The Splendid Outcast

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, it might have been a boy. Just because you always thoughtthe 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.

Piquette was fearless but she was also clever. It was her thought that Barry Quinlevin would take no chances with the original birth certificate and other papers in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin. It was her suggestion that she be permitted to take advantage of the absence of Quinlevin and his party to make a thorough search of the rooms for any private papers. And in this she was aided and abetted by Monsieur Jacquot, in the office of the hotel, to whom she explained as much as was necessary, and who provided the keys and wished her luck in her undertaking.

Jim had allowed her an hour for the investigation, during which period he had promised to keep Quinlevin prisoner. Here then, Piquette reached new heights of self-abnegation, for in helping Jim in the cause of Moira, she worked against her own interests, which had nothing to do with Moira Quinlevin. Jim had opened her eyes to her obligations to Monsieur de Vautrin but she had done her duty merely because Jim had asked it of her. He had kissed her as though she were a queen. She could never forget that.

But in spite of any mental reservations she may have had in doing something in the interest of the girl Jim Horton loved, she was conscious of a thrill of keen interest in the task that she had set herself. And Piquette went about her investigation methodically, waiting on the steps from the upper landing until Quinlevin and the two women had entered the room of the Duc, when, keys in hand, she made her way quickly to the rooms Quinlevin had engaged. There were three of them en suite, with connecting doors, and with a quick glance along the empty corridor she entered the nearest one.

An ancient valise, and a flannel wrapper, proclaimed its occupant – Nora. There might be something of interest here – but it was doubtful, for Barry Quinlevin was hardly a man to leave Nora in possession of any documents that were better kept in his own hands. But Piquette nevertheless searched carefully and for her trouble, found nothing. The door into the adjoining room, that of Madame Horton, was open, showing how quickly and easily an entente had been re-established between Moira Quinlevin and her old nurse.

At the threshold of this room Piquette paused, glancing with a delicate frown at the articles of feminine apparel on bed and dressing stand.

"H – m," she sniffed, scenting the air delicately, her chin raised. "Violette!" Then she approached the bed and took a white garment and rubbed it critically between thumb and forefinger. "H-mph!" said Piquette again. A pair of stockings next – a small slipper which she measured with her own, shrugged, and then searched the suit case and dressing table thoroughly. Of paper there was nothing – not even a post-card.

The door into Barry Quinlevin's room was bolted on the side where Piquette stood. She went back through the rooms that she had passed, to be sure that nothing had been disarranged, locked the outside door of Nora Burke's room as she had found it, and then went back to Quinlevin's door which she opened quickly and peered around. Here there was a field for more careful investigation, a suit-case, a dressing-stand, a bed, some chairs, a closet – all of them she took in in a quick inspection. The suit-case first – and if locked she meant to take it bodily away.

It wasn't locked. She had a slight sense of disappointment. It contained a change of under-linen, some collars, socks, a box of cigars, and a bottle of Irish whisky. All of these she scrutinized with care, as well as the cloth lining and the receptacles in the lid, and then arranging the contents as she had found them, straightened with a short breath, and looked elsewhere. No. Monsieur Quinlevin would have hidden such important papers more cleverly than that. Where then? In a place so obvious that no one would think of looking there for them? That was an ancient trick well known to the police. But after she had looked around the room, she examined the bed minutely, running her nimble fingers along the ticking of the mattress, the pillows, dismantling the bed completely, and then satisfied that she had exhausted this possibility, remade it skillfully.

Next, the dressing-stand, inch by inch inside and out, then the upholstery of the chairs, straightening at last, puzzled. And yet she knew that the birth certificate must be in these rooms somewhere. She moved the rugs, examined the ashes in the fireplace, the base board and molding, took down the pictures from the walls and then, baffled, sank into the arm chair for a moment to think. Could Quinlevin have taken the precaution to leave the documents in the safe at the Hôtel Ruhl in Nice, or would he perhaps have deposited them downstairs in the strong-box of the Hôtel de Paris? In that event Monsieur her friend would help…

But her hour had not yet expired. There were a few moments left. Where else was she to look? She glanced at the picture molding, the walls, the electric light brackets by the bed and dressing-stand, then rose for a last and possibly futile and despairing effort. She ran her sensitive fingers over the bracket by the bed. It was affixed to the wall by a hexagonal brass plate held by a small screw. She tried to move the screw with her fingers but it resisted, so she ran to the dressing-stand for a nail file and in a moment had moved the brass plate from the wall. A patch of broken wall-paper and wires in a small hole – but no papers.

She screwed the plate carefully into place and turned to the other fixture over the dressing-stand. This was her last venture, but she had determined to make it, and felt a slight thrill of expectation when the screw of the first bracket moved easily in her fingers. She loosened the plate and as it came out from the surface of the wall, there was a sibilant rustle and something slipped down behind the dressing-stand to the floor. Eager now with excitement, she thrust her fingers behind the plate and brought forth some papers. These she examined quickly in amazement, then carefully screwed the bracket into its place, recovering the other paper that had fallen to the floor – success! The papers that she had taken from behind the bracket she could not understand, but the paper that she had recovered from the floor was the much desired birth certificate of the dead child. The light was failing, but in the shadow of the hangings of the French window she stood and read the name Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin.

She was filled with the joy of her success and so absorbed in the perusal of the paper that she did not hear the small sounds that came from the adjoining room, nor was she aware of the tall dark figure of the girl with the pale face who for a long moment had stood in the doorway watching her in silent amazement. And it was not until Moira spoke that Piquette turned, the papers hidden behind her, and met the steady gaze of the woman Jim Horton loved.

"What are you doing in this room?" asked Moira steadily.