"Quietly, Madame 'Orton," said Piquette gently, "I 'ave tol' you I am your frien'."
"Go, Madame," said Moira in a choking voice and pointing to the door. "Go."
But Piquette did not move.
"Ah! You do not believe me. It is de trut'. I am your frien'. I am proving it by coming in here—by trying to 'elp you in dis——"
"I do not need your help, Madame. Will you go?"
"Yes, Madame 'Orton. I will go in a minute—when I tell you de risk Jeem 'Orton an' I 'ave run to keep you from making of yourself a fool."
Moira gasped at the impudence.
"What I am does not matter, but what you and Jim Horton are, does. I wish to hear no more——"
"Not even dat Monsieur Quinlevin has got de vilain Tricot, to shoot at us in de train——" Piquette shrugged. "Sapristi! Madame 'Orton,—if we 'ad been kill' you would perhaps t'ink it a proof of friendship."
She had caught the girl's attention, but Moira still demurred.