The Splendid Outcast

CHAPTER XIV

A NIGHT ATTACK

And even as he looked the faces were merged into the obscurity and vanished.

Piquette clung to his arm, whispering.

"I'd such a dreadful dream – Why, Jeem, what is it?"

He started to his feet.

"Barry Quinlevin – there!" he gasped. "With her!"

Her clutch on his arm tightened.

"Here – impossible!"

"I saw them."

"You dreamed, like me. I can't believe – "

"They were there a moment ago. Let me go, Piquette."

"No," she gasped in a frightened whisper. "You mus' not follow – "

"I've got to – to explain," he muttered.

But she only clutched his arm the more firmly and he could not shake her off, for she held him with the strength of desperation.

"Not now, mon Jeem," she pleaded. "I – I am frighten' – "

He glanced at her quickly and it seemed as if this were so, for her face had gone so white that the rouge upon her lips looked like the blood upon an open wound.

"It is jus' what 'e want', mon Jeem, for you to go after him."

"What do you mean?"

"It would give him de excuse he want' to shoot you – "

"Nonsense."

"Defense personnelle. He knows de law. He will kill you, mon Jeem."

"I'm not afraid. I've got to go, Piquette – "

"No. You s'all not. An' leave me here alone – ?"

"There's nothing to be frightened about on a train full of people – "

He managed to reach the door with Piquette clinging to him and peered out into the corridor. A guard was approaching.

"Ou est ce monsieur et cette dame– " he stammered,

Ollendorf fashion, and then his French failed him and he floundered helplessly, pleading with Piquette to finish what he wished to say.

But the man understood, rattled off a rapid sentence and disappeared.

"It is dat dey have gone into anoder carriage," she translated. "You see. It will be impossible to find dem."

"No," he muttered, but he knew that the delay had cost him his opportunity.

"You mus' not leave me, mon petit," Piquette pleaded at his ear. "I 'ave fear of him. 'E 'as seen us together. Now 'e knows that it is I who 'ave tol' about Monsieur le Duc – I who 'ave 'elp you from de house in de Rue Charron – everyt'ing. I 'ave fear – "

Jim laid a hand over hers and patted it reassuringly.

"Don't worry. He can't harm you."

"I am not afraid when you are 'ere, – " she whispered.

And she won her way. It was the least that he could do for her; so he sat again thinking of the look in Moira's eyes and frowning out of the window, wondering how best to meet this situation, while Piquette clung to his arm and patted his hand nervously.

"We should 'ave watch' for 'im, mon Jeem – at de Gare de Lyon. I don' on'erstan' – "

"Nor I – how he got her to come with him," muttered Jim fiercely.

"'Ave I not tol' you 'e is a man extraordinaire– a man to be watch' – to be fear' – ?"

"How did he get her to come?" Jim repeated, as though to himself. "How did he – ?"

There seemed no necessity to find a reply to that, for there she was, in the next carriage, perhaps, with this shrewd rascal, whose power and resource seemed hourly to grow in importance.

It was difficult to believe that Moira had listened to Quinlevin, had believed the story he had chosen to tell her, directly after the convincing proof of his villainy, directly after Jim Horton's own plea to save her. What art – what witchcraft had he employed?

The answer came in a shrewd guess of Piquette's.

"Dis was de firs' fas' express to de Mediterranean," she said. "'E knew you would go to Monsieur de Vautrin. Las' night 'e foun' out I would go wit' you."

"But how – ?"

"Who knows – ?" she shrugged uneasily.

He turned with a frown and examined Piquette with quick suspicion, but her gaze met his frankly. The thought that had sped through his mind was discreditable to her and to him for thinking it. There was no possibility of her collusion with Quinlevin. Her fear of him was too genuine.

"H-m. He arranged things nicely. To show her mewith you– "

"Parfaitement! It is dat only which made 'er come, mon petit."

"Smooth!" muttered Jim. "And she saw me, all right," he finished bitterly.

Piquette was silent for awhile.

