There was a sound of a door shutting and in a moment he saw the man in uniform emerge by the gate of the concierge. He walked toward the outcast, his head bent in deep meditation. There was no doubt about its being Jim. With clenched fists Harry barred his way, the thought that was uppermost in his mind finding utterance.
Jim Horton stopped, stepped back a pace and then peered at the man in civilian clothing from beneath his broad army hat-brim.
"Harry!" he muttered, almost inaudibly.
"What are you doing here – in this house?" raged Harry in a voice thick with passion. And then, as no reply came, "Answer me! Answer me!"
One of Harry's fists threatened but his brother caught him by the wrist and with ridiculous ease twisted his arm aside. He was surprised as Harry sank back weakly against the wall with a snarl of pain. "D – n you," he groaned.
This wouldn't do. Any commotion would surely arouse the curiosity of Madame Toupin, the concierge.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Harry," he muttered, "and I'll talk to you."
He caught him firmly by the arm, but Harry still leaned against the wall, muttering vaguely.
"A civil tongue —me? You – you dare ask me?"
"Yes," said Jim gently, "I've been trying to find you."
"Where?" leered Harry, "in my wife's studio?"
Jim Horton turned suddenly furious, but shocked into silence and inertia by the terrible significance of the suspicion. But he pulled himself together with an effort.
"Come," he said quietly. "Let's get away from here."
He felt Harry yield to the pressure of his fingers and slowly they moved into the shadows down the street away from the gas lamps. A moment later Harry was twitching at his arm.
"G-get me something to cat. I – I'm hungry," he gasped.
"Hungry! How long – ?"
"Since yesterday morning – a crust of bread – "
And Jim had been eating goose – ! The new sense of his own guilt appalled him.
"Since yesterday – !" he muttered in a quick gush of compassion. "We'll find something – a café– "
"There's a place in the Rue Berthe – Javet's," he said weakly.
Jim Horton caught his brother under an elbow and helped him down the street, aware for the first time of the cause of his weakness. He marked, too, the haggard lines in Harry's face, and the two weeks' growth of beard that effectually concealed all evidence of respectability. There seemed little danger of any one's discovering the likeness between the neatly garbed lieutenant and the civilian who accompanied him. But it was well to be careful. They passed a brilliantly lighted restaurant, but in a nearby street after awhile they came to a small café, not too brightly lighted, and they entered. There was a polished zinc bar which ran the length of a room with low, smoke-stained ceilings. At the bar were two cochers, in shirt sleeves, their yellow-glazed hats on the backs of their heads, sipping grenadine. There was a winding stair which led to the living quarters above, but through a doorway beside it, there was a glimpse of an inner room with tables unoccupied. They entered and Jim Horton ordered a substantial meal which was presently set before the hungry man. The coffee revived him and he ate greedily in moody silence while Jim Horton sat, frowning at the opposite wall. For the present each was deeply engrossed – Jim in the definite problem that had suddenly presented itself, and the possible courses of action open to do what was to be required of him; Harry in his food, beyond which life at present held no other interest. But after a while, which seemed interminable to Jim, his brother gave a gasp of satisfaction, and pushed back his dishes.
"Give me a cigarette," he demanded with something of an air.
Jim obeyed and even furnished a light, not missing the evidences of Dutch courage Harry had acquired from the stimulation of food and coffee.
It was curious what little difference the amenities seemed to matter. They were purely mechanical – nor would it matter what Harry was to say to him. The main thing was to try to think clearly, obliterating his own animus against his brother and the contempt in which he held him.
Harry sank back into his chair for a moment, inhaling luxuriously.
"Well," he said at last, "maybe you've got a word to say about how the devil you got here."
"Yes," said Jim quickly. "It's very simple. I was hit. I took your identity in the hospital. There wasn't anything else to do."
Harry glowered at the ash of his cigarette and then shrugged heavily.
"I see. They think you're me. That was nice of you, Jim," he sneered, "very decent indeed, very kind and brotherly – "
"You'd better 'can' the irony," Jim broke in briefly. "They'd have found us out – both of us. And I reckon you know what that would have meant."
"H – m. Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he said shrewdly. "It was you who found me – er – sick. Nobody else did."
"We needn't speak of that."
"We might as well. I'd have come around all right, if you hadn't butted in."
"Oh, would you?"
"Yes," said Harry sullenly.
Jim Horton carefully lighted a cigarette from the butt of the other, and then said coolly:
"We're not getting anywhere, Harry."
"I think we are. I'm trying to show you that you're in wrong on this thing from start to finish. And it looks as though you might get just what was coming to you."
"Meaning what?"
"That you'll take my place again. This – !" exhibiting with a grin his worn garments. "You took mine without a by-your-leave. Now you'll give it back to me."
An ugly look came into Jim Horton's jaw.
"I'm not so sure about that," he said in a tone dangerously quiet.
"What! You mean that – " The bluster trailed off into silence at the warning fire in his brother's eyes. But he raised his head in a moment, laughing disagreeably. "I see. The promotion has got into your head. Some promotion – Lieutenant right off the reel – from Corporal, too. Living soft in the hospital and now – " He paused and swallowed uneasily. "How did you get to the Rue de Tavennes?"
"They came to the hospital – Mr. Quinlevin and – and your wife. I – I fooled them. They don't suspect."
"How – how did you know Moira was my wife?"
"Some letters. I read them."
"Oh, I see. You read them," he frowned and then, "Barry Quinlevin's too?"
"Yes – his too. I had to have facts. I got them – some I wasn't looking for – "
"About – ?"
"About the Duc de Vautrin," Jim broke in dryly. "That's one of the reasons why I'm still Harry Horton and why I'm going to stay Harry Horton – for the present."
If Jim had needed any assurance as to his brother's share in this intrigue he had it now. For Harry went red and then pale, refusing to meet his gaze.
"I see," he muttered, "Quinlevin's been talking."
"Yes," said Jim craftily, "he has. It's a pretty plan, but it won't come off. You always were a rotter, Harry. But you're not going to hurt Moira, if I can prevent."
It was a half-random shot but it hit the mark.
"Moira," muttered Harry somberly. "I see. You haven't been wasting any time."
"I'm not wasting time when I can keep her – or even you – from getting mixed up in dirty blackmail. That's my answer. And that's why I'm not going to quit until I'm ready."
Harry Horton frowned at the soiled table cover, his fingers twitching at his fork, and then reached for the coffee pot and quickly poured himself another cup.
"Clever, Jim,"