And late the following afternoon, Monsieur de Vautrin not yet having returned, and while they still waited, an astonishing thing happened, for Piquette's maid, under cover of nightfall (as was the arrangement) brought the letters from the Boulevard Clichy, and among them was a Petit Bleu addressed to Jim Horton. He picked it up gingerly in his fingers as though it had been dynamite and curiously scrutinized the envelope. It augured badly for his security in Paris if many people knew so readily where he was to be found. De Vautrin perhaps——? Or——
He tore the envelope open quickly, Piquette looking over his shoulder. It was in French, of course, and he read,
"Shall be alone Rue de Tavennes to-night eight. Forgive and don't fail. MOIRA."
He read the lines over and over, Piquette helping him to translate, and stood a moment as though transfixed by its significance. "Forgive." That was the word that stood out in black letters. What had come over her? Did this mean that driven to desperation by the situation in which she had found herself she had been forced against her will to plead with him for sanctuary? Or was it help that she needed? Whatever the real meaning of the message, there was no doubt in Jim Horton's mind as to where his duty lay.
But Piquette was already questioning Celeste rapidly.
"When did this Petit Bleu arrive?"
"Not an hour ago, Madame."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, Madame, positive. I myself received it from the messenger."
"Very well, Celeste. You will return to the apartment and if any other message arrives, be sure to bring it at once."