"No, Piquette. You shall go."
And impulsively, with the innocence that was a part of her charm, she kissed him fair upon the lips.
"Ah, mon Jeem. You are ver' good to me."
But at Marseilles he armed himself with a new automatic and with the weapon in his pocket felt a reasonable sense of security, at least until they reached their destination.
Piquette was resourceful. And on the train to Nice found the answer to the problem that neither of them had been able to solve.
"De ol' woman, wit' de gray hair," she said with an air of conviction after a long period of silence—"it is Nora Burke."
"By George!" cried Jim, awakening. "I believe you're right, Piquette. Nora Burke! And he's bringing her along to clinch the thing—down here—at Nice."
She nodded. "But we s'all reach Monsieur le Duc firs', mon Jeem——"
Delays awaited them when they reached the Hôtel Negresco. Piquette was provided with the name which Monsieur the Duc chose to use when traveling. Upon inquiry of the polite gentleman who presided over the destinies of the guests of this newest addition to the luxuries of the Promenade des Anglais, they were informed that Monsieur and Madame Thibaud had gone upon a motor-journey along the Cornice Road.
At the information, Piquette laughed outright and the polite Frenchman frowned.