"She is ver' 'andsome," she said at last. And then, "An' she foun' me asleep wit' my 'ead on your shoulder."

"Yes," muttered Jim. "She did."

At the moment he could not think how much his words wounded her.

"I am sorry, mon petit," she said gently.

His conscience smote him at the tone of contrition.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, of course," he said. "There was no hope – for me – none. But it complicates things a little."

"Yes, I comprehend. Monsieur hopes to keep you from reaching the Duc."

"He won't succeed – but I'd rather he hadn't seen me in the train."

"Or Madame."

Jim Horton made no reply and was at once enwrapped in his thoughts, which as Piquette could see, excluded her. And after a glance at his face, she too was silent. The train, stopping here and there, rushed on through the darkness, for hours it seemed to Piquette, and her companion still sat, staring at the blank wall before him, absorbed in his problem. He seemed to have forgotten her – and at last she could bear the silence no longer.

"Mon pauvre Jeem, you love 'er so much as dat?" she asked.

He started at the sound of her voice and then turned and laid his hand over hers.

"I'm a fool, Piquette," he muttered.

"Who s'all say?" She shrugged. Then she turned her palm up and clasped his. "I am ver' sorry, mon ami."

The touch of her hand soothed him. In spite of the danger that she now ran, only half suggested by what she had said, she could still find words to comfort him. Selfish brute that he was, not to think of her!

"Piquette! I have gotten you into trouble."

"No. I got myself into it, mon Jeem."

He made no reply – and sat frowning. The train had stopped again. By contrast with the roar to which their ears had become accustomed, the silence was eloquent as though their train had stopped breathless upon the edge of an abyss. Then small sounds emerged from the silence, a complaining voice from an adjoining compartment, the buzzing of an insect, a distant hissing of steam. Then suddenly, the night was split with a crash of sound and glass from the window was sprinkled over them. Another crash. And before Piquette had realized what was happening Jim had seized her bodily and thrown her to the floor of their compartment, and was crouching over her, while the missiles from outside, fired rapidly, were buried in the woodwork above the place where they had sat.

Six shots and then a commotion of voices here, there, everywhere, and the sound of feet running inside the train and out.

"Lucky I pulled that blind," said Jim as he straightened, glancing at the bullet holes.

"Quinlevin," gasped Piquette as she rose to a sitting posture.

Jim Horton got up and opened the door just as the guards came running with excited inquiries, and seeing Piquette upon the floor.

"Madame has been shot – ?"

But Piquette immediately reassured them by getting up, frightened but quite unhurt.

"By the window – the shots came," she explained quickly in French, while Jim exhibited the damaged paneling. "Some one outside has fired at us – "

They understood and were off again, out into the darkness where there was much running about with lanterns and many cries of excitement, while the other passengers crowded into the compartment and examined the bullet holes, mouths agape.

"Is it the Boches?" asked an excited mondaine of her compagnon de voyage.

"Not unlikely," replied the other.

But Jim Horton knew better. Consideration for Moira's position had kept him silent and inactive until the present moment, but he was angry now at Quinlevin's dastardly attempt at the murder of either or both of them, so nearly successful. And so, when the officials of the train led by a fussy, stout, black-bearded individual in buttons, returned to question him, he answered freely, his replies quickly translated by Piquette, describing Quinlevin.

"A monsieur with a mustache and Imperiale?" echoed the stout official, taking notes rapidly on a pad. "And mademoiselle had dark hair and blue eyes – ?"

"They were of the party of four in the second carriage – ," broke in the guard whom Jim had questioned earlier in the day.

"It is impossible, Monsieur. They left the train at St. Etienne."

"A party of four?" questioned Piquette, astonished.

"Oui, Madame. The two you mention besides another man and an older woman."

"What did the other two look like?" asked Jim, thinking of Harry.

"The old woman had reddish hair streaked with gray – the man was small, with a hooked nose."

"And the man with the hooked nose, did he leave at St. Etienne too?" asked Jim.

"Parbleu, now that you mention it – ," said the guard, scratching his head, "I think I saw him a while ago at the rear of the train."

