"Monsieur is in love wit' Madame 'Orton——" Piquette's voice broke in very calmly.
There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette, Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other in astonishment.
His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a situation such as this. But Piquette met his gaze clearly.
"It is de trut', Olivier," she repeated. "An' now perhaps you on'erstan'."
"It is extraordinary," he gasped. "And you two——?"
"I brought 'im to you. Your interests are de same—and mine, wit' both."
"Parbleu! If I could believe it——!"
Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if they were real.
"You needn't believe it, if you don't want to," he said carelessly. "And you don't have to believe my story. But I've given you your warning. Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate and his Nora Burke." He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the door. "I think I'll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly, and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur."
"One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what you say is what I wish to believe? It is all very bewildering. I should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."