The Splendid Outcast

"H – m. And what is your interest in this matter, Monsieur?"

"That's a fair question," said Jim slowly. "I'll give you a fair answer. Madame Horton is my brother's wife. The story I've given you is straight – as Piquette will tell you since she heard much of it from my brother. Your daughter died shortly after her mother, your wife. My interest in this affair is personal to this extent. I don't intend to have Madame Horton used any longer by an unprincipled blackmailer."

"Surely then you would have told Madame Horton the truth and saved me this unpleasantness – "

"Yes – I've told her," said Jim slowly, "but she's helpless. Can't you see, Monsieur? It has all been very sudden – for her. She doesn't know what to believe. Besides, Monsieur Quinlevin has the birth certificate and the testimony of the nurse."

"But if Madame Horton is an honorable woman – "

"You can count on that," put in Horton quickly. "She doesn't want your money – she isn't Quinlevin's kind – "

"Then why doesn't she renounce him?"

"She might – but what difference would that make? She might permit herself to think she was Joan of Arc, but that wouldn't make her any one but Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin, if Barry Quinlevin has evidence enough to prove that she is…"

De Vautrin frowned darkly and twitched his jeweled fingers.

"But she would have something to say about her own desires in the matter," he said.

"Her own desires haven't anything to do with it. See here, Monsieur de Vautrin – Barry Quinlevin proves her birth by a certificate; he also proves by the nurse that she was the child brought into his house, and the child he has brought up as his ward, bearing his name and accepting your money for twenty-one years – hush money, monsieur, that you paid to keep her out of a fortune you thought belonged to her."

"But it doesn't belong to her," cried de Vautrin, gesticulating. "It's mine since the child is dead. Monsieur Harry Horton – "

Piquette broke in. "Monsieur 'Arry 'Orton could be call' to the stan' of course, but 'is testimony is not to be relied upon."

"Your brother, Monsieur – ?"

"Yes, Monsieur de Vautrin," replied Jim, "my brother – but an intimate of Barry Quinlevin's – "

"Ah, I comprehend – an accomplice?"

"You might call him that – if you like." He shrugged and turned aside. "We don't get along, my brother and I, but I don't think you'll find much to gain by putting him on the witness stand. Besides, it won't look very pretty in the papers. It's as much to my interest as yours to keep it out."

The Duc eyed him suspiciously again.

"But you must have some other interest besides this in wishing to help me. What's the ax you have to grind, Monsieur?"

Jim Horton grinned and shrugged.

"For myself – nothing."

"That is difficult to believe."

"Then I would advise you to tax your imagination to the utmost. I don't want Madame Horton to figure in an affair that she will regret the rest of her life."

"But why – ?"

"Monsieur is in love wit' Madame 'Orton – " Piquette's voice broke in very calmly.

There was a silence for a moment in which Jim Horton looked at Piquette, Piquette gazed at de Vautrin and de Vautrin stared from one to the other in astonishment.

His knowledge of the world had given him no instinct to appraise a situation such as this. But Piquette met his gaze clearly.

"It is de trut', Olivier," she repeated. "An' now perhaps you on'erstan'."

"It is extraordinary," he gasped. "And you two – ?"

"I brought 'im to you. Your interests are de same – and mine, wit' both."

"Parbleu! If I could believe it – !"

Jim Horton rose, aware of a desire to pull the waxed mustaches to see if they were real.

"You needn't believe it, if you don't want to," he said carelessly. "And you don't have to believe my story. But I've given you your warning. Barry Quinlevin may be in Nice now, with his birth certificate and his Nora Burke." He buttoned his overcoat and turned toward the door. "I think I'll be going back to Nice, Piquette," he said coolly, and then to the bewildered Frenchman, "Good-night, Monsieur."

"One moment," gasped the Duc, toddling after him and catching him by the hand, "I believe you, Monsieur. Why should I not believe you since what you say is what I wish to believe? It is all very bewildering. I should have thanked you long ago for your kindness."

Jim Horton turned with a smile.

"It's about time. And it ought to be fairly clear that I have little interest in your fortune or even in you, Monsieur. I don't mind being shot at for my interference in Mr. Quinlevin's affairs, but I might have been hit – or Piquette might – which would have been worse, and I don't relish having my word doubted – or hers."

"I beg forgiveness. You have been shot at?"

Piquette explained quickly while de Vautrin's watery eyes grew larger.

"Mon Dieu! And you say they are coming here?"

"Yes. If their dinky little train ever reaches its destination. I'm afraid you're in for it, Monsieur de Vautrin."