Jim Horton scowled. "Find the man with the hooked nose, Monsieur," he muttered.

But the fussy official was now shrugging and gesticulating wildly. It was impossible to do anything more. It was like hunting for a needle in a hay-mow. His train was already an hour late. The search would be taken up in the village where they had stopped, but nothing could be done for the present. The train would be thoroughly searched and then they must go on. In the meanwhile perhaps it would be better for Monsieur and Madame to change to a vacant compartment.

Jim Horton protested, but to no avail. And after another wait, during which there were more waving of lanterns outside and more shouts, the train went on upon its way. He had to confess himself astonished at the desperate measures his enemies had taken to prevent his revelations. Who was the small man with the hooked nose? It wasn't Harry, who was tall – and whose nose was straight. But when they were seated in the new place provided for them, a thought came to Jim and when the guard came around again he questioned.

"Was there anything especially noticeable about the small man with the hooked nose?" asked Jim.

"I don't comprehend, M'sieu."

"Did you notice anything curious in the way he walked for instance?"

"No – yes. Now that you mention it, I think he walked with a slight limp."

Piquette and Jim exchanged quick glances.

"Tricot!" gasped Piquette.

"You're sure he is nowhere on the train?"

"Positive, M'sieu. We have searched everywhere."

It was with a feeling of some security therefore that Jim settled himself again and tried to make Piquette comfortable for the remainder of the journey. Neither of them felt like sleeping now and they talked eagerly of the extraordinary happening. There seemed no reason to doubt that their assailant was Tricot and that the clever brain of Quinlevin had planned the whole affair. There was no doubt either that Quinlevin had told the apache of Piquette's part in the affair of the Rue Charron and that the shots were intended as much for Piquette as for him. This was the danger in the path of those who betrayed the secrets of the underworld. But Piquette having recovered from her fright was now again quite composed.

"It's very clear why Monsieur Quinlevin left the train at St. Etienne with Madame."

"He was afraid she would make trouble."

"Yes, mon Jeem. Also, 'e t'ought Tricot would have success." She caught his hand and held it a moment. "'E would 'ave kill' me if you 'adn' push' me on de floor."

"Pretty clever, sizing us up like that, then letting Tricot do his dirty work. He didn't think I'd see him. But we know what we're up against now. And they'll waste no time in following. I've got to get a 'gun' somewhere, that's sure, and you've got to stop at Marseilles."

"At Marseilles?"

He nodded. "I'm not going to let you run your head any further into this noose. You see what the danger is – "

But Piquette only smiled.

"I knew what de danger was when I offer'd to come, mon ami. I'm not going to stay at Marseilles. I'm going on wit' you, as I promis'."

"But, Piquette – "

She put her fingers over his lips.

"You do not know my great force of mind. Besides," she added, "dey cannot catch us now."

"I can't have you running any more risks," he muttered.

"I s'all run de risk you run, mon Jeem."

He smiled at her gently. There was something animal-like in her devotion.

In the dusk of the soft illumination from above, the shadows at her eyes and lips seemed more than ever wistful and pathetic.

"Why do you dare all this for me, Piquette?"

"Why should I not tell you?" she said gently. "It makes no difference to you, but I t'ink I should like you to know. It is because I love you, mon Jeem."

"Piquette!"

"It's true, mon ami. It 'as never 'appen to me before. Dat's why I know… No, mon Jeem. It is not necessaire for you to make believe. Voila! You can 'old my 'and. So. But I want you to know. It was from de firs' – at Javet's – 'Ow else should I 'ave care' enough to go find you in de Rue Charron? 'Ow else would I care enough to fin' out de difference between you an' 'Arry?" She took a long breath before she went on. "It did not take me long, I assure you – for you, mon ami, were de man I was to love an' 'Arry – " she paused painfully. "'Arry was jus' a mistake."

"I – I'm not what you think I am, Piquette," he broke in awkwardly.

