Jim Horton turned with a smile.
"It's about time. And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur. I don't mind being shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin's affairs, but I might have been hit—or Piquette might—which would have been worse, and I don't relish having my word doubted—or hers."
"I beg forgiveness. You have been shot at?"
Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin's watery eyes grew larger.
"Mon Dieu! And you say they are coming here?"
"Yes. If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination. I'm afraid you're in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."
De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly.
"I will not see them. I will go away."
Jim Horton nodded. "That's all right—but it's only putting off the evil moment. When they get their evidence working you'll have to meet it, someway. And then what will you do?"
De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the seat beside him. And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of conviction,