The Splendid Outcast

CHAPTER XXIII

ESCAPE

The events in the Hôtel de Paris at Nice, the revelation in Monsieur de Vautrin's rooms, the confession of Piquette Morin and the startling events that immediately followed it were all bewildering. From affection for Quinlevin, Moira had passed through the stages of incredulity, doubt, and reassurance, and then at Nora's downfall, dismay at her own position, and after Quinlevin's brutal treatment of her, aversion and terror. When he turned the key of her door and went with Piquette into his own room, she threw herself into her chair, aware of her dependence upon him, and yet ready to run away and throw herself upon the mercy of the first stranger that she could find. But the sounds that came from behind the closed door fascinated her, the murmur of conversation rising and falling, and then the strange noises, heard indistinctly yet frightful in their significance. The silence that followed, still more suggestive. She shrank upon her bed in terror, shutting her ears with her fingers. Then the renewal of the commotion, as she raised her hands, her terror inquisitive for the worst – the sound of blows, the grunts of men in struggle, and then the falling of a body.

Tricot and Quinlevin – they were killing each other… That was the chief thought in her mind – that and the imperative need of escape. She got up, trembling, and went to the door, shooting the brass bolt, then turned, catching up her coat and gloves. The door into the corridor was locked but she could still go out through Nora's room. She tried the other door, but found it locked on the outside. She called Nora softly, then more loudly, and heard the woman answer. Presently, by dint of wild persuasion, she prevailed upon her old nurse to open the door. Nora was red of face, disheveled, and bewildered.

"What is it ye want, alanah?"

"I must go – you must go with me," she stammered.

"For why? Isn't it enough I've been through this day widout – "

But Moira pushed her way past the woman.

"Something dreadful has happened – in there," she stammered, her face white, "I can't stay – "

"What then – "

"A fight – Mr. Quinlevin and Tricot – "

The woman tried to restrain her but Moira flung herself away and unlocked the door.

"Ye'll not be lavin' me here alone," gasped Nora.

"Come then. Quickly."

And she fled out into the corridor, the woman following, down the stairway and into the night… The memory of those dreadful hours of wandering with Nora along the roads was like a dream in a fever, but after awhile the physical exercise made her more calm and she was able to explain to the frightened Irish woman what had happened.

Her first impulse had been to flee from it all – to escape anywhere – but without money where should she go? With the return of reason came courage. And with courage a resolve to go back and do what she could for Piquette Morin. They would not have dared to kill her. It was impossible. An impulse to tell the people of the hotel what had happened came to her again, but as she turned toward the gardens, followed heavily by the frightened Nora, she resolved to go upstairs and face whatever was in store for her.

What she found was rather terrifying at first, but when she summoned nerve enough to turn on the light, she saw two swaddled figures squirming to be free. Madame Morin had vanished. With the help of Nora, who came out of her state of coma when the facts were made obvious, she liberated the two men and questioned eagerly.

"W-why didn't you – come before?" was Quinlevin's reply. He was not pleasant to look at.

"I was frightened at the sounds. I ran away. What has happened?"

"Isn't it obvious?" mumbled the Irishman, spitting out a fragment of the cotton towel from his dry throat.

"Jim Horton!" gasped Moira.

"The same – damn him."

"And Madame?"

"Need you guess?" he sneered. "They're well on the road to Paris by now."

"Thank God," said Moira fervently.

He glanced at her but said nothing. His feelings were too deep for words.

But the day following, Moira was to learn her dependence upon him. He took little pains to conceal the change of his feelings towards her, the suddenness of which proclaimed only too insistently the fact that his years of kindness were only the device Jim Horton had proved them to be. On the way back to Paris he was for the most part silent and morose, remaining much of the time with the abominable Tricot, leaving Moira to the tender mercies of her old nurse, who now shared with her the Irishman's displeasure. It was indeed a sisterhood of consolation and she saw that with the failure of the great plan, Nora was much chastened by her experience, for she sat and wailed in a most discomfiting manner, confessing at last her share in the conspiracy and throwing herself upon Moira's mercy.

Moira was sorry for the woman who had brought her safely through her baby diseases and acted as guide, counselor and friend until it was time for her to go away to boarding school. And so, mingled with the contempt that Moira felt for her, there was a little pity too, and a leaven of the old affection. In those moments of rapprochement and confession, Moira learned in astonishment the secret of her birth. Jim Horton had not been mistaken. She was not the daughter of Barry Quinlevin, but his niece, posthumous daughter of his younger brother, whose widow had died in childbirth. Barry Quinlevin's own wife, an invalid and bedridden, had acquiesced in the plan of adopting the daughter of her sister-in-law, but had not known in the few years before her own death of the deception that was to be practiced upon Monsieur de Vautrin. The community in which the families lived was sparsely settled, the neighbors ignorant and illiterate. If Monsieur de Vautrin had taken pains to make inquiries at this time he must surely have discovered the ruse, but he had apparently taken all things told him for granted, or was too enwrapped in his own selfish pursuits to give the case attention. So long as he was left to the enjoyment of his fortune by the paying of the tribute Quinlevin demanded, he was satisfied. And so Quinlevin managed things in his own way, paying Nora for her silence and keeping Moira in ignorance as to the source of their income.

