose. He had succeeded beyond all hope in finding out what he had wanted to know; and he had so occupied the Irishman's time that Piquette could proceed unmolested in making an investigation of her own. He hurried up to her room to meet her, as agreed. Watching the corridor, he knocked by a preconcerted signal. There was no reply. After a moment he opened the door and entered. The room was empty.
* * * * *
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.
The thing was simplicity itself. The window into the corridor was like a dispensation. He passed the compartment once or twice to make sure that the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when it grew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head on Horton's shoulder. Then he acted quickly.
"Come," he said to Moira. "It is time I showed you who is the liar."
And resolutely she followed him, looked—and saw.
* * * * *
Nothing seemed to matter to her after that. Incredulity, surprise and then guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton's face in the brief moment when their glances had met. The pretty painted face upon his shoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman's waist, her sudden awakening as he started—all these brief impressions so vivid, so terrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courage to hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. He watched her with admiration. Her heart might be breaking but she'd never whimper now. He knew her.
"Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked.
"Yes. Quite," she gasped.
"And you'll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?"
"I will."
"Good. I must be leaving ye for a while to talk with my friend. And don't be distrusting me again, alanah."
Moira was silent and gazed out of the window into the darkness until Nora came. And she listened to the tale that Nora Burke told, or seemed to listen, and thus Quinlevin found them later, the girl's hand in that of her old nurse.
The announcement that they were to get out of the train at St. Etienne created no astonishment. Moira moved as in a dream, obeying blindly as she had always been accustomed to obey the suggestions of her protector, caring nothing for their significance and reassured as to the integrity of his intentions with regard to herself. There was no doubting that he loved her in his strange way. And the fury he had expended upon Jim Horton seemed scarcely less than that she now felt for him. A man could kill—but a woman could only despise.
She was at least thankful when she saw the train bearing the couple pass out of her sight into the darkness, and followed Quinlevin where he led—to a hotel for the night—to another train in the morning, to Marseilles, to Nice, and the Hôtel Ruhl, where in the privacy of a room of her own, she threw herself upon the bed and gazed dry-eyed at the ceiling.
CHAPTER XVI
NORA SPEAKS
The attention of Monsieur de Vautrin having been attracted by Piquette's news of the immediate threat against his fortune, it was no longer difficult to persuade him to listen to what Jim Horton had to say. Madame Thibaud was therefore conducted with scant ceremony to an apartment in the Hôtel de Paris, after which the Duc rejoined Piquette and Jim in the Casino. The unflattering opinion Jim Horton had formed of this French nobleman was, upon closer acquaintance, in no way modified. The peevish and supercilious air with which he had greeted Piquette had changed to one scarcely less unpleasant,—a fidgety anxiety and apprehension which revealed weaknesses of fiber one would not have expected to discover between the points of so long and so imposing a mustache. He gave Jim the impression of being very weary in the pursuit of a will-o'-the-wisp. And in repose, his face bore the scars worn by those who live for pleasure alone. Altogether he seemed a person scarcely worth borrowing so much trouble about. His attitude of suspicion toward Jim Horton was illy concealed, but he listened, frowning and questioning, until at last convinced of the reality of his danger at the hands of the renegade Irish adventurer to whose venial cleverness he had so long paid handsome tribute.
"But they can do nothing," he said at last in excellent English, with an air of bravado which was meant to be effective, and which was only pitiful.
"I'm not so sure about that," said Jim, "the mere fact of your having paid for the support of the child for so many years makes it seem as though you believed in the thing."
"What do I care? I have the money. Let them take it if they can."
"Oh, they'll take it all right, if you don't find some way to meet their evidence."
"Lies."
"Yes, of course. But you've got to prove that they are. Where's your defense? You didn't even know you had a daughter until Barry Quinlevin told you you had. What proof have you that your own child died? And if you believed Quinlevin then, why shouldn't you believe him now——?"
"I had my suspicions——"
"Pardon me. Suspicions won't satisfy an Irish court or a French one. What proof have you that Madame Horton isn't your own child? None? Exactly! But everybody who could have known anything about the matter is dead except Nora Burke, and you've already heard what she has to say."
"H—m. And what isyourinterest in this matter, Monsieur?"
"That's a fair question," said Jim slowly. "I'll give you a fair answer. Madame Horton is my brother's wife. The story I've given you is straight—as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from my brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My interest in this affair is personal to this extent. I don't intend to have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer."
"Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me this unpleasantness——"
"Yes—I've told her," said Jim slowly, "but she's helpless. Can't you see, Monsieur? It has all been very sudden—for her. She doesn't know what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate and the testimony of the nurse."
"But if Madame Horton is an honorable woman——"
"You can count on that," put in Horton quickly. "She doesn't want your money—she isn't Quinlevin's kind——"
"Then why doesn't she renounce him?"
"She might—but what difference would that make? She might permit herself to think she was Joan of Arc, but that wouldn't make her any one but Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin, if Barry Quinlevin has evidence enough to prove that she is...."
De Vautrin frowned darkly and twitched his jeweled fingers.
"But she would have something to say about her own desires in the matter," he said.
"Her own desires haven't anything to do with it. See here, Monsieur de Vautrin—Barry Quinlevin proves her birth by a certificate; he also proves by the nurse that she was the child brought into his house, and the child he has brought up as his ward, bearing his name and accepting your money for twenty-one years—hush money, monsieur, that you paid to keep her out of a fortune you thought belonged to her."
"But it doesn't belong to her," cried de Vautrin, gesticulating. "It's mine since the child is dead. Monsieur Harry Horton——"
Piquette broke in. "Monsieur 'Arry 'Orton could be call' to the stan' of course, but 'is testimony is not to be relied upon."
"Your brother, Monsieur——?"
"Yes, Monsieur de Vautrin," replied Jim, "my brother—but an intimate of Barry Quinlevin's——"
"Ah, I comprehend—an accomplice?"
"You might call him that—if you like." He shrugged and turned aside. "We don't get along, my brother and I, but I don't think you'll find much to gain by putting him on the witness stand. Besides, it won't look very pretty in the papers. It's as much to my interest as yours to keep it out."
The Duc eyed him suspiciously again.
"But you must have some other interest besides this in wishing to help me. What's the ax you have to grind, Monsieur?"
Jim Horton grinned and shrugged.
"For myself—nothing."
"That is difficult to believe."
"Then I would advise you to tax your imagination to the utmost. I don't want Madame Horton to figure in an affair that she will regret the rest of her life."
"But why——?"
"Monsieur is in love wit' Madame 'Orton——" Piquette's voice broke in very calmly.
There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette, Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other in astonishment.
His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a situation such as this. But Piquette met his gaze clearly.
"It is de trut', Olivier," she repeated. "An' now perhaps you on'erstan'."
"It is extraordinary," he gasped. "And you two——?"
"I brought 'im to you. Your interests are de same—and mine, wit' both."
"Parbleu! If I could believe it——!"
Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if they were real.
"You needn't believe it, if you don't want to," he said carelessly. "And you don't have to believe my story. But I've given you your warning. Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate and his Nora Burke." He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the door. "I think I'll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly, and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur."
"One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what you say is what I wish to believe? It is all very bewildering. I should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."
Jim Horton turned with a smile.
"It's about time. And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur. I don't mind being shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin's affairs, but I might have been hit—or Piquette might—which would have been worse, and I don't relish having my word doubted—or hers."
"I beg forgiveness. You have been shot at?"
Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin's watery eyes grew larger.
"Mon Dieu! And you say they are coming here?"
"Yes. If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination. I'm afraid you're in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."
De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly.
"I will not see them. I will go away."
Jim Horton nodded. "That's all right—but it's only putting off the evil moment. When they get their evidence working you'll have to meet it, someway. And then what will you do?"
De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the seat beside him. And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of conviction,
"I shall fight, Monsieur."
"With what?"
"With the evidence you've given me."
"It's not enough."
Horton shook his head and laughed.
"It looks to me as though you were elected President of the Quinlevin Endowment Association."
"But there must be some way of getting at the truth," cried the Frenchman, now really pitiful in his alarm.
"Ah, that's it," laughed Jim. "Youknow Madame Horton is not your daughter andIknow it, but that doesn't beat Quinlevin."
"What then, Monsieur?"
"You've got to kill his evidence."
"But how?"
"With stronger evidence of your own. You haven't it, or any prospect of getting it that I can see. So there's only one course open."
"And that, Monsieur?" asked de Vautrin eagerly.
