Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

In a courageous moment, a day or so later, the patient requested Nurse Newberry to try to get what information she could as to the whereabouts of his cousin, Corporal James Horton, B Company, – th Engineers, and waited with some impatience and anxiety the result of her inquiries. She discovered that Corporal James Horton had been last seen in the fight for Boissière Wood, but was now reported as missing.

Missing!

The blank expression on the face of her patient was rather pitiful.

"It probably means that he's a prisoner. He may be all right. H.Q. is pretty cold-blooded with its information."

But the patient knew that Corporal Horton wasn't a prisoner. If he was missing, it was because he had gone to the rear – nothing less than a deserter. Nevertheless the information, even indefinite as it was, brought him comfort. He clung rather greedily to its very indefiniteness. In the eyes of the army or of the world "missing" meant "dead" or "prisoner," and until Harry revealed himself, the good name of the corporal of Engineers was safe. That was something.

And the information brought the wounded man abruptly to the point of realizing that he was now definitely committed to play the role he had unwittingly chosen. He had done his best to explain, but they hadn't listened to him. And when confronted with the only witnesses whose opinions seemed to matter (always excepting Harry himself), he had miserably failed in carrying out his first intentions. He tried to think of the whole thing as a joke, but he found himself confronted with possibilities which were far from amusing.

The slate-blue Irish eyes of Harry's war-bride haunted him. They were eyes meant to be tender and yet were not. Her fine lips were meant for the full throated laughter of happiness, and yet had only wreathed in faint uncertain smiles.

Barry Quinlevin was a less agreeable figure to contemplate. If Jim Horton hadn't read his letter to Harry he would have found it easier to be beguiled by the man's genial air of good fellowship and sympathy, but he couldn't forget the incautious phrases of that communication, and having first formed an unfavorable impression, found no desire to correct it.

To his surprise it was Moira who came the following week to the hospital at Neuilly on visitors' day. Jim Horton had decided on a course of action, but when she approached his bed, all redolent with the joy of out of doors, he quite forgot what he meant to say to her. In Moira, too, he seemed to feel an effort to do her duty to him with a good grace, which almost if not quite effaced the impression of her earlier visit. She took his thin hand in her own for a moment while she examined him with a kindly interest, which he repaid with a fraternal smile.

"Father sent me in his place," she said. "I've put him to bed with a cold."

"I'm so glad – " said Horton, and then stopped with a short laugh. "I mean – I'm glad you're here. I'm sorry he's ill. Nothing serious?"

"Oh, no. He's a bit run down, that's all. And you – you're feeling better?"

He liked the soft way she slithered over the last syllable.

"Oh, yes – of course."

All the while he felt her level gaze upon him, cool and intensely serious.

"You are out of danger entirely, they tell me. I see they've taken the bandage off."

"Yesterday," he said. "I'm coming along very fast."

"I'm glad."

"They promise before long that I can get out into the air in a wheel-chair."

"That will do you all the good in the world."

In spite of himself, he knew that his eyes were regarding her too intently, noting the well modeled nose, the short upper lip, firm red mouth and resolute chin, all tempered with the softness of youth and exquisite femininity. He saw her chin lowered slightly as her gaze dropped and turned aside while the slightest possible compression of her lips indicated a thought in which he could have no share.

"I have brought you some roses," she said quietly.

"They are very beautiful. They will remind me of you until you come again."

The sudden raising of her eyes as she looked at him over the blossoms was something of a revelation, for they smiled at him with splendid directness.

"You are improving," she laughed, "or you've a Blarney Stone under the pillow. I can't remember when you've said anything so nice as that at all."

He was thoughtful for a moment.

"Perhaps I have a new vision," he said at last. "The bullet in my head may have helped. It has probably affected my optic nerve."

She smiled with him.

"You really do seem different, somehow," she broke in. "I can't exactly explain it. Perhaps it's the pallor that makes the eyes look dark and your voice – it's softer – entirely."

"Really – !" he muttered, uncomfortably, his gaze on the gray blanket. "Well, you see, I suppose it's what I've been through. My eyes would seem darker, wouldn't they, against white, and then my voice – er – it isn't very strong yet."

