"I didn't hear anything."
"I've got the fidgets, then. I'd be having to give her up if Monsieur the Duc should take a fancy to her—but ye needn't fear. He won't. He's too self-centered, and well out of it at a million francs. Ah, he'll wriggle and squirm a bit, on the hook, but he'll pay in the end—or we'll gaff him for the whole estate." He stopped and carefully cut the end from a cigar. "D'ye think, by any chance, that Piquette Morin could have done any talking?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because four months ago Monsieur the Duc was in Ireland asking questions."
"Who told you this?"
"Nora Burke. He got nothing from her. She knew which side her bread was buttered on. But that's what made her squeamish when my allowance stopped coming to her."
"I see. And you've paid her something?"
"Yes. And the devil's own time I had getting it together. I'm thinking I've squared accounts with you already in all this business."
But Harry Horton had gotten up and poured himself out a stiff drink of the whisky, which he drained hurriedly.
"I don't like it," he muttered uneasily.