"Thanks, Monsieur," said Horton gravely.
"Let me add, Monsieur Horton, that before the murderer arrived, I was in consultation with Monsieur le Capitaine Waring of the office of the Judge Advocate of the American Army. I told him what had happened in the case and he informed me that there was no disposition to make you suffer for an act which resulted in the Croix de Guerre. He empowers me to ask only for your parole to report to him to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, to comply with the military law. I should say that in the end you will have nothing to fear."
"Thank God!" muttered Horton, half to himself.
"And now, Monsieur le Commissaire," said the Juge, with a smile, "Madame Simon, Madame Morin, perhaps we had better leave Monsieur the American to give his thanks to the lady who has helped us to liberate him—Madame Horton——"
"Piquette——"
Horton turned around to look for her but she had gone.
The others were already filing out of the door and suddenly Jim and Moira found themselves silent, face to face by the big window in the sunlight, amazed at the sudden termination of the case, and what it meant to them. Their glances met and a gentle flush stole along the pallor of Moira's face, suddenly flooding it from brow to chin. Scarcely daring to believe this evidence of his happiness, Jim stared at her awkwardly, and then took a pace forward.
"Moira," he whispered at last.
"Thank God," she murmured.
He took her in his arms, gently, as though she were a child, and held her silently in a moment of wordless communion. Beyond the river below them, the city of their tribulations murmured as before, but to them it held a note of solace and of joy.