"Yes, that's it," she replied.

Her eyes daunted him from his purpose a little, and he knew that he would have to use extreme caution, but he had resolved whatever came to see the game through. After all, if she discovered his secret, it was only what he had tried in vain to tell her.

"I'm sure of it," he went on. "When a fellow comes as near death as I've been, it makes him different. I seem to think in a new way about a lot of things – you, for instance."

"Me – ?" He fancied that there was a hard note in her voice, a little toss, scarcely perceptible, of the rounded chin.

"Yes. You see, you oughtn't ever to have married me. You're too good for me. I'm just a plain rotter and you – oh, what's the use?"

He paused, hoping that she would speak. She did, after a silence and a shrug.

"Father wanted it. It was one way of paying what he owed you. I don't know how much that was, but I'm still thinking I went pretty cheap." She halted abruptly and then went on coolly, "I didn't come here to be thinking unpleasant thoughts – or to be uttering them. So long as we understand each other – "

"We do," he put in eagerly, almost appealingly. "I want you to believe that I have no claim upon you – that my – my relations with Barry Quinlevin will have nothing to do with you."

"And if I fell in love with another man – That never seems to have occurred to either of you – "

He laughed her soberness aside. "As far as I'm concerned, divorce or suicide. I'll leave the choice to you."

He gained his purpose, which was to bring the smile to her lips again.

"Your wounds have inoculated you with a sense of humor, at any rate," she said, fingering the roses. "You've always been lacking in that, you know."

"I feel that I can laugh at them now. But it might have been better for you if I hadn't come out of the ether."

"No. I don't like your saying that. I haven't the slightest intention of falling in love with any man at all. I shan't be wanting to marry – really marry – " she added, coloring a little. "I've begun my work. It needed Paris again. And I'm going to succeed. You'll see."

"I haven't a doubt of it. You were made for success – and for happiness."

"Sure and I think that I was – now that you mention it," she put in quaintly.

"I won't bother you. You can be certain of that," he finished positively. And then cautiously, "Things have not gone well – financially, I mean?"

"No. And of course father's worried about it. Our income from Ireland has stopped coming – something about repairs, he says. But then, I suppose we will get it again some day. Dad never did tell me anything, you know."

Horton thought for a moment.

"He doesn't want to worry you, of course. And you oughtn't to be worried. Things will come out all right."

"I intend that they shall. Father always gave me the best when he had it. I'll see that he doesn't suffer now."

"But that's my job, Moira. We'll get some money together – some way – when I get out."

"Thanks. But I'm hoping to do a lot of painting. I've got one portrait to begin on – and it doesn't cost much in the Quartier."

Horton sat up in bed and looked out of the window.

"I'll get money," he said. "Don't you worry."

He saw her eyes studying him quietly and he sank back at once in bed out of the glare of the sunlight. He wondered if he had gone too far. But he had found out one of the things that he had wanted to know. She knew nothing of what Barry Quinlevin was doing.

Her next remark was disquieting.

"It's very strange, the way I'm thinking about you. You've grown different in the army – or is it the sickness? There's a sweeter look to your mouth, and a firmer turn to your jaw. Your gaze is wider and your heart has grown soft, with the suffering. It's like another man, I'm seeing somehow, Harry, and I'm glad."

"Suffering – yes, perhaps," he muttered.

She leaned forward impulsively and put her hand over his, smiling brightly at him.

"We'll be good friends now, alanah. I'm sure of it."

"You like me a little better – ?"

"Sure and I wouldn't be sitting here holding hands if I didn't," she laughed. Then with a quick glance at her wrist watch she rose. "And now I must be going back to father. Here is the nurse. Time is up."

"You will come soon again?" he asked slowly.

"Yes – with better news, I hope. Au revoir, mon brave."

And she was gone.