"To break down Quinlevin's. I'm no lawyer, but that's only common sense. Nora Burke is a liar bribed with five thousand pounds. And there never was a lie that didn't have its weak points. You've got to make her speak the truth——"
"How?"
"I don't know. But I wouldn't mind trying. Then you've got to get that birth certificate——"
"I don't see how you expect to do that."
"Neither do I—Quinlevin is no fool, but then he's not super-natural either."
The Duc was silent, appalled by the undertaking which had presented itself. And the calm way in which his visitor discussed his projects filled him with wonder.
"Justice, Monsieur de Vautrin, is on your side. Will you fight for it?"
"Assuredly, Monsieur—if you will but help."
Jim Horton laughed.
"Then you no longer believe I have an ax to grind?"
"No—no, Monsieur."
"And you no longer cherish evil thoughts of Piquette?"
"Upon my honor," said the Duc, a jeweled hand at his heart. "And yet, Monsieur, you can hardly blame me for some irritation at meeting her here with you."
Jim Horton glanced toward the door significantly. And then dryly, "You hardly deserve her, Monsieur de Vautrin. I am proud of her friendship. It's the finest thing in my life."
De Vautrin wagged his head foolishly and then shrugged a futile shoulder.
"What do you want me to do, Monsieur?" he asked peevishly.
Horton lighted a cigarette carefully and took Piquette by the hand.
"First, Monsieur de Vautrin," he said coolly, "you will send Madame Thibaud about her business——"
"Monsieur!" said the Duc with a show of dignity.
"Suit yourself. But she's in the way. This is no time for fooling. Does she go or doesn't she?"
De Vautrin's injured dignity trembled in the balance for a moment and then fell away, merged in his apprehension for the immediate future.
"That can—can doubtless be arranged," he said with a frown.
"Good," said Horton jovially. "And the sooner the better. It will clear the atmosphere amazingly. Then we will prepare to fight Monsieur Quinlevin with his own weapons."
"Yes. You—I—Piquette. That's what we came here for. You've made the mistake of under-rating Barry Quinlevin. He's desperate. He is playing a big game and if you don't want to be the goat you'll do what I advise."
"I'm listening."
"If I'm not mistaken he will reach here to-morrow afternoon with Madame Horton and Nora Burke. And you've got to see them."
"I—Monsieur?"
"Yes—you—here in your rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. You will give it out that you are here for a week. They must take rooms in Monte Carlo. Then you will listen politely to everything Quinlevin has to say—to everything Nora Burke has to say, but you yourself will say nothing."
"But you, Monsieur?"
"I shall be in an adjoining room, but they must not know it."
"But Barry Quinlevin will discover that you have been here."
"Of course. You will tell him that. They will tell you that I have lied. But you won't believe them. And then you will tell them that I have gone away."
"But when will you come in to my assistance?"
"That depends upon what I hear through the keyhole."
"But would it not be simpler to pay this Nora Burke for telling the truth?"
Horton laughed. "It does seem simple, doesn't it? I don't know much about French law, but I wouldn't want to be caught at it out where I come from. Let's play this game straight and trust to luck. If Quinlevin is too sharp for us we'll try something else. Do you agree?"
"Of course, Monsieur."
And so it was settled. On the following morning Madame Thibaud was sent back to Paris. And Piquette and Jim Horton ostentatiously took the train for Nice, returning subsequently by automobile to Monte Carlo, where they were hidden in rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. In this they were aided by an official of the Hotel who proved to be an old acquaintance of Piquette's in Paris. And so when Barry Quinlevin arrived from Nice in the afternoon, with Moira and Nora Burke, inquiring for the Duc, the information was conveyed directly to Horton, who was happy to learn that Tricot had not yet caught up with the party.
Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play, seemed to enter into the game with some spirit, and was sent over to the Casino to playtrente et quarantewhere after awhile Barry Quinlevin found him, deeply absorbed in his game of chance. The Duc manifested polite surprise, Quinlevin polite insistence, and then they talked for awhile, the Duc indifferently, Quinlevin impressively,—to the end that an appointment was made for an hour later the following afternoon in the Duc's apartment, where he would listen in all good nature and tolerance to what his visitors would have to say. He hoped his "daughter" was handsome. It would be a pity if all this money was to go to one who could not use it with dignity. All this in an ironic and jocular mood which only brought a dour smile upon Quinlevin's face.
