"But why——? After all——"
"'Ave I not tol' you? She is afraid of 'erself. She knows as I know—she is a woman who loves—but not as I love, mon Jeem. It is 'er God dat stan' between you, 'er God—stronger dan you and what you are to 'er. She is afraid. She knows—if she touch your 'and—she will go wit' you—whatever 'appens."
"What makes you think that?" muttered Horton, bewildered.
"She tol' me so——"
"You?"
"I saw 'er—talk wit' 'er. Dat is why I wait too long ontil Monsieur Quinlevin came."
Horton paused, thinking deeply.
"I must find her, Piquette. She's got to go with us," he murmured, starting toward the door away from her.
But Piquette caught him by the hand.
"No, Jeem. You mus'n't. Do you t'ink you can fin' 'er? Where? An' if you do, your friend Monsieur Quinlevin will be discover' and dey will put you in de jail——"