"Parfaitement, his wife," repeated Pochard. "You did not know?"
"He never told me," she stammered. "Who——?"
"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," said Pochard with a shrug.
"You're sure?"
"As certain as I sit here, ma petite."
Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.
"Go on," she muttered.
"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur 'Orton demanded of his brother to relinquish his identity. He refused. Monsieur 'Orton came to me. It was an act of injustice. Monsieur 'Orton was outcast. Something had to be done. I helped him. Voilà tout."
Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while. As Pochard finished, she searched his face keenly—her frown deepening.
"There's something at the back of this, Pochard. Tell me the rest."