"Oh, we'll see about this." And striding quickly to Nora Burke's door locked it securely. And then to Piquette.
"Ye'll please accompany me into my room, Madame Morin," he said dryly. "Perhaps Monsieur Tricot and I can find a way to unlock yer lips."
Piquette cast an appealing glance at Moira.
"You will let Madame Morin go," pleaded the girl to the Irishman.
"No!" he thundered. "There will be no more trickery here. And ye'll stay here too—under lock and key, until yer new friend speaks."
The two women were helpless and they knew it. Already Tricot's sharp talons had closed on Piquette's shoulder, but with an effort at composure she shrugged him off and entered the door beside which Barry Quinlevin stood, bowing with ironical politeness. Piquette caught just one glimpse of Moira's white face before the door closed between them. Then the key was turned in the lock, the other key also and she sank rather helplessly into a chair, a prisoner.
"This locking of doors is a game that two persons may play at, Madame," said Quinlevin easily, in French. "Our friend, the deserter, locks me in with Monsieur de Vautrin while you rifle my papers, and now I keep you prisoner until they are found. Where are they, Madame?"
His voice was soft, but even in the dim light iridescent fires played forbiddingly in his little eyes.
Piquette was silent, her glance passing about the obscurity as though in search of a resting place. She feared Quinlevin, but more than him she feared the evil shape just beside her shoulder. She could not see Tricot, but she felt his presence, the evil leer at his lips, the bent shoulders, the vulture-like poise of his head and the vengeance lust burning in his little red eyes. For whatever Monsieur Quinlevin owed her, here she knew was her real enemy.
"The papers, Madame," Quinlevin repeated more brusquely.