"Quickly!" whispered Horton, into Piquette's ear, "in the chair and gasp like hell."
She understood and obeyed him. Horton went to the door, turned the key and Barry Quinlevin strode in.
"He's gone, Tricot—the papers too——"
So was Quinlevin: the door closed behind him and a wiry arm went around his throat from behind, a knee in the middle of his back, and he crumpled backward in Horton's strong arms, down to the floor, where in spite of his struggles Horton held him powerless, quickly disarming him, his weight on the astonished Irishman's chest, his fingers at the man's throat, gently pressing with a threat of greater power at the slightest sound. The achievement was ridiculously easy as all important things are, given some intelligence and a will to do.
Mr. Quinlevin at this point had come to realize that the purely psychological stage of his venture had passed into the realm of the physical, in which he was no match for this young Hercules who had so easily mastered him. And Tricot...? Outside upon the balcony was a shadow that had not been there before. The game was up. And so he resorted to diplomacy, which was indeed the only thing left to him.
"Well, Horton," he uttered, "ye've won."
"Not yet, Quinlevin," said Horton grimly. And then to Piquette, who had stopped gasping and already showed a lively interest in the proceedings, "The sheets from the bed, Piquette, if you please."
She obeyed and helped him while they swathed their prisoner from head to foot, binding and gagging him with his own cravats and other articles of apparel which they found adaptable to the purpose and then between them lifted him to the bed where he lay a helpless clod of outraged dignity. Then they turned their attention to Monsieur Tricot, who, as they dragged him by the heels into the room, already showed signs of returning consciousness, binding him first, reviving him afterward. Of the two Tricot was now the least quiescent, but he understood the touch of Horton's revolver at his temple, and in a moment lay like Quinlevin, writhing in his bonds but quite as helpless.
"And now, Quinlevin," said Horton coolly, "it must be fairly obvious to you that the fraud you've practiced at the expense of Madame Horton is now at an end. The documents upon which you rely are in my pocket, where they will remain until they are turned over to Monsieur de Vautrin. In the morning you and your brave companion will doubtless be released by the servants of the hotel, by which time I hope to be in another part of France!"
He stopped with a shrug at the sound of Piquette's voice.