What remained of Quinlevin's task was not difficult, for he had already anticipated his success with Moira by making arrangements with Nora Burke and Tricot, Nora to face de Vautrin with her confession and her evidence, Tricot to help him in keeping Jim Horton from reaching the Duke.
By the expression of Moira's face when they met in the studio in the morning, he discovered that his poison had worked its slow course through her veins. Irish she was—all Irish now—slow to love and quick to jealousy—proud to the quick, and capable of a fine hatred when the proofs were brought as Barry Quinlevin intended to bring them. She listened with an abstracted air as he told her that her old nurse, Nora Burke, and a man, a friend of his, were to be the other members of their party. She showed some surprise and then a mild interest, but he could see that to Moira her companions meant very little. She was thinking, brooding somberly over what he had told her, and his air of confidence in his undertaking did nothing to give her courage for her decision. And yet he knew that she would abide by it—a choice between Jim Horton and himself. And he knew already what that choice was to be. For reasons of his own it was important that Jim Horton and Piquette should not see him on the train; nor that Moira should be presented merely with the evidence of the two of them entering the train. The evidence must be condemnatory. He would wait and trust to circumstances.
The thing was simplicity itself. The window into the corridor was like a dispensation. He passed the compartment once or twice to make sure that the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when it grew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head on Horton's shoulder. Then he acted quickly.
"Come," he said to Moira. "It is time I showed you who is the liar."
And resolutely she followed him, looked—and saw.
* * * * *
Nothing seemed to matter to her after that. Incredulity, surprise and then guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton's face in the brief moment when their glances had met. The pretty painted face upon his shoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman's waist, her sudden awakening as he started—all these brief impressions so vivid, so terrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courage to hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. He watched her with admiration. Her heart might be breaking but she'd never whimper now. He knew her.
"Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked.
"Yes. Quite," she gasped.
"And you'll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?"