"Search me, Monsieur. It is your privilege. I am not squeamish."
The Irishman frowned. There was no doubt that what he had proposed had no terrors for a life model. But there were other means at his disposal, to find out what he wished to know.
"I should have remembered your métier, Madame," he sneered. And then, "Our friend Tricot has a long memory. He is not a man who forgets. If you will look at him you will see that this chance meeting is much to his liking."
Piquette did not dare to look.
"It seems," the Irishman went on, "that the betrayal of the secrets of the small society to which you belong is a grave offense."
"I've betrayed no secrets," said Piquette, finding her voice. "No one knows of the affair of the Rue Charron——"
"Except Monsieur Horton, who will tell it when he is less busy——"
"No. He will tell nothing——"
"Tricot is not willing to take that chance. Eh, Tricot?"
"No," snapped the vulture. "Piquette knows the penalty. She'll pay it."