De Vautrin threw out his arms wildly.

"I will not see them. I will go away."

Jim Horton nodded. "That's all right – but it's only putting off the evil moment. When they get their evidence working you'll have to meet it, someway. And then what will you do?"

De Vautrin had caught Jim by the coatsleeve and pulled him down into the seat beside him. And then with a pseudo-dramatic air which failed of conviction,

"I shall fight, Monsieur."

"With what?"

"With the evidence you've given me."

"It's not enough."

Horton shook his head and laughed.

"It looks to me as though you were elected President of the Quinlevin Endowment Association."

"But there must be some way of getting at the truth," cried the Frenchman, now really pitiful in his alarm.

"Ah, that's it," laughed Jim. "You know Madame Horton is not your daughter and I know it, but that doesn't beat Quinlevin."

"What then, Monsieur?"

"You've got to kill his evidence."

"But how?"

"With stronger evidence of your own. You haven't it, or any prospect of getting it that I can see. So there's only one course open."

"And that, Monsieur?" asked de Vautrin eagerly.

"To break down Quinlevin's. I'm no lawyer, but that's only common sense. Nora Burke is a liar bribed with five thousand pounds. And there never was a lie that didn't have its weak points. You've got to make her speak the truth – "

"How?"

"I don't know. But I wouldn't mind trying. Then you've got to get that birth certificate – "

"I don't see how you expect to do that."

"Neither do I – Quinlevin is no fool, but then he's not super-natural either."

The Duc was silent, appalled by the undertaking which had presented itself. And the calm way in which his visitor discussed his projects filled him with wonder.

"Justice, Monsieur de Vautrin, is on your side. Will you fight for it?"

"Assuredly, Monsieur – if you will but help."

Jim Horton laughed.

"Then you no longer believe I have an ax to grind?"

"No – no, Monsieur."

"And you no longer cherish evil thoughts of Piquette?"

"Upon my honor," said the Duc, a jeweled hand at his heart. "And yet, Monsieur, you can hardly blame me for some irritation at meeting her here with you."

Jim Horton glanced toward the door significantly. And then dryly, "You hardly deserve her, Monsieur de Vautrin. I am proud of her friendship. It's the finest thing in my life."

De Vautrin wagged his head foolishly and then shrugged a futile shoulder.

"What do you want me to do, Monsieur?" he asked peevishly.

Horton lighted a cigarette carefully and took Piquette by the hand.

"First, Monsieur de Vautrin," he said coolly, "you will send Madame Thibaud about her business – "

"Monsieur!" said the Duc with a show of dignity.

"Suit yourself. But she's in the way. This is no time for fooling. Does she go or doesn't she?"

De Vautrin's injured dignity trembled in the balance for a moment and then fell away, merged in his apprehension for the immediate future.

"That can – can doubtless be arranged," he said with a frown.

"Good," said Horton jovially. "And the sooner the better. It will clear the atmosphere amazingly. Then we will prepare to fight Monsieur Quinlevin with his own weapons."

"Yes. You – I – Piquette. That's what we came here for. You've made the mistake of under-rating Barry Quinlevin. He's desperate. He is playing a big game and if you don't want to be the goat you'll do what I advise."

"I'm listening."

"If I'm not mistaken he will reach here to-morrow afternoon with Madame Horton and Nora Burke. And you've got to see them."

"I – Monsieur?"

"Yes – you – here in your rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. You will give it out that you are here for a week. They must take rooms in Monte Carlo. Then you will listen politely to everything Quinlevin has to say – to everything Nora Burke has to say, but you yourself will say nothing."

"But you, Monsieur?"

"I shall be in an adjoining room, but they must not know it."

"But Barry Quinlevin will discover that you have been here."

"Of course. You will tell him that. They will tell you that I have lied. But you won't believe them. And then you will tell them that I have gone away."

"But when will you come in to my assistance?"

"That depends upon what I hear through the keyhole."

"But would it not be simpler to pay this Nora Burke for telling the truth?"

Horton laughed. "It does seem simple, doesn't it? I don't know much about French law, but I wouldn't want to be caught at it out where I come from. Let's play this game straight and trust to luck. If Quinlevin is too sharp for us we'll try something else. Do you agree?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

And so it was settled. On the following morning Madame Thibaud was sent back to Paris. And Piquette and Jim Horton ostentatiously took the train for Nice, returning subsequently by automobile to Monte Carlo, where they were hidden in rooms in the Hôtel de Paris. In this they were aided by an official of the Hotel who proved to be an old acquaintance of Piquette's in Paris. And so when Barry Quinlevin arrived from Nice in the afternoon, with Moira and Nora Burke, inquiring for the Duc, the information was conveyed directly to Horton, who was happy to learn that Tricot had not yet caught up with the party.

Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play, seemed to enter into the game with some spirit, and was sent over to the Casino to play trente et quarante where after awhile Barry Quinlevin found him, deeply absorbed in his game of chance. The Duc manifested polite surprise, Quinlevin polite insistence, and then they talked for awhile, the Duc indifferently, Quinlevin impressively, – to the end that an appointment was made for an hour later the following afternoon in the Duc's apartment, where he would listen in all good nature and tolerance to what his visitors would have to say. He hoped his "daughter" was handsome. It would be a pity if all this money was to go to one who could not use it with dignity. All this in an ironic and jocular mood which only brought a dour smile upon Quinlevin's face.

But the main object of the preliminary encounter was achieved, for Barry Quinlevin accepted without reservation the Duc's assertion that Jim Horton, having performed his mission, had returned to Paris.

When the hour of the appointment arrived, Jim Horton sat behind the door into the bedroom of Monsieur de Vautrin, carefully studying the pages of an English-French dictionary. The Duc sat over his paper with an air of unconcern he was far from feeling. Piquette, at the American's instructions, was elsewhere.

Quinlevin, shown to the door of the room by a servant of the hotel, met the Duc with his most amiable smile and introduced the women of his party. Moira was pale, Nora Burke uncomfortable but arrogant.

"Monsieur de Vautrin," Quinlevin began with something of an air, "permit me to present to ye yer daughter, Patricia Madeleine Aulnoy de Vautrin."

The Duc smiled politely, bowed – and stared. Moira, who, as though in duty, had taken a step toward him, paused. And then as she saw the look that Monsieur de Vautrin swept over her, the color flamed into her cheeks. The Duc's rebuff gave for the first time a true perception of the position in which she had voluntarily placed herself. If she were a mere adventuress he could not have accused her more eloquently and the admiration in his impudent stare was even more insulting. This man – this effete boulevardier – her father – ? Impossible! And the repulsion she felt at the sight of him made her wish only to go anywhere away from the sight of him. What else she had expected, she didn't know, for even Barry Quinlevin had not been too explicit as to what would be likely to happen. But there was her mentor at her side, a gentle hand upon her elbow urging her forward into the arm-chair by the window, which Monsieur de Vautrin was indicating with a rather exaggerated gesture of formality.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Quinlevin with an easy laugh, sinking into another chair. "Ye're not to be blamed for not flying to each other's arms after all these years, when yer acquaintance in the beginning was to say the least a most trivial affair. But in a while, perhaps, ye'll be knowing each other better and I'm sure, Monsieur, ye'll be finding my ward as I have done, a fine creature capable of a most filial devotion."

"Ah," said de Vautrin. "I don't doubt that. It would truly be a great pleasure to me to discover so beautiful a creature to be a daughter of mine, but the facts of the matter unfortunately – "

"One moment, Monsieur," broke in Quinlevin, "before we arrive at the facts in the matter. Ye must be aware that this situation is none of my ward's choosing. She came because she knew that it was a sacred duty which she owed to the memory of her mother. Many years have passed since yer affairs – er – called ye away from Ireland and she lays no fault to yerself for yer desertion, for which I have taken all the blame. She knows that ye've provided for her comfortably, and that I have made it my pleasure to act as yer substitute, as well as I could. But the time has come when she must take her place in the world to which she belongs, and it's my duty to be putting her there. To this end, as ye'll see, I've brought with me her old nurse, Nora Burke, with whom ye're already acquainted, and who will be answering any questions that ye would like to put to her."

Monsieur de Vautrin frowned and moved his gaze from Moira to the servant who stood, her large hands, badly gloved, folded upon her stomach, her feet shifting uneasily.

"I've heard something of Nora Burke's story," said de Vautrin dryly, "but there are parts of it that I have not heard."

"Ye're quite at liberty to question, Monsieur," put in Quinlevin, "Nora too is merely an instrument of truth in the hand of Providence."

"Since Providence has ceased providing," said the Duc dryly, "I comprehend. But I will listen to this extraordinary tale again, since I have promised to do so. It can do no harm. Allons! Proceed, Nora Burke. My poor wife, you say, engaged you some weeks before my daughter was born?"

"She did, yer Highness – " And, as the woman hesitated —

"Go on, Nora," said Quinlevin.

