"À demain, Piquette——" he said confidently.
"Adieu, Olivier," she repeated.
The Duc stared at her again and then with a shrug, took up his hat and stick and swaggered out of the room.
"Piquette," whispered Horton eagerly. "Do you mean it?"
"Yes, mon brave," she returned lightly. "To be free—free——!" And she took a long breath, while she gazed past him out of the big window into the sunshine.
There was a commotion outside and they turned to the outer door, as two policemen entered, between them Tricot, securely manacled, and followed by the Juge, the Commissaire de Police, Madame Toupin, Moira, Madame Simon, the carpenter, Paul Joubert, and the other witnesses whose testimony had already been taken.
Moira's gaze and Jim Horton's met for a moment, full of meaning for them both, and then she turned away to the seat beside Monsieur Simon to which the Juge directed her. She was very pale and sat for a while with eyes downcast during the preliminaries which led to the confession of the apache.
Tricot stood with bowed head, listening to the evidence against him, his long arms hanging from his bent shoulders, his thin lips compressed, his small eyes concealed by the frowning thatch of his dark brows. He was surly but indifferent as to his fate, and answered the questions of Monsieur Simon in a low voice, but distinctly, evading nothing. His identification by the carpenter Joubert and two others as the man who had emerged from the room in the hallway when the crowd had surged upon the upper landing, caused him to shrug. The corroboration of Madame Toupin who saw him leave the courtyard after the murder only caused him to shrug again.
"I did it——" he growled. "I've confessed. What's the use?"
"Silence!" commanded the Juge. "You will answer only when questioned. Are these two persons," indicating Horton and Piquette, "the ones who first entered the studio?"