"What do I care? I have the money. Let them take it if they can."
"Oh, they'll take it all right, if you don't find some way to meet their evidence."
"Lies."
"Yes, of course. But you've got to prove that they are. Where's your defense? You didn't even know you had a daughter until Barry Quinlevin told you you had. What proof have you that your own child died? And if you believed Quinlevin then, why shouldn't you believe him now——?"
"I had my suspicions——"
"Pardon me. Suspicions won't satisfy an Irish court or a French one. What proof have you that Madame Horton isn't your own child? None? Exactly! But everybody who could have known anything about the matter is dead except Nora Burke, and you've already heard what she has to say."
"H—m. And what is your interest in this matter, Monsieur?"
"That's a fair question," said Jim slowly. "I'll give you a fair answer. Madame Horton is my brother's wife. The story I've given you is straight—as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from my brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My interest in this affair is personal to this extent. I don't intend to have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer."
"Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me this unpleasantness——"
"Yes—I've told her," said Jim slowly, "but she's helpless. Can't you see, Monsieur? It has all been very sudden—for her. She doesn't know what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate and the testimony of the nurse."