"'Ave I not tol' you 'e is a man extraordinaire—a man to be watch'—to be fear'——?"
"How did he get her to come?" Jim repeated, as though to himself. "How did he——?"
There seemed no necessity to find a reply to that, for there she was, in the next carriage, perhaps, with this shrewd rascal, whose power and resource seemed hourly to grow in importance.
It was difficult to believe that Moira had listened to Quinlevin, had believed the story he had chosen to tell her, directly after the convincing proof of his villainy, directly after Jim Horton's own plea to save her. What art—what witchcraft had he employed?
The answer came in a shrewd guess of Piquette's.
"Dis was de firs' fas' express to de Mediterranean," she said. "'E knew you would go to Monsieur de Vautrin. Las' night 'e foun' out I would go wit' you."
"But how——?"
"Who knows——?" she shrugged uneasily.
He turned with a frown and examined Piquette with quick suspicion, but her gaze met his frankly. The thought that had sped through his mind was discreditable to her and to him for thinking it. There was no possibility of her collusion with Quinlevin. Her fear of him was too genuine.
"H-m. He arranged things nicely. To show her me with you——"