"W'at fool biznesse!" Doret indignantly exclaimed. "Dat boy is hones' as church."
He looked down at the sound of Rouletta's voice; then he started. The girl's face was strained and white and miserable; her hands were clasped over her bosom; she was staring horrified at the door through which Phillips had been taken. She swayed as if about to fall. 'Poleon half dragged, half carried her out into the street; with his arm about her waist he helped her toward her hotel.
The walk was a silent one, for Rouletta was in a state bordering upon collapse; gradually she regained control of herself and stumbled along beside him.
"They're three to one," she said, finally. "Oh, 'Poleon! They'll swear it on him. The Police are strict; they'll give him five years. I heard the colonel say so."
"Dere's been good deal of short-weighin', but—" Doret shook his head.
"Nobody goin' believe Courteau. And McCaskey is dam' t'ief."
"If—only I—could help him. You'll go to him, 'Poleon, won't you?
Promise."
Silently the Canadian assented. They had reached the door of the hotel before he spoke again; then he said slowly, quietly:
"You been playin' 'hearts' wit' HIM, ma soeur? You—you love him? Yes?"
"Oh—yes!" The confession came in a miserable gasp.
"Bien! I never s'pect biff ore. Wal, dat's all right."