If Quinlevin guessed the nature of the conversation that passed between the two women upon the train he gave no sign of it, but when they reached Paris and returned to the studio, he seemed to experience a change of heart toward Moira, did what he could to restore the breach in their old relations, admitting the truth of Nora's confession and shrugging off his failure as a matter that was ended. Apparently taking Moira's forgiveness for granted, he treated her, in their new relation of uncle and niece, with marked consideration, and planned in his grandiose way for the future. He seemed to have plenty of money and spent it upon her generously, but he did not leave her for a moment. And when he proposed a trip to Fontainebleau, a spot which in former years she had loved to visit, he asked her to accompany him. Her reasons for acquiescence were logical enough. Until she decided upon a definite plan of separation from him, she thought it wisest to assume an attitude of forbearance. She wanted to go away somewhere where she could think and she wanted to hide herself where Jim Horton couldn't find her. For she was sure that he would not be content to let their affair remain as she had desired it. He would come pleading with her and then – God knows what she would do. Alone, helpless – she was afraid – of herself.

The little inn in the Forest where they stopped was not far from the house of some friends of Moira's, and thither if the opportunity offered, she could go for sanctuary. But here again she felt the constant supervision of her indomitable foster-father and uncle. He recovered some of his old spirits and his old affection as he seemed to be trying to obliterate from her memory the last few weeks which had been so disastrous to them both. But she accepted these marks of his regeneration with reserve, enjoying the rest and recuperation and trying her best to forget the man she loved, praying for strength and guidance and planning the struggle for existence which must begin when this brief interlude came to an end. And so in a few days she lulled him into a sense of security and convinced him of her spirit of resignation.

She wandered off alone into the forest, and sometimes did not see him for hours at a time, but she did not attempt escape. She was thinking deeply. She was still afraid that an escape from Quinlevin meant the other – the greater danger to her soul.

It was upon her return from one of her solitary pilgrimages through the dripping woods (for the early morn had been foggy), that she learned that Barry Quinlevin was still in bed. She smiled as she thought how easily her acquiescence had disarmed him. But when she sent up a message that she had returned he sent down word that he would join her at déjeuner. Something of the old attraction toward him still remained in spite of her knowledge of his villainy. She had not yet been able to obliterate from her mind the many years of his encouragement in her work, his gentleness and the many marks of affection. In his strange way he loved her, and the fact that she now felt contempt for him did not disguise the fact that she felt a little pity too. But she knew that she must decide very soon what she would do. There were so many years to set in the balance against the present. Rogue? Yes. But full of consideration and a lively appreciation of the creature that he had made her. To cut him out of her life – root and branch – much as she had learned to despise him, was not easy. But she must do it – for her own self-respect – to-morrow – the next day…

As she thought of her problems she sank into an arm chair by the fire and picked up a copy of a morning paper, which a new visitor had just brought in from the city. It was part of Moira's purpose in hiding herself from the world to hide also the world from herself. But she picked up the Matin and in a moment was absorbed in the account of the projected Peace Conference.

But as she turned the page, her glance fell upon a familiar name – many familiar names, and in a moment, her eyes starting from her head, she read the dreadful headlines:

Then the news which followed, describing briefly (for space was valuable) the known facts regarding the mystery, the arrest of an American, James Horton, and a French woman, Piquette Morin, pending a further investigation of the mysterious crime. Apparently all the facts in the possession of the police were given, which, unless some other details of the mystery were discovered, pointed the finger of suspicion at the American, who was the twin brother of the dead man.

Moira read with growing horror the familiar address, the names of Madame Toupin and the other tenants, her own name and Barry Quinlevin's, whose absence had added to the mystery. The type danced before her eyes like the shifting colors in a kaleidoscope and then became merged and incomprehensible. Was she dreaming? With an effort, she focused again upon the damnable page, aware of this new crisis that had sought her out from the depths of her retreat.

Harry – dead – ! murdered – ! What had he been doing at the studio? There must be some mistake. Harry was at camp a hundred miles away – And Jim – Jim Horton – his murderer. The thing was impossible!..

