Quinlevin shrugged and de Vautrin got into the machine which dashed off into the darkness, leaving the Irishman standing uncertainly upon the step. It was not until then that Horton noticed that he had a companion, for at that moment two figures emerged into the light and Horton knew that Quinlevin's forces had been augmented by one. For Monsieur Tricot had arrived.
The two men came in hurriedly, as though having reached a decision, and went up the stairs.
"There'll be the devil to pay if Piquette has succeeded," muttered Horton to himself. And then in a quick afterthought, "And maybe a worse devil—if she hasn't."
He waited until they had gone beyond the landing and then hurried to the rear stairway and up the two flights to the door of Piquette's room—aghast at his discovery. She was not there, nor had she been there, for he struck a match and found its condition precisely that in which he had left it half an hour before. He waited for a few moments, then turned the corner of the corridor and went quickly toward Quinlevin's door, waiting for a moment and listening intently. He made out the murmur of voices, a man's and a woman's, but he could not hear it distinctly. But that the man's voice was the Irishman's he did not doubt, nor that the woman's was Piquette's. Cautiously he turned the knob of the door. It was locked. Quinlevin evidently expected him. There was no chance of ingress here unless Quinlevin permitted it. The Irishman had the law on his side. If Horton persisted, Quinlevin could shoot him (which was what he wished to do), with every prospect of acquittal in any trouble that might follow.
Horton waited here only a moment and then ran quickly down the stairs, past some guests on their way to the Casino, and out into the garden. At this hour of the night it was dark, for the dining rooms were upon the other side and the smoking and billiard rooms were deserted. Glancing toward the well-lighted promenade just beyond the hedge, he stole along the walls of the hotel beneath the windows of the first floor, using the deeper shadows, until he reached a palm tree, from the shelter of which he carefully scrutinized the façade of the building, identifying the windows and portico of the room of Quinlevin. Then went nearer, to a clump of bushes, beneath the portico, where he crouched to listen for any sounds that might come from above. Silence, except for the distant murmuring of the surf among the rocks below the Casino.
He tried to believe that the voice he had heard through the door upstairs was not Piquette's—that it might have been Moira's or Nora Burke's. But if it was not Piquette's voice, then where was she? And why had she stayed so long, venturing Quinlevin's wrath at her intrusion? There seemed to be no doubt that she had overstayed the allotted time and that now they had come in upon her—-the Irishman and the rascal Tricot. She was in for a bad half hour—perhaps something worse.
But Horton reassured himself with the thought that Quinlevin desired to keep the tale of his hazard of new fortune a secret. They would not dare to do physical harm to Piquette in a hotel, which had its name for respectability. They would not dare to risk her outcries, which, if damaging to herself, would be doubly damaging to Barry Quinlevin. So Horton crouched in the center of his hiding place and uncertainly waited, sure that if she was in danger his place was now beside Piquette, who had played a game with death for him in the house in the Rue Charron. He glanced up at the trellis just beside him, planning the ascent. And as he did so he noticed a small object hanging among the twigs just above his head. It was within reach of his hand and he took it—a letter or a slip of paper somewhat rumpled. He fingered and then looked at it, but it was too dark to see. Near him upon the turf was another square of paper—and a letter further off, another, and another hanging in the opposite side of the bush.
In his hands idly he fingered the letter. The paper was fine and it bore an embossed heading or crest. He was about to throw it aside when he looked up the wall of the building at the portico outside Barry Quinlevin's windows—realizing with a sudden sense of his discovery that these papers had fallen from the windows of the second floor or those of the third—Quinlevin's. Of course they were unimportant—and yet.... He started to his feet and looked around. Elsewhere, so far as he could see, the garden was scrupulously neat, the pride of a gardener who was well paid to keep up the traditions of this fairyland. Horton bent over searching and found another paper, even more rumpled than the others. He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. There was no sign of occupancy, for though one of the windows was open, both were still dark, but he waited a moment listening and fancied that he heard the low murmur of voices, then a dull glow as though some one had made a light for a cigarette.
But the papers in his fingers! He realized with a growing excitement that they were quite dry to the touch and had not therefore been long exposed to the damp sea air. Had Piquette...? Not daring to strike a light he turned and crept quickly back to the light of the hall way. And here, behind the door, he read the papers quickly. Their meaning flashed through his consciousness with a shock—a letter from Monsieur de Vautrin, a receipt for money, and the crumpled paper a square printed document bearing the now familiar name of Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin—the birth certificate upon which all Barry Quinlevin's fortunes hung—and Moira's.
He could not take time to investigate the characters of the handwriting, for the light was dim. And the real significance of his discovery was not to be denied. No one but Piquette would have thrown such papers out of the window into the garden, nor would she have done so desperate a thing unless she had found herself at bay with no other means of disposing of them. He reasoned this out for himself while he thrust the documents safely into an inner pocket and crept quickly back to his place beneath the windows, searching as he went upon the ground for any other papers that might have escaped him. There was no time to spare. Piquette was up there. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why hadn't she escaped and run down to recover the documents before Quinlevin's return with Tricot? But why had she thrown them from the window unless their presence threatened? These and other speculations were to remain unanswered, for if Piquette were in that room alone with the two men her danger was great.