But the main object of the preliminary encounter was achieved, for Barry Quinlevin accepted without reservation the Duc's assertion that Jim Horton, having performed his mission, had returned to Paris.
When the hour of the appointment arrived, Jim Horton sat behind the door into the bedroom of Monsieur de Vautrin, carefully studying the pages of an English-French dictionary. The Duc sat over his paper with an air of unconcern he was far from feeling. Piquette, at the American's instructions, was elsewhere.
Quinlevin, shown to the door of the room by a servant of the hotel, met the Duc with his most amiable smile and introduced the women of his party. Moira was pale, Nora Burke uncomfortable but arrogant.
"Monsieur de Vautrin," Quinlevin began with something of an air, "permit me to present to ye yer daughter, Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin."
The Duc smiled politely, bowed—and stared. Moira, who, as though in duty, had taken a step toward him, paused. And then as she saw the look that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her cheeks. The Duc's rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself. If she were a mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting. This man—this effete boulevardier—her father——? Impossible! And the repulsion she felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere away from the sight of him. What else she had expected, she didn't know, for even Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what would be likely to happen. But there was her mentor at her side, a gentle hand upon her elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the window, which Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather exaggerated gesture of formality.
"Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into another chair. "Ye're not to be blamed for not flying to each other's arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was to say the least a most trivial affair. But in a while, perhaps, ye'll be knowing each other better and I'm sure, Monsieur, ye'll be finding my ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion."
"Ah," said de Vautrin. "I don't doubt that. It would truly be a great pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately——"
"One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the facts in the matter. Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my ward's choosing. She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty which she owed to the memory of her mother. Many years have passed since yer affairs—er—called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame. She knows that ye've provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could. But the time has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs, and it's my duty to be putting her there. To this end, as ye'll see, I've brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye're already acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like to put to her."
Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her feet shifting uneasily.
"I've heard something of Nora Burke's story," said de Vautrin dryly, "but there are parts of it that I have not heard."
"Ye're quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence."
"Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I comprehend. But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I have promised to do so. It can do no harm.Allons! Proceed, Nora Burke. My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter was born?"
"She did, yer Highness——" And, as the woman hesitated——
"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin.
"The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul, faded away before our very eyes."
"And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly.
"Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the priest who gave her Absolution——"
"And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly.
"Yes, yer Highness—but the birth certificate I was afther kapin' since no father came near us, nor any relation. Mary Callonby was a lonely kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther her."
"And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly.
"She is."
"It's very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die."
"All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.
De Vautrin shrugged. "Well. What happened then?"
"Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn't know what to be afther doing, so we just followed the advice of Father Reilly."
"And what did he tell you to do?"
Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded.
"In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin—this gentleman here—who lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home. Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' very lonely, he said, his own wife and colleen havin' died a few months before."
"That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin."
"We thought so—yer Highness—but it was kind of Father Reilly too—for nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin was that grateful—he watched the babby like it was his own——"
"That's true enough. He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened then?"
"Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook and me as nurse, bringin' up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin,—alone in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' away to London or Paris on business. But all the whoile I was kapin' the birth certificate an' all the whoile tryin' me best to take the place of poor Mary Callonby."
"And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin.
"I had me wages. It was enough."
"And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years afterward, you received more money?"
Nora's glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly.
"I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand—a proper share of the sum for the support of the child. And they agreed to say nothing." He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper. "This, as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child."
"And the original?" asked the Duc.
"Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.
De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully.
"And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked. "Dead also?"
"Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly. "It's most unfortunate—but her signature can be verified."
"H—m. And Father Reilly also. Of course," said the Duc with a quick glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?"
"Yes," said Quinlevin. "Letters from you—accompanying yer checks—which guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris. The will of Patrick Callonby and a few other trifles which are important to ye."
"And you think your case is complete?"
"Oh, yes, quite. An Irish court won't hesitate very long just at this time in carrying out the provisions of this will."
Monsieur de Vautrin smiled. "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked quietly.
"To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own. Ye know the terms of the will. In the event of the mother dying, her fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child. But she's to be considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father and only daughter. Ye've both formed the habits of yer lives—yerself living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London. Yer daughter is disposed to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the future. She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go on living with me—yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer bachelorhood."
"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.
Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.
