The Splendid Outcast

"Who has testified, Monsieur?"

"Madame Horton."

And in a few words he described the line of procedure which had resulted in the discovery of the part the lay figure had played in the tragedy.

Moira had come to the rescue! Moira – whose eyes, it seemed, had been keener than his own, keener even than those of this veteran detective. And amazement at the simplicity of the device, and the ease with which it had been put into practice, made him dumb.

"It is always so, Monsieur. The mysteries which seem most difficult to solve are always the simplest in conception."

"But Tricot did not invent this crime, Monsieur. The apache is shrewd, but the brain that conceived this plan – "

"I believe you now, Monsieur. But I'm afraid that he will not be easy to catch. He was at Fontainebleau last night and this morning. It was his alibi. When my men reached there, he had gone."

"And Tricot?"

"It is as to Tricot that I wished to see you. We have watched the house in the Rue Charron. Every haunt of men of his type is under observation. I thought perhaps that you might give us a further clue."

"Émile Pochard should know. Pochard in the Rue Dalmon – under arrest he may talk – "

"Good, Monsieur. The help that you give us will make your deliverance the more speedy."

"I know nothing more."

"You understand, it is not possible to release you until the evidence is more definitely confirmed. But I will do what I can for your comfort and convenience."

"Thanks. And for Madame Morin?"

"Yes, Monsieur. She is, I think, now quite contented."

And the Commissaire departed as rapidly as he had entered. Presently Jim Horton lay down at full length on his bed – the first time since he had been shown into the cell. Everything would be right. He knew it. And it was Moira who had come from her retreat at the first news of his trouble and Piquette's to help them. Behind the reserve of Monsieur Matthieu's disclosures he had read that it was Moira's will – her intelligence that had been matched against that of the Commissaire and Barry Quinlevin, her instinct – her faith in him that had drawn her unerringly to the neglected clues. Where was she? Would she come to him now? Or was the hypnotic spell of Barry Quinlevin still upon her? He stared into the darkness, thinking of the tragedy of Moira's life, and the greater tragedy of his brother Harry's. But in spite of the terrible climax of Harry's strange career and his own unwitting part in it, Jim Horton found himself repeating Moira's wild words, "No divorce – but death – "

And this was the divorce that neither of them had wished for nor dreamed of. But Destiny, which had woven the threads of Harry's life and Moira's and his together for awhile, had destroyed the imperfect tissue – to begin anew. In a while Jim Horton slept, soundly, dreamlessly.

The morning dragged heavily and no one came to his cell. It almost seemed that Monsieur Matthieu had forgotten him and it was not until the afternoon that he was again conducted to the room in which his examination and Piquette's had taken place. There he was brought face to face with the Juge d'Instruction, who shook him by the hand and informed him that word had just been received that the apache, Tricot, had been captured and in charge of Monsieur Matthieu was to be brought at once to confront the witnesses. Monsieur Simon informed him that a partial confession having been extracted from Tricot, the case was simplified and that there seemed little doubt that he would be restored to freedom in a few hours. While disposing of some other cases, Monsieur Matthieu showed the prisoner into the inner room, where Piquette had preceded him.

They were both still technically prisoners, but that did not prevent Piquette from springing up from beside her guard and rushing to meet him.

"Oh, mon Jeem!" she cried joyfully. "I knew it could not be for long."

"Piquette! They're going to set us free!"

"Oui, mon brave. An' 'ave you not 'eard? It is Madame 'Orton who 'as make de way clear? Dey capture' Tricot an hour ago in a cellar out near de Porte Maillot. You may know dat I am 'appy. Gr – !"

And she made a queer little sound of repulsion in her throat.

"And Quinlevin?"

"Escape' – gone! Dey cannot find him."

He sat beside her and they talked while they waited.

"What are you going to do, Piquette?" he asked, after awhile.

"Do? Jus' go on living, mon vieux. What else?" she replied calmly.

"I want to help you to get away from him, Piquette – "

"Sapristi! I need no 'elp for dat. Don' worry, mon ami. I s'all be 'appy – "

"Not with Monsieur – "

She laughed rather harshly.

"Oh, la la! You are not de on'y man in de worl' – "

And then, as she saw the look of pain in his eyes, she caught him by the arm again. "You are de on'y man in de worl' – for 'er —mon vieux, but not for me. You t'ink of me? Eh bien. What you say? Forget it. I s'all be 'appy – and free."

At this moment Monsieur Simon entered bringing no less a personage than Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been apprehended as a witness the moment he had returned to Paris. And the details of the affair at Nice having been set down, Monsieur Simon went out to question Tricot, who had just been brought in under heavy guard.

The birth certificate and other papers were still in possession of the Juge d'Instruction, but the Duc had been permitted to examine them and questioned Horton and Piquette eagerly as to what had happened after his departure from Nice. And when he learned the facts, his gratitude expressed itself in a desire to kiss Horton on both cheeks, which Piquette only frustrated by quickly interposing her small person.

"And I, Olivier?" she asked in French with a spirit of diablerie. "What is my reward for helping in the great affair?"

"You, Piquette!" he laughed, "you are as ever my angelic child who can do no wrong. Come to my arms."

But Piquette laughed and tossed her chin.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you are still an angelic child," said de Vautrin. "I shall give you money – much money."

"And if I refuse that too?" she asked.

He started a pace back from her in amazement.

"You would desert me now, ma petite?"

Piquette's face grew suddenly solemn.

"Yes, Monsieur le Duc. We shall make no more pretenses, you and I. I go back to the Quartier where I am free. Perhaps one day I shall marry. Then you shall give me a present. But now – " And she extended a hand, "Adieu, mon ami."

He glanced at her and at Horton as though unwilling to believe what he had heard, then took a pace toward Piquette, his arms extended. But she only smiled at him.

"C'est fini, Olivier," she said quietly.

De Vautrin pulled at his long mustache and laughing turned away.

"À demain, Piquette – " he said confidently.