"Let me finish, mon ami," she said with a wave of the hand. "Confession is good for de soul, dey say. I want you to know about me. I am on'y what de bon Dieumake me – a gamine. If 'E wish' me to be fille honnête, 'E would not make a gamine. C'est la destinée."

"Don't, Piquette. I know."

"Mos' men are si bête– always de same. Dey talk of love – Pouf! I know. Toujours la chair… But you —mon ami– " She held her breath and then gasped gently. "You touch' me gently – wit' respec', like I was a queen – you kiss me on de brows – like I was a fille bonnête. Mon Dieu! What would you? Is it not'ing to be care' for by a man clean like dat?"

"I do care," he said impulsively. "Yes – and like that. I'd give anything to make you happy."

She gently disengaged his arm from about her waist.

"Den care for me like dat – like you say you care," she said gently. "It is what I wish – all I wish, mon petitJeem."

He touched her hand with his lips but there seemed nothing to say.

"C'est bien," whispered Piquette with a smile. "I t'ink you 'ave taught me somet'ing, mon Jeem – "

"As you've taught me," he blurted out, "but I won't lie to you, Piquette."

"Dat is as it mus' be. An' now we on'erstan' each oder. I am ver' content."

Jim Horton, from embarrassment at the astonishing confession, began to understand its motive and sat silent, Piquette's hand in his, aware of the bond of sympathy between them.

"It's a queer world, Piquette," he said at last, with a dry laugh. "I care for somebody I can't have – you care for me – why, God knows. I've made a fine mess of things and will probably go on making a mess of things —herlife, mine, yours – when you and I might have hit it off from the beginning."

"No, mon Jeem, you were not for me."

"Piquette!"

She caught his hand in both of her own and with one of her swift transitions from the womanly to the child-like she pleaded.

"An' now you will not 'ide me away in Marseilles?"

He smiled at her earnestness and it wasn't in his heart any longer to refuse her.

"No, Piquette. You shall go."

And impulsively, with the innocence that was a part of her charm, she kissed him fair upon the lips.

"Ah, mon Jeem. You are ver' good to me."

But at Marseilles he armed himself with a new automatic and with the weapon in his pocket felt a reasonable sense of security, at least until they reached their destination.

Piquette was resourceful. And on the train to Nice found the answer to the problem that neither of them had been able to solve.

"De ol' woman, wit' de gray hair," she said with an air of conviction after a long period of silence – "it is Nora Burke."

"By George!" cried Jim, awakening. "I believe you're right, Piquette. Nora Burke! And he's bringing her along to clinch the thing – down here – at Nice."

She nodded. "But we s'all reach Monsieur le Duc firs', mon Jeem – "

Delays awaited them when they reached the Hôtel Negresco. Piquette was provided with the name which Monsieur the Duc chose to use when traveling. Upon inquiry of the polite gentleman who presided over the destinies of the guests of this newest addition to the luxuries of the Promenade des Anglais, they were informed that Monsieur and Madame Thibaud had gone upon a motor-journey along the Cornice Road.

At the information, Piquette laughed outright and the polite Frenchman frowned.

"Is there anything so extraordinary in a motor-trip with Madame?" he asked frigidly.

"No – nothing, Monsieur," she replied and laughed again. But Jim Horton understood. Monsieur the Duc was relieving Piquette of a great moral responsibility.

They were shown adjoining rooms where they removed the traces of their journey, and then met for dinner, when they held a consultation as to their future plans. If Monsieur the Duc had gone on a motor-trip he might be back that night, or he might be away for a week. They found that Monsieur and Madame had taken only a suitcase and the chances were that they would return to the Negresco by the morrow. But time was precious – and it would not be long before Quinlevin and his queerly assorted company would be arriving in Nice, ready in some nefarious way to interfere with their plans. And so after dinner they took the train for Monte Carlo, hoping that de Vautrin's weakness for gaming would have led him to that earthly paradise of loveliness and iniquity.

It was late when they reached there, but Piquette had made no mistake, for they found their man at the tables, so deeply engrossed that he did not notice their approach or even look up when Piquette, ignoring the wonderfully accoutered lady at his side, addressed him in her most mellifluous tone.