"As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling—we'll say twenty millions of francs or thereabouts—since ye're not a man of business and allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two thirds to you——"
Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.
"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.
"It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for depreciation."
"What do ye mean?"
"Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and since the war—pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."
Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.
"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."
"Of course. I commend you to them. And Nora Burke, who might have told me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be generous."
"I've tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her bewilderment.
"And how much more will you tell when there's no money for the telling?" said de Vautrin, rising.
For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim Horton strode quickly into the room.
CHAPTER XVII
JIM MAKES A GUESS
Horton did not look at Moira and quickly sought out the tall figure of the astonished Irishman, who stood by the table, glaring angrily.
"What's this, Monsieur de Vautrin?" Le asked.
"I beg pardon," said Horton quickly, "but my departure has been delayed by the necessity for presenting some evidence which had been overlooked by Mr. Quinlevin."
"A trick—Monsieur de Vautrin," stormed the Irishman. "I'll have none of him," and moved toward the door into the corridor. But Jim Horton had reached it ahead of him, and quickly locking the door, put the key into his pocket, turned quickly, his height topping Quinlevin's, his bulk dominating him.
"I'm afraid you must," said Horton coolly.
"Must——!" Quinlevin struggled for his temper and then, realizing that he was doing his cause no good, shrugged a careless shoulder and glanced toward the door into the adjoining room.
"And yercompagnon de voyage? Is she to be with us also?" he said insultingly, for Moira's benefit.
Horton met Moira's glance as she took a pace forward toward him.
"By what right do you keep me here against my will?" she asked in angry disdain.
He faced her coolly.
"By every right you've given me—to act in your interest whether you wish it or not."
"I'm quite capable of looking after my own affairs," she cut in quickly.
He smiled quietly.
"If I thought so, I shouldn't be here."
"Will you unlock that door?" she asked icily.
He did not move and his level gaze met hers calmly. "No, Moira——" he said gently, "I won't."
"Oh!" she gasped furiously, then turned her back and went to the window where she stood silently looking down over the garden.
Without noticing her further Horton turned toward Quinlevin.
"You seem to have forgotten your conversation with me in the hospital at Neuilly, Mr. Quinlevin, and the intimate blood-ties that bind me to your fellow-conspirator, Harry Horton."
Quinlevin had sunk into a chair in an attitude of careless grace and playing this old gambler's game smiled grimly up into the face of the enemy.
"Yer talents for the dramatic will be getting ye into trouble, Mr. Horton. I've only to be asking Moira to shout for help from the window to land ye in a jail. But I confess to some idle curiosity as to yer reasons for this behavior. And I warn ye that when ye unlock the door I'll see ye into the prison at Monaco. In the meanwhile I'll tell ye that what ye say will be held against ye."
"And what of the evidence I hold againstyou, Barry Quinlevin?"
"The evidence of a deserter from the American army," Quinlevin sneered. "Let it be brief and to the point, Corporal Horton."
"You don't alarm me," said Horton calmly. "I've discounted that. Give me up to the Provost Guard and my brother will go on the witness stand, against me, but against you too, Mr. Quinlevin, in Monsieur de Vautrin's interests." Horton laughed easily as the Irishman refused a reply. "Come. Perhaps it won't be necessary to go so far as that. If your friend Tricot had done his shooting at Marboeuf a little lower neither Piquette nor I would be here to oppose you."
Jim Horton saw Moira turn from the window with startled eyes at Tricot's name, but he went on carelessly. "But here I am, and I'm not easy to kill, Mr. Quinlevin. If I came through at Boissière Wood I'm not likely to get hit now. So you'd better listen to me."
"I've been doing little else these ten minutes, Mr. Horton," said Quinlevin, yawning politely.
"I won't waste any more time than I can help, but when you promise Nora Burke five thousand pounds for telling a lie I want to give her her money's worth."
He turned to the old woman with a frown as he caught her off her guard but Quinlevin broke in quickly.
"See here, Horton, I've had about enough of this——"
The Irishman rose furiously, but Horton took a quick pace toward him.
"Keep your hands out of your pockets, Quinlevin," he shouted warningly. "I'm younger than you—and quicker. That's better. And Monsieur de Vautrin, you will please close the window. The interview is apt to be noisy."