"The choild was born, this very girl they call Moira Quinlevin, who sits before ye, a beautiful choild she was, fine and healthy that the poor Duchesse never lived to see, for she died that night, God rest her soul, faded away before our very eyes."

"And who was there beside yourself," asked the Duc coolly.

"Dominick Finucane, the doctor from Athlone, and Father Reilly, the priest who gave her Absolution – "

"And who has since died," said de Vautrin dryly.

"Yes, yer Highness – but the birth certificate I was afther kapin' since no father came near us, nor any relation. Mary Callonby was a lonely kind and when she came back to Galway took to living solitary-like on the small farm with only the one servant, Mrs. Boyle, to look afther her."

"And Mrs. Boyle is also dead?" put in de Vautrin keenly.

"She is."

"It's very unfortunate that all the witnesses have seen fit to die."

"All but me, yer Highness," said Nora assertively.

De Vautrin shrugged. "Well. What happened then?"

"Well, Mrs. Boyle and meself, we didn't know what to be afther doing, so we just followed the advice of Father Reilly."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

Nora glanced at Quinlevin, who nodded.

"In a whoile he brought Mr. Barry Quinlevin – this gentleman here – who lived on the only place nearby, and tould us to be going to his home. Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' very lonely, he said, his own wife and colleen havin' died a few months before."

"That was kind of Mr. Quinlevin."

"We thought so – yer Highness – but it was kind of Father Reilly too – for nobody was afther coming to see about the poor choild and Mr. Quinlevin was that grateful – he watched the babby like it was his own – "

"That's true enough. He would," sneered the Duc. "And what happened then?"

"Mrs. Boyle and I we lived in the house of Mr. Quinlevin, her as cook and me as nurse, bringin' up the choild as Miss Moira Quinlevin, – alone in the house for wakes at a toime, when Mr. Quinlevin was afther bein' away to London or Paris on business. But all the whoile I was kapin' the birth certificate an' all the whoile tryin' me best to take the place of poor Mary Callonby."

"And you were well paid for this service?" asked de Vautrin.

"I had me wages. It was enough."

"And when you heard that Mr. Quinlevin had seen me in Paris, two years afterward, you received more money?"

Nora's glance sought Quinlevin, who broke in calmly.

"I gave Nora as well as Mrs. Boyle a bit more, ye understand – a proper share of the sum for the support of the child. And they agreed to say nothing." He fingered in his pocket and brought forth a paper. "This, as ye can plainly see, is a copy of the birth certificate of yer child."

"And the original?" asked the Duc.

"Will be produced at the proper time," said Quinlevin shrewdly.

De Vautrin took the paper and read it carefully.

"And where is Mrs. Boyle at the present moment?" he asked. "Dead also?"

"Three weeks ago," said Quinlevin calmly. "It's most unfortunate – but her signature can be verified."

"H – m. And Father Reilly also. Of course," said the Duc with a quick glance toward his bedroom door. "And there are other papers?"

"Yes," said Quinlevin. "Letters from you – accompanying yer checks – which guarantee yer verbal agreement in Paris. The will of Patrick Callonby and a few other trifles which are important to ye."

"And you think your case is complete?"

"Oh, yes, quite. An Irish court won't hesitate very long just at this time in carrying out the provisions of this will."

Monsieur de Vautrin smiled. "And what do you wish me to do?" he asked quietly.

"To perform merely an act of restitution, an act of justice to yer own. Ye know the terms of the will. In the event of the mother dying, her fortune was to revert unconditionally to the child. But she's to be considerate of yer age and the relation that exists between ye, which however strange it may seem to ye both at this time, is that of father and only daughter. Ye've both formed the habits of yer lives – yerself living bachelor-fashion in Paris and London. Yer daughter is disposed to be generous and does not wish to interfere with yer plans for the future. She will, if you please, still keep the matter secret, and go on living with me – yerself to continue in the comfortable life of yer bachelorhood."

"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.

Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.

"As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling – we'll say twenty millions of francs or thereabouts – since ye're not a man of business and allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two thirds to you – "

Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.

"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.

"It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for depreciation."

"What do ye mean?"

"Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and since the war – pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."

Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.

"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."

"Of course. I commend you to them. And Nora Burke, who might have told me the truth last summer in Ireland, when I was disposed to be generous."

"I've tould the truth," asserted Nora doggedly, in spite of her bewilderment.

"And how much more will you tell when there's no money for the telling?" said de Vautrin, rising.

For at this moment the door into the adjoining room opened and Jim Horton strode quickly into the room.