The visit gave him more food for thought. But he hadn't learned much. What he did know now was that the girl Moira trusted Barry Quinlevin implicitly and that he had managed to keep her in ignorance as to the real sources of his livelihood. The Irish rents had failed to reach them! Were there any Irish rents? And if so, what had "de V" to do with them? He took Quinlevin's letter from under the pillow and re-read it carefully. Nothing about Irish rents there. Perhaps other letters had followed, that Harry had destroyed. In any case he would have to play the game carefully with the girl's father or Quinlevin would find him out before Horton discovered what he wanted to know. The quiet eyes of the girl Moira disturbed him. Her eyes, her intuitions, were shrewd, yet he had succeeded so far. If he could pass muster with the daughter, why shouldn't he succeed with the father? The weakness, the failing memory of a sick man, could be trusted to bridge difficulties. If there had only been a few more letters he would have been better equipped for the interview with Barry Quinlevin, which must soon follow. He inquired of Miss Newberry, but she had given him everything that had been found in his uniform. He scrutinized the notebook carefully, which contained only an expense account, some addresses in Paris, and a few military notes, and so he discarded it. It seemed that until Quinlevin came to the hospital "de V" must remain one of the unsolved mysteries of his versatile brother.

But Moira's innocence, while it failed to enlighten him as to the mystery, made him more certain that her loveless marriage with Harry had something to do with the suspected intrigue. Did Harry love the girl? It seemed scarcely possible that any man who was half a man could be much with her without loving her. It wasn't like Harry to marry any girl unless he had something to gain by it. The conversation he had just had with Moira showed exactly the relationship between them, if he had needed any further evidence than her letter.

As to his own personal relations with Moira, he found it necessary to fortify himself against a more than strictly fraternal interest in her personality. She was extremely agreeable to look at and he had to admit that her very presence had cheered up his particular part of the hospital ward amazingly. Her quaintness, her quiet directness and her modest demeanor, were inherent characteristics, but they could not disguise the overflowing vitality and humor that struggled against the limitations she had imposed. Her roses, which Nurse Newberry had arranged in a bowl by the bedside, were unnecessary reminders of the giver. Like them, she was fragrant, pristine and beautiful – altogether a much-to-be-desired sister-in-law.

The visit of Barry Quinlevin was not long delayed and Jim Horton received him in his wheel chair by an open window in the convalescent ward. He came in with a white silk handkerchief tied about his neck, but barring a husky voice showed no ill effects of his indisposition. He was an amiable looking rogue, and if the shade of Whistler will forgive me, resembled much that illustrious person in all the physical graces. It would be quite easy to imagine that Barry Quinlevin could be quite as dangerous an enemy.

"Well, Harry boy, here I am," he announced, throwing open his coat with something of an air, and loosening his scarf. "No worse than the devil made me. And ye're well again, they tell me, or so near it that ye're no longer interesting."

"Stronger every day," replied Horton cautiously.

"Then we can have a talk, maybe, without danger of it breaking the spring in yer belfry?"

"Ah, yes, – but I'm a bit hazy at times," added Horton.

"Well, when the fog comes down, say the word and I'll be going."

"Don't worry. I want to hear the news."

Quinlevin frowned at his walking stick. "It's little enough, God knows." Then glanced toward the invalid at the next window and lowered his voice a trifle.

"The spalpeen says not a word – or he's afflicted with pen-paralysis, for I've written him three times – twice since I reached Paris, giving him the address. So we'll have to make a move."

"What will you do?"

"Go to see him – or you can. At first, ye see, I thought maybe he'd gone away or died or something. But I watched the Hôtel de Vautrin in the Rue de Bac until I saw him with my own eyes. That's how I took this bronchitis – in the night air with devil a drink within a mile of me. I saw him, I tell you, as hale and hearty as ye please, and debonair like a new laid egg, with me, Barry Quinlevin, in the rain, not four paces from the carriage way."

The visitor paused as though for a comment, and Horton offered it.

"He didn't see you?"

"Devil a one of me. For the moment I thought of bracing him then and there. But I didn't – though I was reduced to a small matter of a hundred francs or so."

"Things are as bad as that – ?"

Quinlevin shrugged. "I bettered myself a bit the next night and I'll find a way – "

He broke off with a shrug.

