"Enough," muttered Harry sullenly, "from the letters and what you told him in the hospital——"
"He can't go far—" He broke off and then, with a quick change into eager inquiry. "He'd hardly have had time to find the Duc, and if he did——"
"No," said Harry sullenly. "De Vautrin is in Nice."
"Good. Then we'll have time."
"For what?"
"To meet the situation as it should be met. I intend to take a hand in this affair myself."
"What can you do?"
"I'll find a way. There's one thing sure. I don't intend to have the ingenious plans of half a lifetime spoiled by any blundering hay-maker from Kansas City. He's not my brother. I won't have your scruples. And if Moira has learned to be fond of him, so much the worse for her. I asked her to marry you because I didn't want any strange young man to come poking about my affairs or hers. She's a good girl—too good for the likes of either of us. She was never much after the men, being wedded to her art, and I thought you'd do as well as another—that ye'd make good over here and turn out the husband she deserved." He paused to give his words more weight. "Instead of making good—ye've made a mess of it—to say nothing of falling short with Moira. I might have known. But it's too late now for me to be crying over my spilt milk or yours. And whatever happens I'd like ye to know, my boy, that this affair means too much—to be balked for a mere sentiment. If she doesn't love you that's yer own affair. And as for yer brother, Jim—all I say is let him look out for himself."
He had sunk into his chair again, his lips compressed, his eyes closed to narrow slits and his voice, husky a moment ago with his passion, enunciating his words with icy precision.
"But how are you going to find him? Haven't I told you that he's slipped away—lost in Paris? And you know what that means."