She got up, paper in hand, and scarcely aware of what she was doing, went to her room and quickly put on her hat and coat, coming down stairs a few moments later and taking the road in the direction of the Railroad Station. She had no definite plan except to escape her uncle and get to Paris as quickly as possible. But she was aware that some instinct was guiding her. She inquired of the Station Agent when the Paris train was due. She was lucky. There would be a train in half an hour. She bought a ticket out of the slender means in her possession and waited, going over and over in her mind the terrible phrases which seemed already to have burned themselves indelibly upon her memory. The motive for the crime? There seemed to be none – "except that the two brothers had not been friendly." Motive! Harry – her husband – and Jim – ! Holy Virgin! She leaned against a tree by the roadside and wordlessly prayed. Not that motive – not that! And Jim Horton – whatever the things he had suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through her, he was not the man who could have done this thing. When she raised her head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was on her lips, a new smile of confidence and faith. She had tried him. She knew the kind of man he was. He could fight, in the open, as a brave man should, but not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his own brother in the dark.

When the train came in she was calm again and resolved. Whatever skill, whatever intelligence she had, was to be dedicated to solving this mystery, and clearing Jim Horton of all complicity in the murder. Her name was mentioned. The police required her presence. She would go to them and tell her whole story, neglecting nothing, whatever it cost her.

She stared at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing. But there was a frown at her brows and her lips were drawn together in a firm line. She was beginning to see with an inner vision, to turn over one by one the events of the last few weeks and the motives of all those concerned in them. The police did not know who had committed this crime if Jim Horton were innocent. The circumstances were such as to preclude the possibility of any one escaping from the room. And yet some one must have been there and some one, somehow, must have escaped.

Out of her own knowledge emerged a motive for a murder – not of Harry, but of his brother – a motive that had already been the cause of two abortive attempts upon his life. Somehow this thought emerged with photographic distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment more definite and more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps two lives, one of them Jim Horton's, hung upon the keenness of her vision and intelligence. If Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire, whose name had been given in the Matin, was balked in getting at the truth, she would help him. There were many things he did not know, many things that she could tell him, such as would perhaps open new vistas for investigation.

Quite calmly now she took out the paper and re-read the details, her imagination catching at neglected clues, her instinct groping, and her horror grew – not at the thought of Jim in his prison, but of other suspicions that rose from every known fact and confronted her – pointing accusing fingers.

She passed between the white columns of the entrance to the Palais de Justice, through the iron and gilt barrier and then paused, but not in any fear, for her mind was made up and her courage had come back to her with a rush that put to shame her days of uncertainty. So she approached one of the palace guards and asked to be shown to the office of the Prefet. The Prefet, she was informed, was not in the building. Would any one else do? Was it upon a matter connected with the administration of justice? She replied promptly that she came upon a matter in connection with the murder mystery in the studio at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes and the man pricked up his ears, conducting her promptly up a long flight of stone steps to the left, where he told her she would find the Juge d'Instruction. And when in reply to his question as to what name he should announce, she told him that she was Madame Horton, his interest and activity were intense. With a word to the greffier who stood near, he disappeared through a door and in a moment returned with two gentlemen who hurried forward to meet her, introducing themselves as Monsieur Simon, the Juge d'Instruction, who had taken charge of the investigation, and Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire de Police for the District in which the crime had been committed.

She followed them through the door from which they had emerged and answering their questions told her story without hesitation, from the moment of her visit to Jim Horton at the hospital at Neuilly until she had read in the morning paper of the crime.

"I came, Messieurs, because it was my duty to aid you in clearing up this mystery, and because I know that whatever the evidence you hold against him, Monsieur Horton could never have been guilty of this crime."

Monsieur Simon wagged his head sagely and plucked with slender white fingers at his dark beard.

"We are greatly indebted to you, Madame. Our agents have been looking for you. No doubt they would have found you in time, but it was wiser for you to come – much wiser. Your story is interesting and may do much to help Monsieur Matthieu in his investigation, but – "

"But you must admit, Madame," broke in the practical Commissaire, who had a reputation at stake, "that instead of tending to clear Monsieur Horton of suspicion, you have only added one more thread to the net that already enmeshes him."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?"

"His love for you – his dislike for your husband – "

Moira flushed painfully. "I have told you the truth of this matter because I believe that only by knowing the whole truth will you be able to solve this mystery. If Monsieur Horton tells you that the studio was empty, he tells you what he believes to be the truth. Why, otherwise, would he lie about a situation which must surely condemn him?"