"But I'm not going to be wasting my talents on the little officer-boys in Guillaume's. Besides, 'twould be most unpatriotic. I'm out for bigger game, me son, that spells itself in seven figures. Nothing less than a coup d'état will satisfy the ambitions of Barry Quinlevin!"

"Well?" asked Horton shrewdly.

"For the present ye're to stay where ye are, till yer head is as tight as a drum, giving me the benefit of yer sage advice. We'll worry along. The rent of the apartment and studio is a meager two hundred francs and the food – well, we will eat enough. And Moira has some work to do. But we can't be letting the Duc forget I've ever existed. A man with a reputation in jeopardy and twenty millions of francs, you'll admit, is not to be found growing on every mulberry bush."

Horton nodded. It was blackmail then. The Duc de Vautrin —

"You wrote that you had a plan," he said. "What is it?"

Barry Quinlevin waved a careless hand.

"Fair means, as one gentleman uses to another, if he explains his negligence and remits the small balance due. Otherwise, we'll have to squeeze him. A letter from a good lawyer – if it wasn't for the testimony of Nora Burke!"

He was silent in a moment of puzzled retrospection and his glittering generalities only piqued Jim Horton's curiosity, so that his eagerness led him into an error that nearly undid him.

"Nora Burke – " he put in slowly.

"I wrote ye what happened – "

"I couldn't have received the letter – "

He stopped abruptly, for Quinlevin was staring at him in astonishment.

"Then how the devil could ye have answered it?"

Horton covered the awkward moment by closing his eyes and passing his fingers across his brow.

"Answered it! Funny I don't remember."

The Irishman regarded him a moment soberly, and then smiled in deprecation.

"Of course – ye've slipped a cog – "

Then suddenly he clapped a hand on Horton's knee.

"Why, man alive, – Nora Burke – the Irish nurse who provides the necessary testimony – Moira's nurse, d'ye mind, when she was a baby, who saw the Duc's child die – now do ye remember – ?"

Horton ran his fingers over his hair thoughtfully and bent his head again.

"Nora Burke – Moira's nurse – who saw the Duc's child die," he repeated parrot-like, "and the Duc – de Vautrin – " he muttered and paused.

"Thinks his child by this early marriage is still alive – " said Quinlevin, regarding him dubiously.

"Yes, yes," said Horton eagerly. "It's coming back to me now. And de Vautrin's money – "

"He'll pay through the nose to keep the thing quiet – unless – "

Barry Quinlevin paused.

"Unless – what?"

There was a moment of silence in which the visitor frowned out of the window.

"I don't like the look of things, I tell ye, Harry. Ye're in no fit shape to help 'til the fog clears up, but I've a mind that somebody's slipped a finger into the pie. Nora Burke wants more money – five hundred pounds to tell a straight story and where I'm going to get it – the devil himself only knows."

"Nora Burke – five hundred pounds!" muttered Horton vaguely, for he was thinking deeply, "that's a lot of money."

"Ye're right – when ye haven't got it. And de Vautrin's shutting down at the same time. It looks suspicious, I tell ye."

He broke off and fixed his iridescent gaze on Horton. "Ye're sure ye said nothing to any one in Paris before ye went to the front?"

Of this at least Jim Horton was sure.

"Nothing," he replied.

"Not to Piquette Morin?"

Here was dangerous ground again.

"Nothing," he repeated slowly, "nothing."

"And ye wouldn't be remembering it if ye had," said Quinlevin peevishly as he rose. "Oh, well – I'll have to raise this money some way or go to Galway to put the gag on Nora Burke until we play the trick – "

"I – I'm sorry I can't help – " said Horton, "but you see – I'm not – "

"Oh, yes, I see," said Quinlevin more affably. "I shouldn't be bothering ye so soon, but may the devil take me if I know which way to turn."

"Will you see de Vautrin?"

"Perhaps. But I may go to Ireland first. I've got to do some thinking – alone. Good bye. Ye're not up to the mark. Be careful when Moira comes, or ye may let the cat out of the bag. D'ye hear?"

"Don't worry – I won't," said Horton soberly.

He watched the tall figure of Quinlevin until it disappeared into the outer hall and then turned a frowning gaze out of the window.

