"I was sorry for her—for her innocence, married to a man like that. She was kind to me. I played the part and kept silence. They were going to use her—palm her off as de Vautrin's child——"
He paused and looked up at Piquette, aware that the topic that he had not dared to broach now suddenly loomed between them.
Piquette faced him gravely.
"Yes, mon ami," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.
"I do not know what you wish to do, Piquette, and it is not for me to say. But before I was hurt, I had planned to find out all the facts of this conspiracy and tell both Harry's wife and the Duc de Vautrin. You have given me the facts. Do you want me to use them?"
Piquette was silent a moment, regarding him with a smile.
"Well, mon ami, 'as anyt'ing 'appen' to make you change your mind?"
He looked up at her in wonder.
"Piquette, I thought——" he began. But she broke in lightly.
"You s'all do what you wish, but it is a difficult game you play an' dangereux. You do not know Monsieur Quinlevin. If Tricot is de wolf an' Émile Pochard de fox, it is Barry Quinlevin who is de tiger. 'Arry 'Orton knows. 'E is afraid—what you call—eat out of his 'and."