The Irishman knew that he was no match in physical strength for the American, and so he sank into his chair again, Horton near him in a commanding position where he could watch Nora Burke. He was conscious of Moira's gaze from the corner by de Vautrin. She had not spoken but he knew that he had her attention again.
"Five thousand pounds for a lie," he said distinctly over Quinlevin's head. "That's true, isn't it, Nora?"
But the woman had had time to regain some of her composure after the sudden shock of his first accusation and turned on him defiantly.
"It is not," she replied. "And the man lies who says it."
"Even if it was Mr. Quinlevin himself?" said Horton.
"Say nothing, Nora," the Irishman's voice broke in quickly. "No one can make you speak."
"But when he says——"
"Silence!"
Horton shrugged. "As you please. But she'll have to answer later, and it won't be so easy then. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money——"
"It's a lie——"
"Silence!" from Quinlevin.
"It's a mighty small sum, Nora Burke, for so big a lie."
When the woman opened her mouth to speak again Quinlevin silenced her with a gesture. But her face was flushed and she shifted from one foot to the other, glaring at her tormentor, who, it seemed, had just begun his inquisition.
Horton smiled at her grimly.
"It's a mighty small sum, Nora—especially as you're not going to get any of it—unless Mr. Quinlevin has other means at his disposal."
"I want no money from Mr. Quinlevin."
"Then you're just lying for the fun of it? Do you happen to know what the penalty for false-swearing is in France?"
"Don't let him frighten you, Nora," interjected the Irishman.
"It's Excommunication," said Horton, grinning at his own invention.
Nora was silent but her face was a study in her varying emotions. She had not bargained for this, and her knees were shaking under her.
Quinlevin's laugh reassured her a little.
"I'm not believin' ye——" she muttered.
"You don't have to believe me—but you'll wish you'd never left Galway when Monsieur de Vautrin's lawyer gets through with you—and nothing at the end of it all but a French jail."
"I never did any harm in me life."
"Except to forget to speak the truth. You're getting old, Nora. Maybe that's what's the matter with your memory. Because Monsieur de Vautrin is certain that the facts about the birth of his child are quite different from those you've related. You've said that Mary Callonby's child was this very girl called Moira Quinlevin——?"
"I did—she was," blurted Nora, furiously.
"And before she died—that very night—she gave the child a Christian name?"
"She did."
"You're very sure of this?"
"Nora——!" warned Quinlevin.
"I'm sure of it. Why wouldn't I——" cried Nora, "when I was hearin' the very words of her tongue."
"And the child was a girl?"
"Yes—a—a girl——"
Quinlevin rose, glaring at Horton.
"Silence, Nora!"
"Then why," insisted Horton, "if the child was a girl, was it given the Christian name of a boy?"
"A boy——!"
Nora Burke started back a pace, her round foolish face, usually florid, now the color of putty.
"Nora!" Quinlevin roared. "Keep silent, d'ye hear?"
But it was too late to repair the damage done. Horton had not taken his gaze from Nora Burke's face, and he knew that he had struck his mark. He was aware of Moira, who had come forward and was leaning on the table near him, watching as eagerly as he.
Jim Horton shrugged and brought quickly from his pocket a small red book, which he opened at a page carefully dog-cared.
"This little book is a dictionary of French and English, Nora. It's a very good dictionary. Here's a page of Christian names in French and in English. Here you are: Patrice—Patrick. Can you tell me in the name of all that's sensible why Mary Callonby named the child Patrick unless it was a boy?"
Nora gasped for breath once or twice, glancing at Quinlevin, who shrugged and frowned.
"The name upon the birth certificate is Patricia," he growled.
"Then who changed it?" asked Horton keenly, glaring at Nora.
"Not I, sor. I—I can't write," she gasped.
Jim Horton laughed.
"It couldn't have been Father Reilly, or Dr. Finucane. Perhaps Mr. Quinlevin will produce the certificate."
"When the time comes," gasped Quinlevin, "ye'll see it—in a court of law."
"And the death certificate of your own child too, Mr. Quinlevin?" asked Horton amiably.
"Ay—that too," he stammered in his rage as he faced the American, "but you won't be there to see. For on my evidence you'll be shot, my friend the masquerader."
"I'll have to run that chance——"
Moira's voice, tense, shrill with nervousness, broke in as she caught Quinlevin by the arm.
"No, never. You will not dare. I forbid it."
