He smiled at her mood and they went on, Piquette making no further protest, and reached the gate of Madame Toupin, where they paused for a moment. The loge was dark and the gate was open. This was unusual, but Horton remembered that sometimes Madame Toupin and her pretty daughter went together for visits in the neighborhood. Two men were chatting under the lamp in the court-yard, but so absorbed in their own affair that they gave no attention to the visitors who entered the building and slowly climbed the stairs, so familiar to Jim, and so suggestive of the greatest joy and the greatest misfortune he had ever known. Piquette followed him one step behind, clinging to the tail of his overcoat. They met no one. A light showed beyond a transom on the second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe, peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and outlined the rail and baluster.
"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself seemed no more than a whisper.
"I can't see any yet," muttered Jim. And then, as his head came in line with the floor, he pointed upward. Above the door the transom showed.
"Ah! Elle est là," she gasped, falling into her native tongue unconsciously.
Silently they mounted and Jim knocked upon the door. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly. Silence again. Then he put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door yielded and they entered, Piquette peering curiously over his shoulder, and around the room. The gas-light, turned low, cast a dim light over the room. The corners ware bathed in shadow, and Horton's gaze swept them eagerly, while he moved here and there. The familiar chairs, the couch by the big window, the easel with its canvas, the draperies, the lay figure, seemed to be all as when he had seen them last, but there was no one there. The studio was empty. With Piquette close at his side he went to the door of the kitchenette. It was locked and the key was in the door. It had been fastened from the studio side.
"That's curious," muttered Jim. "She may have gone out for a moment."
"Perhaps," said Piquette.
Jim went around the studio, glancing at the windows, and then joined his companion by the door, scrutinizing his watch.
"We're a few moments early, Piquette," he muttered.
"I will go down, mon ami, and ask when she come back," she ventured.