"Go on. I'm listening."
And slowly, halting here and there for a word or a phrase that would put a better construction on his own share in the affair, he told Quinlevin of the substitution of Jim Horton for himself and of the events that had followed, including his return to Paris and the desperate means he had taken to regain his own identity. Of Moira he spoke nothing, but as the situation was revealed with all its hazards to the success of their intrigue, from an attitude of polite attention with which he had listened at first, Quinlevin became eagerly and anxiously absorbed, interjecting question after question, while his iridescent eyes glowed under his frowning brows and his long, bony fingers clutched his chair arm. By degrees, the full meaning of the revelation came to him—its relation to Harry's future, to the matter of the Duc, to Moira. But as he grew more furious, he grew more pale, more calm, and listened in a silence punctuated by brief questions, to the conclusion of the story, a little contemptuous of the nervousness of his companion, reading below the thin veneer of braggadocio the meanings that the younger man strove to conceal.
"So," he said coolly, "ye've gone and let us all in for a nice mess of broth! Shell-shock! Humph! And ye'll let a man be tearing the uniform off yer very back—winning yer honors for ye."
He rose and stood at his full height, looking down at the figure in the opposite chair. "And Moira—?" he asked.
"He came—here—to this apartment—when he left the hospital——"
"She did not guess?"
"Nor you," said Harry with, some spirit, "since you invited him here——"
"True for ye—I did—bad cess to him." He broke off and took a pace toward the lay figure in the corner and back. And then, "This is a bad business," he said soberly. "And ye don't know where he is at the present moment?"
"No. He got away clean through a passage to the river——"
"You've no idea who helped him?"