Her pulses were throbbing violently, but the terror of her surroundings had passed. And she tried to convince herself that she did not fear Harry.... And yet she hesitated to confront him, fascinated by her discovery.... The brother—Jim—was here—she was as sure of it as though she had seen him. She knew that she must intercede in some way, but she was very helpless. How many were there in this house? And if she revealed herself, would not the warning give them time to carry out whatever plan they had in mind? And so she crouched watching, breathless and uncertain.
She saw him go back to the door and repeat the knock more loudly, cursing under his breath and, calling a name at the key-hole.
"Tricot!" he called. "Tricot! Tricot!"
And in a moment she heard a sound at the door, which was opened a few inches.
"C'est moi, Tricot," she heard Harry say, and then the door was opened wide, giving her a glimpse of a short man with tousled hair and a diabolic face, holding a lantern.
"Oh, Monsieur——" growled the man with the lantern, stepping aside as Harry Horton entered. And just as Moira sprang up, her husband's name on her lips, the door was closed and bolted. She ran to it and then paused in uncertainty, trying to plan what it was best to do. She felt very small, very helpless, for the sight of the villainous looking man with the lantern frightened her terribly. He seemed to typify all the evil in all the world—to explain in a glimpse all that was sinister and terrifying in the disappearance of Jim Horton. An ugly creature of the world of underground, an apache! There were others like him here. And Harry....
There was no time to be lost. Her thoughts seemed to clear, her courage to return as she cautiously returned by the way that she had come—out into the wider street, up which she hurried, turning in the direction of the Boule' Miche'. Her one idea now was to find a policeman,—any one with a vestige of authority. Men she met but she shrank away from them as she saw what they were and what they thought she was. Ten—fifteen minutes of rapid searching without result and she turned toward the Quai and, failing there, over the Petit Pont to the Island and the Prefecture de Police. It was curious that she had not thought of it before. The buildings were dark but she found at last a man in uniform to whom excitedly she told her story. He listened with maddening politeness and at last took her to an office where several other men in uniform were sitting around a stove. More alarmed than ever at the passage of time, she told her story again. Here she seemed to make some impression at last, for an older man, who sat at a desk, finally aroused himself and gave some orders. And in a few moments with two of the policemen she was leading the way back to the Quai St. Michel. She was almost running now in her eagerness so that the men had to take their longest strides to keep up with her, but more than ten minutes had already passed, it seemed an eternity to Moira, and there was still some distance to go.
"What was the name this man spoke at the door?" asked one of the policemen.
She told him.
"Ah, Tricot! Parbleu! I think perhaps, Mademoiselle, that there may be some reason in your anxiety."