"We have thought of all that, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "and I am willing to admit that there are several points in his testimony which are very puzzling. We have only finished his examination and that of Madame Morin, which have lasted the greater part of the morning. Both he and Madame Morin have repeated without the slightest divergence the testimony taken in the preliminary examination at the scene of the crime. I am glad to say also that their statements confirm in a general way your own in regard to what has happened in the affair of the Duc de Vautrin. The entire department of Police is now upon a search for Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and the man named Tricot, who will, of course, be given the opportunity to explain where they were last night at eight o'clock. An agent goes at once to Fontainebleau. But that does not exonerate Monsieur Horton or Madame Morin. A man has been killed in a room from which the murderer could not have emerged without detection. The door to the sleeping apartments was locked, the key on the outside, the window was sixty feet from the stone flagging below. The window and wall were carefully studied this morning after daybreak. The murderer could not have climbed down. It is impossible. Monsieur Horton admits that he did not escape by the stair. How then did he escape? The doors have been guarded. He is not there now nor did Monsieur Horton discover him either before or after the murder – "

"And yet he was there, Monsieur Simon – " said Moira, her voice gathering strength and clearness from the depth of her faith and conviction. "He was there, Monsieur le Commissaire," she repeated, "all the time. Nothing else is possible."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eyeglasses upon the palm of his hand.

"I should be very willing to believe you, Madame," he said, with polite scepticism, "had I not ocular demonstration that there could have been no one in the room at any moment between the arrival of Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin and the alarm given by Monsieur Horton himself. I have not yet exhausted every avenue of investigation, but I need not conceal from you the extreme danger of the position in which Monsieur Horton finds himself. We have a motive for the crime. Even you, Madame, have only added testimony as to that. With his brother dead, there was no obstacle to your unfortunate affection – "

"Monsieur – !" Moira had drawn back from him in dismay, her face blanched again.

"If I seem cruel, I only speak with the cold logic of the professional analyst of human motives. The fact that you are a Catholic and opposed to divorce only provides another reason why your husband should be removed from the path of Monsieur Horton – "

Everything that Moira had said seemed to be weaving more tightly the skein of evidence around the man she loved. And this thinking machine in the eyeglasses, grasped only at the threads that seemed to incriminate him. And what of the other evidence that she had presented – would they disregard that? She was trying to think clearly, connectedly, and presently managed to put her thoughts into words.

"Have you discovered how or why Monsieur Jim Horton happened to be at the studio and why if he was bent upon the murder of his own brother he took Madame Morin as a witness – "

"Or accessory – " put in Monsieur Matthieu sharply.

"That is absurd – " broke in Moira with some spirit, "and you know it."

Monsieur Simon nodded approval.

"I am glad you have made that point, Madame. It is our trade to make our witnesses uncomfortable that they may controvert themselves. But you have probed quite straight. And instead of answering your question, permit me to ask you another. Did you send a Petit Bleu to Monsieur Horton requesting him to come to your studio last night at eight o'clock?"

The expression upon Moira's face showed so genuine an astonishment that there could be no doubting the sincerity of her reply.

"I? No, Monsieur Simon. I was at Fontainebleau. Why should I ask him to come to the studio when I was not there?"

The two men exchanged glances of new interest.

"Both Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin testify that Monsieur Horton received such a message."

Moira started forward in her chair.

"What did that message say, Messieurs?"

Monsieur Simon took the blue slip from a packet of papers and laid it before her. With eyes dilated, she read the message that was signed with her name. Then for a moment frowned deeply, staring at this confirmation of her suspicion.

"What do you think, Madame?" asked Simon.

Moira was silent for a moment, struggling for the mastery of her emotions. And then in a suppressed tone, barely audible,

"It is as I supposed, Messieurs. Monsieur Jim Horton was lured to the studio by this message and – my husband – was killed by mistake in his stead."

"By whom, Madame?" asked the Judge quickly.

Moira made a nervous gesture of recantation.

"I – I do not know. It is horrible to suspect without further proof. I – I cannot say."

"Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"That's impossible. He was at Fontainebleau."

"Then who – ?"

"That's for you to find out. I did not come to accuse – but to liberate. Search! Find! Let their own words convict them," she said wildly. "I cannot. I only know that Monsieur Horton did not kill my husband. That is impossible."

Monsieur Matthieu, who had listened for most of the while in silence, now rose and took a pace or two before her, tapping his glasses quickly against his palm.

"Madame Horton, let us confine ourselves to the physical evidence that confronts us. No one could have been in that studio between the moment when Monsieur Jim Horton and Madame Morin say they left it until they say they returned some moments later. That is the fact. I know. It is my business to neglect nothing. I haveneglected nothing. Therefore I tell you that no matter whom you suspect to have committed this murder, no matter whom Monsieur Simon or I might believe to have had a motive in committing it, the fact remains that he could not have entered the studio or departed from it during the short period in which this crime was committed. And I say to you now that no human being except Monsieur Horton could have been present to commit this murder."