Jim Horton took him in with a quick glance of appraisal – a man still in his fifties, about the age of Barry Quinlevin, but smaller, with a thin nose, sharp, black eyes, a bald head, and a dyed mustache waxed to long points. And the hands upon the green baize of the table wore large rings, one set with a ruby, the other with an emerald. That he was losing some money was indicated by the pucker of his bushy eyebrows and the nervous tapping of his jeweled fingers upon the cloth.

It was not until Piquette had spoken his Christian name several times that he seemed to hear and then looked up, his face a cloud of impatience and ill-temper.

"It is I, Olivier," she repeated – "Piquette."

"You – Madame!" he said with a glance at his companion.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette coolly, "and it seems that I've brought you luck," for at that moment a pile of gold and bank notes was swept in his direction.

"Ah – perhaps," he said confusedly. And then, "But it isn't possible. I was told that you were coming. I can't see you or this monsieur who comes with you. Go away if you please."

His attitude was uncompromising, his announcement bewildering, but Piquette was undismayed.

"The red, Monsieur," she said calmly, and before he could prevent, shoved a pile of the gold coins upon the color. And the Duc, aghast at her impudence, sat for a moment scowling at his pile of money, the gambler in him arrested by the fascinating click of the little ball.

"Red wins," announced Piquette, echoing the croupier. "You see, Monsieur, it will be wise for you to treat me with more politeness."

And as he still sat as though fascinated by the turn of his fortune, and made no motion to prevent her, she put all the money she had won for him on the black. Black won and Piquette laughed gayly, while the woman beside de Vautrin sat in silence.

"It does not do to venture here with strange Goddesses."

She glanced rather scornfully at the Duc's companion and straightened.

"Again, Madame," muttered de Vautrin, "the wheel runs for you."

"I have finished," said Piquette firmly. "It is enough."

"No," growled the Duc, thrusting his winnings again upon the black.

"You will lose," said Piquette calmly, watching the leaping of the little ball. He did – all that she had won for him. He tried again, lost more, then turned on her with a frown.

"Sacré– " he began.

"Sh – ," she silenced. "Allons. I did not come to interfere with your games, but if Madame Thibaud will permit us – " and she smiled with diabolical irony at de Vautrin's companion – "I would like to have a word with you at once."

"I will not listen to you – or him." He scowled at Jim. "I know what it's all about. I don't wish to see you."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"Then what do you mean by this? I've come to save you from a great financial disaster – "

"You – ?" he sputtered. "What are you doing here, with this man? It is infamous. I want no more of you. Go."

"No, Olivier. I stay," she said quietly. "You will kindly compose yourself and tell me who has been sending you lying telegrams."

"A – a friend in Paris."

"Ah! What did he say?"

"What does it matter to you what he said?" gasped de Vautrin. "You are in love with this monsieur. Eh bien! Go to him. I don't care. I'm through with you."

"Ah, no, you're not, Olivier," said Piquette, smiling calmly, "not until I'm through with you." And then, soberly: "Don't be a fool. Your petit bleu was sent by Monsieur Quinlevin. He has the best of reasons for not wanting you to see us. Will you listen to me now?"

Quinlevin's name had startled him.

"What do you mean?" he sputtered.

CHAPTER XV

GREEN EYES

For a moment after Jim Horton's departure Moira sat in her arm-chair, her head buried in her arms, more than half stupefied. One horrible revelation had followed another with such rapidity that she was aghast at the complete disruption of all the ties that had made her life. And this last tie – the strongest and the weakest of all – that too had been broken as relentlessly as the others.

She straightened slowly, her face haggard with her suffering, but she did not move from her chair and her fingers clutched its arms fiercely. Her eyes, staring blankly past Quinlevin, were following Jim out into the darkness of the Rue de Tavennes, but her fingers still clung to the chair-arms and her body did not move. It seemed that her limbs refused to obey her will to follow. Then after a moment, she sank down again, crushed, bruised and nerveless.