"Well, I'm not. He thinks the world owes him a living. But he wouldn't last half an hour out in the country where I come from. He's clever enough, to put it over Moira all these years——"
"Yes, mon Jeem. An' 'e may 'put it over' still—now dat you go from 'er——"
"Perhaps," he muttered, with a frown. "But that doesn't matter. She's not de Vautrin's daughter—or his—I'd take an oath on it. I've got to clear her skirts of this dirty mess. She wouldn't come. They've got her there now—a prisoner. She can't help herself. I can't be losing any time."
He rose suddenly as though aware of the passage of time and took a few paces away from her.
"Not to-night?" said Piquette.
"The first train. I've got to go and find out."
She glanced at the small enameled clock upon the mantel.
"It is too late. Dere would be no fas' express until de morning."
"Very well. I'll see." And he strode toward the door.
"At de Hotel Gravelotte—at de corner you will find out, but wait——" She had sprung up and running out of the apartment, returned in a moment with a soft hat, which she gave him.