"Yes—his too. I had to have facts. I got them—some I wasn't looking for——"
"About——?"
"About the Duc de Vautrin," Jim broke in dryly. "That's one of the reasons why I'm still Harry Horton and why I'm going to stay Harry Horton—for the present."
If Jim had needed any assurance as to his brother's share in this intrigue he had it now. For Harry went red and then pale, refusing to meet his gaze.
"I see," he muttered, "Quinlevin's been talking."
"Yes," said Jim craftily, "he has. It's a pretty plan, but it won't come off. You always were a rotter, Harry. But you're not going to hurt Moira, if I can prevent."
It was a half-random shot but it hit the mark.
"Moira," muttered Harry somberly. "I see. You haven't been wasting any time."
"I'm not wasting time when I can keep her—or even you—from getting mixed up in dirty blackmail. That's my answer. And that's why I'm not going to quit until I'm ready."
Harry Horton frowned at the soiled table cover, his fingers twitching at his fork, and then reached for the coffee pot and quickly poured himself another cup.