The Splendid Outcast

"No one."

"And in the hall-room?"

"One of the men who had rushed up examined the room and said it was empty. I went in myself also and saw that this was so."

"Is the man who first went into the hall-room here?"

"No, Monsieur le Commissaire. I do not recognize him, the light from the doorway was dim and – "

"All right," said Matthieu. "No matter."

And then,

"And the other door from the apartment to the hallway remained locked all the time?" he asked.

"Yes, Monsieur. No one came out of there. We tried it many times."

"H-m. And you have no theory as to how any one could have escaped from the room under the circumstances?"

"No, Monsieur. It is nothing less than a miracle."

The other witnesses shook their heads in confirmation of the testimony.

"That will do, Monsieur Joubert." And then turning to Horton. "Now, Monsieur Horton, what did you think when you found the body of your brother, when you had positive proof that unless the murderer had jumped from the window to death, he must at that moment have been in the room?"

Horton had courage but he couldn't deceive himself as to the intent of the question. The cord was tightening. He felt it in the looks of those around him, in the frightened breathing of Piquette and in the steady gaze of his questioner, which he met with more and more difficulty. But he managed to answer calmly.

"Think! Why, I couldn't think, Monsieur. I was bewildered, dazed, stupefied with astonishment and horror."

"But you must give me credit for some intelligence," protested the Commissaire. "Since the murderer couldn't have gone out of the door while you say you were breaking in, he must have been in the room all the while."

"There was no one in the room. I searched it."

"That is true," almost screamed Piquette in her excitement. "I was wit' 'im. There was no one."

"Quietly, Madame," said M. Matthieu reprovingly. And then, "Monsieur Horton, when you searched the room, what did you do?"

"What you would have done, Monsieur – I rushed down the stair and gave the alarm, watching the stair and waiting for the police. I am as mystified as you. If I could tell you any more I would do so."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eye-glasses thoughtfully and it was a long time before he spoke. And then,

"Where is Madame Horton?"

"I don't know."

"And Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"I don't know."

"You have no means of helping me to find them?"

"If I had I would tell you."

A pause. And then the Commissaire cleared his throat in an important manner.

"I have a feeling that you are keeping something back, Monsieur Horton. I warn you that you will not make things easy for yourself in making them difficult for me."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Jim, sure that his position and Piquette's had now grown desperate.

"Merely, Monsieur," said the Commissaire with a glance at the dead man, "that blows such as this are not struck by spiritual agencies, that when there is a murdered man there must also be a murderer. Your testimony and that of Madame Morin agree, but then I cannot neglect the possibility that you may have some object in agreeing."

"You believe that I – " Horton broke in in horror.

"I believe nothing until it is definitely proved. I admit that there are many phases of this case which seem favorable to a belief in your story. But there are also some points which from your testimony seem to be – er – incredible. We do not live in an age of miracles. Murders are not committed by spirits who vanish. There was bad blood between you and your brother. You yourself have admitted it. Madame Morin had a suspicion when he came up the stair that the Petit Bleu you received was a trap intended for you – "

"Which my brother fell into," said Horton, in a last desperate effort to clear himself. "Why, Monsieur, you yourself can see how like we are. The blow was intended for me – "

"You are fortunate, Monsieur," said the Commissaire, with a shrug. "And you will have every chance to prove your innocence. But I cannot take the grave responsibility of liberating you. The case must go to the Prefetand will be heard in its entirety, including the many details which have been suggested as to Madame Horton and Monsieur Quinlevin. I am only sent here to investigate the case in its physical aspects. And the result of the investigation is to place you and Madame Morin under arrest."

Horton straightened and glanced around at the others in the room. They had ceased to have personalities. They looked like wax images – staring at him in wonder, in curiosity, as though he were already condemned. From them his glance found Piquette. Her face was white and she was staring at the Commissaire as though she could not believe the evidence of her ears.

"Why, Monsieur, have we not told you – ?" he heard her begin, when the officer silenced her.

"You will have every opportunity to testify to-morrow, Madame."

She sent one glance at him, the gamine in her terrified at the Law as represented in the man before her, and then bewildered, rushed to Jim and caught him by the hand.

"Courage, mon ami," she gasped. "You 'ave on'y to speak de truth."

"I'm not frightened," he said, "but you, Piquette – a prison – "

"It's not'ing – " she said bravely, but he saw that she was on the point of breaking.

"And now," broke in the Commissaire, who had watched this byplay with some interest, "I am sorry that we must be off. Come."

And giving some instructions as to the witnesses to one of the Agents de police who had accompanied him, and taking the revolver which Horton silently offered him, he led the way down the stair, with Piquette and Horton following, policemen at their elbows.

A great crowd had assembled in the street and courtyard below. Horton caught a glimpse of the white cap and whiter face of Madame Toupin at the door of her loge, and then was hurried by a policeman into a carriage which was awaiting them. He saw poor Piquette put into another one and they drove off in the direction of the Prefecture de Police, where he was shown without ceremony into a cell alone to await a further investigation upon the morrow.

He sank down upon the cot, buried his head in his hands and tried to think.

Quinlevin was at the bottom of this – Quinlevin – Tricot. One of them had done this dastardly thing, believing to save their skins and thinking that they were killing him. But how had the murderer gotten away? How? How?

CHAPTER XXIII

ESCAPE

The events in the Hôtel de Paris at Nice, the revelation in Monsieur de Vautrin's rooms, the confession of Piquette Morin and the startling events that immediately followed it were all bewildering. From affection for Quinlevin, Moira had passed through the stages of incredulity, doubt, and reassurance, and then at Nora's downfall, dismay at her own position, and after Quinlevin's brutal treatment of her, aversion and terror. When he turned the key of her door and went with Piquette into his own room, she threw herself into her chair, aware of her dependence upon him, and yet ready to run away and throw herself upon the mercy of the first stranger that she could find. But the sounds that came from behind the closed door fascinated her, the murmur of conversation rising and falling, and then the strange noises, heard indistinctly yet frightful in their significance. The silence that followed, still more suggestive. She shrank upon her bed in terror, shutting her ears with her fingers. Then the renewal of the commotion, as she raised her hands, her terror inquisitive for the worst – the sound of blows, the grunts of men in struggle, and then the falling of a body.