And she did, with a friendly frankness, upon the mouth.
It was a very pleasant sanctuary, this, into which fortune had thrown him, but deep in his heart Jim Horton knew that Piquette had read him truly. He was no panderer to women's caprices, and he could not forget the tragedy of the woman he loved, which might almost be laid at his door.
"You do not mind my keesing you, mon petit?" she asked.
"No. I like it," said Horton with a laugh.
But Piquette knew. Life in the streets of Paris had given her a sense of the fourth dimension. And curiously enough her prescience only quieted her, made her a little graver, matching her mind—her mood to his. He provided a new sensation, this outcast hero who owed her his life and yet was to pay her only in gratitude.
* * * * *
Jim Horton was penniless, for with an irony not lost on him, the money he had gotten from the bank had gone to pay Tricot and Le Singe their price for his knock on the head. The clothing he found himself in had been none too good when Harry had worn it, and the incarceration in the filthy cellar had done nothing to improve it. Outcast he might be, but he meant while he had money in bank at least to look presentable. So Piquette got him a blank check from the bank which he made out and Piquette cashed, and the next day when he was able to go out, he bought himself a suit. He came back in the afternoon and with much pride exhibited his purchase.
She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.
"An' now, mon Jeem, you will be going away, n'est ce pas?"
"Is it not better, Piquette? I have not the honor of Monsieur de Vautrin's acquaintance."