"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin. We've got to do something."
"Parfaitement," said Piquette carelessly. "De time 'as come to produce de girl Moira and de papers."
Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes. But she heard him gasp and turned again toward him. But by this time the missing pieces of the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly. It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead child who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for years with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and now the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." And Piquette knew all. Blackmail it was – of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself. And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."
"It mus' be manage' carefully. You are sure de papers are all correct?"
"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."
"Ah, I see – we mus' wait until 'e comes back. But I s'all 'elp you, mon ami. You will rely upon me, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes, I will."
His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on. The charm of the chance encounter was gone. Gamine she might be, and irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was not for him. He had a standard to measure her by.
"You are so triste, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly. "I do not t'ink I like you so triste. What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le Duc an' 'is money? To be young an' in love – "
She caught both of his hands across the table and held them. "You are not yet well, 'Arry. I can see. It is dat for so long you do not know comfort an' 'appiness. Allons! I s'all make you laugh again, until de triste look come no more into your eyes."
He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led into the bar.
"Your frien' who was wit' you – 'e 'as come back again," she whispered.
"Ah – " he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.
"'E wants you to come? C'est embêtant! Sen' 'im away."
"I'm afraid I – " He rose uncertainly and turned. "Wait," he said, "I'll see." And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinately awaited him.
"I've had enough of this," growled his brother. "You come out of here with me or I'll – "
"Don't be a fool. You could see that I couldn't help it."
"You can help it now – "
"All right. We'll have this thing out, you and I – to-night. You meet me at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes. I'll get rid of her."
And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind made up.
"I'm sorry," he said to her, "but I've some urgent business with this man. It can't be put off. But I must see you soon – "
She pouted and rose.
"I can't explain – not now. You won't be cross – "
"It is not – anodder woman – ?" she asked shrewdly.
"Another – ? How can you ask? No. There are no other women in Paris, Piquette."
"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.
"No. It is a matter of importance. Will you let me have your address – ?"
"№ 82 Boulevard Clichy – de same place."
"Good. To-morrow I will write you."
Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, looking about curiously for her enemy of the evening. But Harry had disappeared. She said nothing and they went out into the street where Jim Horton found a cab and put her into it.
"Méchant!" she whispered softly.
"It is not my fault, Piquette. Soon – "
He gave the address to the cocher and she was gone.
Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating fiacre as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowly back, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities of his masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control. Moira – innocent – the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals! How much did she know? How could Quinlevin have carried the deception out all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something? And if, as it seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told? His own duty seemed very clear. Every impulse of honor and decency urged that he find this Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth. But there was Moira … his first duty was to her. But telling her meant revealing the secret of Harry's disgrace and his own part in it. That would be a difficult thing to do, but he would have to do it. He would tell her to-morrow.
As for Harry – he would make short work of him. He went with long determined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with a threatening air.
"What the Hell has she been saying?" he muttered.
Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his own physical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit and cowardice, built in his own image. If earlier in the evening he had had his moments of pity for his brother's misfortunes, if he had planned to make restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing, he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.
As he didn't reply, his brother continued angrily. "You've gone about your limit, I tell you. What did she tell you?"
"Everything. I've got the whole story. And I'd like to tell you before we go any further that you're just about the crookedest – " He broke off with a shrug.
"What's the use? The worst thing I could say would be a compliment. But you've come to the end of your tether. I don't know why I hoped there might be a chance of getting you to go straight – for her – but I did. The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed the impression. The money you took from the estate, your questionable deals in America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but the blackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon – "
Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struck viciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it, tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall where he fell and lay motionless. But he was unhurt – only bewildered by the result of his own incapacity.
"Get up!" Jim ordered. "Somebody will be coming along in a moment and we'll both be going with the police."
Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, still trembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued. The place they had chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one was about, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted street before he resumed his interrupted remarks.
"I don't want any man's uniform when it's been defiled. You ought to have known that. I'm going to take it off and give it back to you."
He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry's face and raised his hand in warning – "But not yet. First I'm going to tell your wife the truth and then I'm going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."
Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of his venture setting in with the terror of this information.
"Jim!" he whispered, clutching at his arm. "You wouldn't do that, Jim. My God! It's ruin to me – and you too."
"I'm prepared for that – "
"Don't, for God's sake don't! Wait. I've met you half way, haven't I? I'll do anything you say. I'll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing. It was his idea – not mine.