"Piquette Morin——"
"Piquette—?" Her brows drew together——
"A friend of—of your husband's," he said. "It was she who first discovered our dual identity in the Café Javet—a friend of Harry's—who took pity on me."
"The woman—who—who—helped you to escape?" she gasped, awakening.
"Yes. She shared the secrets of this intrigue. And when they knocked me out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and went in through the passage from the river. It was she who took me back to her apartment and nursed me."
"Oh," she faltered. "I—I see. But what reason have you to believe that she speaks the truth?"
He had taken his place by the mantel again. "Unfortunately—I had already proved it by the mouth of Harry himself." He broke off and met her piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn't have cared what they did, if they—if you hadn't been a part of the plan. I would have told you who I was the other night and gone—away.... But it was too cruel. Barry Quinlevin is a strange man. He loves you—perhaps. He wants to see you rich—happy—but he became desperate when the source of his income was cut off——"
"The Irish rents——?"
"There were no Irish rents, Moira. The source of his income, all these years—and yours—has been—the Duc de Vautrin—hush money paid to keep a secret——"
"Holy Virgin—! Then I——?"