Piquette stirred slightly in her sleep and spoke his name. "Mon Jeem," she muttered, and then settled herself more comfortably against his shoulder. Jim Horton did not move for fear of awakening her, but his gaze passed over her relaxed features and a generous wave of gratitude swept over him for all that she had done for him. What a trump she was! What a loyal little soul to help him with no hope of reward but the same kind of loyalty she had given him. He must not fail her. If there were only some way in which he could help her to happiness. In sleep she was so gentle—so child-like—so confiding. Thinking of all that he owed her, he bent over and kissed her gently on the brow.
She did not waken, and Jim Horton raised his head. Then suddenly, as if in response to an impulse, looked at the small, uncurtained window that let out upon the corridor of the carriage. There, two dark eyes stared at him as though fascinated from a pallid face, the whiter for its frame of dusky hair—the face of Moira Quinlevin. He thought for a moment that the vision was a part of his obsession and for a second did not move—and then started forward, awakening Piquette, for behind the face, in the obscurity of the corridor, he made out another head—and the iridescent eyes of Barry Quinlevin.
CHAPTER XIV
A NIGHT ATTACK
And even as he looked the faces were merged into the obscurity and vanished.
Piquette clung to his arm, whispering.
"I'd such a dreadful dream— Why, Jeem, what is it?"
He started to his feet.
"Barry Quinlevin—there!" he gasped. "With her!"
Her clutch on his arm tightened.