Moira, a finger to her lips, beckoned her toward the door into Nora Burke's room, when there was another quick knock and Quinlevin entered quickly, followed by another figure.
"Moira, why didn't ye——" the Irishman began, and then his glance passed to Piquette. "Ah—you here, Madame," he frowned with quick suspicion, glancing toward the door into his own room. And then suddenly beckoned his follower in. It was Monsieur Tricot, bent, hobbling, but full of every potentiality for evil.
Quinlevin closed and locked the door behind him, putting the key into his pocket, and then with a muttered injunction to his companion, unbolted and opened the door into his own room and disappeared. Moira had scarcely time to note the villainous look the apache cast in Piquette's direction, when Quinlevin came striding in like a demon of vengeance.
"Ah, Madame Morin," he snapped, "it seems as though I were just in time. What have ye done with the papers?"
The little patches of color upon Piquette's lips and eyes seemed suddenly to grow darker in the pallor of her face; for Tricot's evil face nearby was leering at her, Tricot whose secrets she knew and whose secrets she had betrayed. She was horribly frightened, but she managed to control her voice as she replied steadily.
"What papers, Monsieur? I know nothing of any papers."
"The papers referring to the de Vautrin case. Your papers, Moira, yer birth certificate and the letters which went with it."
Moira stood near the door into Nora's room, pale but composed. And now she spoke bravely.
"Madame Morin has not left this room since she came into it. I know nothing of any papers."
Piquette smiled inwardly. Her embassy had not been entirely without success. But Quinlevin glanced quickly at Moira, suspicion becoming a certainty.