"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"
"No. I t'ink not. And yet I remember once 'e ask' me if I know Monsieur Quinlevin."
"And what did you reply?"
"Of course, dat I never heard of 'im."
He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frowned and imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.
"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin. We've got to do something."
"Parfaitement," said Piquette carelessly. "De time 'as come to produce de girl Moira and de papers."
Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes. But she heard him gasp and turned again toward him. But by this time the missing pieces of the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly. It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead child who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for years with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and now the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." And Piquette knew all. Blackmail it was—of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself. And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."