"And then?" he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.
"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland——"
"To Ireland——" he muttered eagerly.
"Of course," she said with a glance at him. "And when 'e got enough money 'e sail 'round de worl' enjoying himself. Even now sometimes 'e is a beast. It is den I come back to de Quartier where I am born and bred—to be merry again." She sighed and then laughed gayly. "But to-night we mus' not talk of dis tiresome matter. It is your night, mon vieux, and we s'all make it 'appy."
He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficulty concealing his curiosity.
"But the child of Monsieur the Duc——" he urged after the moment of badinage. "He said nothing——?"
He paused as though in doubt.
She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.
"Monsieur is cautious. 'E spoke not'ing of de child, except to say dat it died wit' de mother. De money came to 'im. Dat was all 'e cared about, mon 'Arry."
To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn. And how to question without arousing the girl's suspicions was more that he could plan. But he remembered Quinlevin's uncertainty in the hospital—his thought that Harry might have talked to this girl. So he took a chance.