He had cared for Moira in his strange selfish way, permitted Quinlevin to use him for his own purposes, hoping for the fortune that would bring ease and luxury for them all, and with it a glamour that he might turn to his own account and win the girl to a fulfillment of their marriage vows. But Jim had dashed the cup from his lips, Jim—his hero brother—now like himself an outcast! So there were to be two of them then after all. "It served him right—D—n him!" Harry Horton found a malicious pleasure in the situation. If he wasn't to have her, Jim shouldn't either. He wasn't going to give his brother the pleasure of reading his death notice in the morning paper. He, Harry Horton, would just go on living whatever happened, and he knew that without the evidence of his death, Moira would never marry again.
He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira's consent to go with Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night. But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking. It looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission was dubious. And yet Quinlevin might succeed. If he did there would be enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the world. This was the price that they would pay for immunity—and Harry would go. He knew now that Moira was not for him. She had settled that matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue Charron.
He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old haunts. There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes? He would have to sober up. Things weren't bad at all now. What difference did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became? It was his own life to do what he pleased with. And it pleased him to do what he was doing with it. He laughed at the amusing inversion. Good joke, that!
But he would have to go down to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes and talk things over. No use quarreling with Quinlevin. Everything amiable and friendly. No. 7 Rue de Tavennes. If Moira wasn't there, he'd go in and wait. Her studio ... his too. Perhaps a little of the Irish whisky and a doze....
CHAPTER XXI
THE PETIT BLEU
The road to Paris was long by the way Jim Horton and Piquette had chosen, but without mishap they came through Geneva and Lyons, reaching their destination at the end of the second day. Of the further adventures of Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and his apostle Tricot they had learned nothing, though they had scanned all the newspapers upon their way for any echoes of the adventure at the Hôtel de Paris. Jim Horton had spoken little of Moira, but as they neared their journey's end, the birth certificate and other papers still secure in Jim's inner pocket, he was sure that however difficult and painful his decision to desert Moira at the critical moment, Piquette's counsel had been wise. Moira had fled from him and he knew now that her convictions had laid a barrier between them which no further effort that he could make would ever pass. Pity he felt for her, deep and abiding, for she was so helpless and now more than ever alone. But he had done his duty as he had seen it, drawn Quinlevin's sting and opened Moira's eyes to his perfidy, throwing a light along the path into which that perfidy was leading her.
He and Piquette had tried to picture events in the hotel at Monte Carlo after their flight: The helpless men lying in the dark, awaiting the morning, Moira's probable return with Nora Burke and their liberation. As to what Moira would do after that, they could not decide. Her flight to Paris without money seemed impossible, and yet for her to remain with her spurious father after this awakening seemed also impossible. Piquette had related to him parts of her conversation with the girl and Horton had listened, aware of Piquette's motives and the hopeless impediments to the success of her efforts.
Piquette spoke no more of love, nor did Jim Horton revive the topic which had given him a more awkward half an hour than he had ever spent in his life, but he showed her by every act a consideration that touched her deeply and made the friendship that she asked of him a sacred thing to them both. What the future held for him was yet to be fully revealed, but as yet he could not see it clearly. With the collapse of Quinlevin's scheme it was probable that all the vials of his wrath would be turned upon Horton, who would be denounced to the military authorities, no matter what happened to his unfortunate brother Harry. It was necessary therefore, until the birth certificate and the evidence of Horton and Piquette was all placed with Monsieur de Vautrin's legal representative, that Horton remain hidden and that Piquette avoid all contact with her friends of the Quartier. It seemed also the part of prudence for Piquette to remain for awhile away from her apartment, keeping in touch with her maid who would bring her clothing and letters to a designated place.
"It would have been much more sensible to have killed Tricot," laughed Horton when they were established in rooms in his obscure lodging in the Rue Jean Paul. "He'll come poking about with a brand new knife and revolver, and then we'll have the devil to pay all over again."