There was a slight sound from above. He peered upward. In silhouette against the sky was the figure of a man—he couldn't tell whether Tricot or the Irishman. It was to be a desperate game then. They had just guessed what Piquette had done with the birth certificate and there seemed not the slightest hope that the man on the portico could have failed to see his figure below the thin screen of winter foliage. Desperate! Yes, but worth it—for Piquette. He owed it to her. And, as in moments of great danger, he found himself suddenly cold with purpose and thinking with extraordinary lucidity. Quinlevin would not dare to shoot him out of hand without a cause, but to catch a man climbing the wall of his hotel into the window of his room,—that would be a sufficient reason for an obvious act of self-defense. And yet had Quinlevin considered the possibility of Horton's attempting so dangerous a climb? If not, the element of surprise might be in Jim Horton's favor.
But there was to be no choice for Horton—for as he stood, measuring the height of the trellis, from the window above he heard a stifled voice crying his name. "Jeem!" it called, "Go! Go!"
He ran to the trellis and climbed it easily, putting his revolver in an outer pocket as he reached the friendly roof of the little outbuilding, crouching behind a projection of the wing and gazing upward for a further sight of Monsieur Tricot. He thought he heard sounds now, the creaking of furniture and the growl of a masculine voice. Other sounds, more terrible, more significant.... They were choking her.... D—— them! Cowards!
Scorning further secrecy, he measured with his eye the distance he would have to spring for a hand hold on the window-sill of the window above him, the water-pipe, his main hope, upon investigation proving unreliable. The window sill which was his objective was at least two feet above his outstretched arms and to the left, beyond the edge of the projection on which he stood. It was not above him and he would have to leap sideways from the roof, risking a drop of at least twenty feet to the menacing stone flagging of a path which led to the kitchen entrance. But he leaped upward and out into the dark, his fingers clutching, swinging for a second above vacancy, and then hauled himself up until he got a hand hold on the hinge of the open shutter; then a knee on the sill, pushing the French window which yielded to his touch. He hoped the room was unoccupied, but had no time to consider that possibility; straightening and climbing the shutter. Quinlevin's portico was within his reach now. He waited cautiously for a second, listening and peering upward. No sign of any one outside, but the sounds within.... He heard them again now—fainter, horribly suppressed. He caught the edge of the portico and swung himself up, close to the wall of the building, and in a moment had gained a safe foot-hold within the railing.
There was no light within the room and now no sound. Had they ... In the brief moment he paused, gasping for his breath, he was aware of a figure below moving cautiously along the outskirts of the garden. He crouched below the balustrade instinctively. It was just at this moment that the cautious head and shoulders of a man emerged from the French window to peer over. It was Tricot. Like a cat, Horton sprang for him, and the impact of the shock sent them both sprawling, half in, half out of the room. Neither made a sound, each aware of the hazard of his situation. Horton struck and struck again, felt the sharp scratch of Monsieur Tricot's knife upon his shoulder, and caught the wrist of the hand that held it, twisting, twisting until the weapon dropped, clattering, just within the door of the room. But the Frenchman was strong and struggled upward, kicking, biting, until Horton with his right arm free struck him under the jaw. That took some of the fight out of him, but he still fought gamely, while Horton, whose blood was hot now, wondered why Quinlevin hadn't joined in the entertainment. Tricot in desperation tried to reach for another weapon with the arm Horton hadn't pinioned, and it was about time to end the matter. A memory of the night in the Rue Charron was behind Horton's blow which struck Monsieur Tricot neatly behind the ear and sent him sprawling out on the portico, where his head came into contact with the cement balustrade, and he fell and lay silent.
Horton took no chances, kicking the knife, a cruel, two-edged affair, into the fireplace and appropriating Monsieur Tricot's revolver, which he put into the other pocket of his coat, then turned to look for Quinlevin.
He didn't find him, but Piquette was there, prone in the arm chair, and gasping horribly for her breath.
"Piquette! It's Jim," he whispered.
Her swollen tongue refused her, but her fingers clutched his hand.
"They choked you, Piquette."