Dimly she heard the door open and shut and the key turned in the lock, while she fought Tricot. But strong as she was, she knew, that she was no match for him. His arms were like steel springs, his fingers like iron. But still she fought, trying to make a commotion that would arouse the hotel. But Tricot had pinioned her in her chair and even the dim light that came in at the open, window grew black before her eyes. She struggled again at the very verge of the gate of oblivion it seemed, choking—choking, when a pain sharper than that at her throat came at her side.
"Be quiet," croaked Tricot's voice at her ear—"or I'll——"
And she obeyed. For death was in his voice and in his hand.
CHAPTER XIX
IN THE DARK
Jim Horton looked at his watch again. He had kept the visitors in the apartment of Monsieur de Vautrin more than an hour. He hurried cautiously down the stairs toward the doors of the rooms occupied by Quinlevin's party. There was no one in sight and so he stole along the corridor, listening. Moira and Nora Burke had entered their rooms. But Piquette would of course be in the room of Quinlevin. No sound. And so he waited for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, hoping at any moment to see Piquette emerge, reassured at the thought that the Irishman at least had probably not yet come up. But the suspense and inaction weighed upon him, and at last, moving quickly, he went down the back stair and so to the office, where he sought out the friend of Piquette, Monsieur Jacquot. But to his disappointment he found that the man had gone off duty for the night and was probably in Nice. Quinlevin, he discovered, had been seen leaving the hotel, so any immediate danger from him was not to be expected.
Jim Horton was plagued with uncertainty. If Piquette had already succeeded in her mission, he couldn't understand why she hadn't returned to her room. Perhaps he had missed her on the way. She might have used the main stair-way, though under the circumstances this would not have been probable. During the day he had managed to take a surreptitious survey of the rear of the hotel where the Quinlevin suite was situated, and it was only Piquette's suggestion to keep the Irishman busy while she searched his room that had dissuaded Horton from an attempt to reach Quinlevin's room from the outside. There was a small portico at the Irishman's windows which, it seemed, possibly could be reached by climbing a wooden trellis and a small projecting roof of an out-building where a rain spout rose alongside a shutter which offered a good hand hold—something of a venture at night, but a chance if everything else failed.
He was sure now that he had missed Piquette on the way and if she had been successful she was by this time safe in her room with the doors securely bolted and a push-button at hand by means of which, if molested, she could summon the servants of the hotel. And Quinlevin would hardly dare to try that, because an investigation meant the police, and the police meant publicity—a thing to be dreaded at this time with the battle going against him. Nor did Horton wish to make a row, for Piquette was a burglar—nothing less—and discovery meant placing her in an awkward position which would take some explaining. Monsieur Jacquot would have been a help, but there was no hope of trying to use him to intimidate Quinlevin even had the Frenchman been willing to take a share in so grave a responsibility.
So Jim Horton waited for awhile, lurking in the shadows of a small corridor near the office, watching the entrance of the hotel for the Irishman's return, and was just about to go out of the rear door into the garden for a little investigation of his own when he heard the sounds of voices near the office and saw Monsieur de Vautrin dressed for travel, talking to the major-domo. Horton paused behind a column to watch and listen, the Duc's flushed face and gay mien proclaiming the triumph he had experienced and, while he had packed his clothing, no doubt a short session with the brandy-bottle. This was Monsieur de Vautrin's incognito, this his silent departure from the shades of his beloved Monte Carlo. The man was a fatuous dotard, not worth the pains that had been wasted upon him. His account paid, Monsieur de Vautrin walked toward the door, where an automobile awaited him, but as he was about to get into the machine a tall figure emerged from the darkness and stood beside him. A passage of words between the two men and the Duc laughed.
"A great game, Monsieur the Irishman," Horton heard him say, "but you have lost. In a week I shall be again in Paris in the hands of my avocat. And then—beware!"