"We'll see to that——"
The Duc, who at last seemed to have recovered his initiative, came forward with an air of alacrity.
"Perhaps, Monsieur Horton, it is just as well if you now unlock the door."
Horton looked at his wrist watch.
"Willingly. Oblige me, Monsieur." And he handed de Vautrin the key. "Unless there are some further matters Mr. Quinlevin wishes to discuss."
Jim's gaze met Moira's for the fraction of a second and brief as it was, he seemed to find a glimpse of that fool's paradise in which he had lived for a while. And then her glance turned from him to Quinlevin as she moved past Horton toward the door. Nora Burke, her stolidity shaken, her arrogant mien fallen amid the wreck of her probity, sent a fleeting glance over her shoulder toward the long mustaches of de Vautrin and stumbled after Moira.
But the Duc was in high feather again and fairly danced to the door.
"Will you give me your Paris address, that I may send you the money, Mr. Barry Quinlevin?" he shouted after him into the corridor.
There was no reply. Quinlevin's clever house of cards had toppled and fallen. But Horton followed down the corridor when they turned the corner and watched what happened. At the landing, the Irishman made a gesture and the two women went in the direction of their rooms, while Quinlevin passed down the stairs.
When Horton returned to the room the Duc closed the door and came delightedly toward him.
"Ah,mon ami. It was as good as a play. How did you know that my child was not a girl—but a boy?"
"I didn't know it," sighed Horton, with a laugh. "I guessed it."
"But you must have——"
"I got to thinking—last night. The whole story was a lie—why shouldn't this be a part of it?"
"But a suspicion wasn't enough——"
"Enough for a starter, Monsieur. You'll admit, itmighthave been a boy. Just because you alwaysthoughtthe child was a girl, that didn't make it one. I lay awake. Phrases in Quinlevin's talk in the studio came back to me and I began to think about the name 'Patrice'—he said, 'a little hard to read. Patricia it is.' Just phrases, but this meant something. 'Female, me boy. A little illegible——'" Horton turned with a quick gesture.
"Why should the name Patricia be illegible when all the rest was clear?"
"But you said nothing of this to me," muttered the Duc.
"I wasn't sure. I sent out for the dictionary. It had the Christian names in the back. Patrice was Patrick. There wasn't any Patricia. You French have a way of giving males and females the same names anyway. Madeleine—I knew a Frenchman in America with Madeleine for a middle name. Aulnoy might be anything——"
"A family name——"
"Yes. Your wife wanted your family name in it—but she wanted her father's name too—Patrick—so she called the boy Patrice—we can prove this now, I think."
"Assuredly, Monsieur," said de Vautrin, "you are a genius."
"No. I'm only a good guesser. But it worked. I got the poor thing rattled. And when I saw Nora's face I knew I'd hit with the second barrel."
Outside it was getting dark. Horton went to the window and peered out.
"Monsieur de Vautrin, there's nothing to keep you here now," he said. "It may be even dangerous to remain. You must go away incognito and by the first train. You've been very careless with your affairs. Lay your entire case in the hands of your lawyer—telling him all that has happened here and sending to Ireland for a careful search of the birth records of the parish of Athlone——"
"But you, Monsieur. What will you do?"
"I shall stay here awhile. There's something else that I must do."
"And Piquette——?"
"I will see that she returns safely."
"You are very good, Monsieur," said the Duc. "Will you forgive me for my suspicions?"
"Yes. If you will promise to give Piquette the affection she deserves. She is a child, Monsieur, with great impulses—both good and bad—what she becomes will depend upon your treatment of her."
"She has saved me from great trouble, bringing you, my savior——"
Horton moved into the bed room and picked up his hat. "Don't let that trouble you," he said, and then offered his hand. "Glad to have met you, Monsieur.Au revoir. I will see you in Paris in a week. But don't waste any time getting out of here.Allez—tout de suite, you understand. Paris in a week, Monsieur."
And with a quick wave of his hand Horton went out and walked rapidly down the corridor. The interview with Quinlevin had served a double purpose. He had succeeded beyond all hope in finding out what he had wanted to know; and he had so occupied the Irishman's time that Piquette could proceed unmolested in making an investigation of her own. He hurried up to her room to meet her, as agreed. Watching the corridor, he knocked by a preconcerted signal. There was no reply. After a moment he opened the door and entered. The room was empty.