CHAPTER III
THE GOOSE

Jim Horton had had a narrow escape from discovery. But in spite of his precarious position and the pitfalls that seemed to lay to right and left, he had become, if anything, more determined than ever to follow the fate to which he had committed himself. There now seemed no doubt that Moira was in all innocence involved in some way in the blackmailing scheme which had been the main source of livelihood for the Quinlevin family for many years. And Moira did not know, for the Duc de Vautrin, of course, was the source of the Irish rents to which she had alluded. And now he was refusing to pay.

It was clear that something unpleasant hung in the air, an ill wind for the Duc de Vautrin and for the plotters, Moira's father and Jim Horton's precious brother. And it seemed quite necessary in the interests of honesty that he, Jim Horton, should remain for the present in the game and divert if possible the currents of evil which encompassed his interesting sister-in-law.

One thing he had learned – that by taking refuge behind the barriers of his failing memory, it might be possible to keep up the deception, at least until he was out of the hospital and a crisis of some sort came to relieve him of his responsibility. Indeed there was something most agreeable in the friendly regard of his brother's loveless wife, and under other circumstances, the calls of this charming person would have been the source of unalloyed delight. For as the days passed, more and more she threw off the restraint of her earlier visits and they had now reached a relationship of understanding and good-fellowship, most delightful and unusual in its informality.

Jim Horton was progressing rapidly and except for occasional lapses of memory, easily explained and perfectly understood by his visitors, gained health and strength until it was no longer a question of weeks but of days when he should be able to leave the hospital and accept the invitation of his newly discovered relatives to visit the studio apartment. He had made further efforts through the hospital authorities to find some trace of the missing man but without success, and in default of any definite plan of action chose to follow the line of least resistance until something should happen. Barry Quinlevin visited him twice, but spoke little of the affair of the Duc de Vautrin which it seemed was being held in abeyance for the moment, preferring to wait until the brain and body of the injured man could help him to plan and to execute. And Jim Horton, finding that safety lay in silence or fatigue, did little further to encourage his confidences.

Thus it was that after several weeks he impatiently awaited Moira outside the hospital. It was a gorgeous afternoon of blue and gold with the haze of Indian Summer hanging lazily over the peaceful autumn landscape. An aromatic odor of burning leaves was in the air and about him aged men and women worked in road and garden as though the alarms of war had never come to their ears. The signing of the armistice, which had taken place while Horton was still in his bed, had been the cause of much quiet joy throughout the hospital. But with the return of health, Jim Horton had begun wondering what effect the peace was to have upon his strange fortunes – and upon Harry's. He knew that for the present he had been granted a furlough which he was to spend with the Quinlevins in Paris, but after that, what was to happen? He was a little dubious too about his relations with Moira… But when he saw her coming down the path to the open air pavilion with Nurse Newberry, all flushed with the prospect of carrying him off in triumph in the ancient fiacre from which she had descended, he could not deny a thrill of pleasure that was not all fraternal.

"Behold, mon ami," she cried in greeting, "I've come to take you prisoner."

He laughed gayly as he took her hand.

"And there's a goose in the pantry, bought at a fabulous price, just waiting for the pan – "

"Be sure you don't kill your prisoner with kindness," put in Nurse Newberry.

"I'll take that risk," said Horton genially.

"Sure and he must," put in Moira. "It isn't every day one brings a conquering hero home."

"Especially when he's your husband," said the artless Miss Newberry wistfully.

Jim Horton had a glimpse of the color that ran like a flame up Moira's throat to her brow but he glanced quickly away and busied himself with a buckle at his belt.

"I want to thank you, Miss Newberry," he said soberly, "for all that you've done for me. I'll never forget."

"Nor I, Lieutenant Horton. But you're in better hands than mine now. A week or so and you'll be as strong as ever."

"I've never felt better in my life," he replied.

They moved toward the conveyance, shook hands with the nurse, and with Harry's baggage (which had just been sent down from regimental headquarters) upon the box beside the rubicund and rotund cocher, they drove out of the gates and toward the long finger of the Eiffel Tower which seemed to be beckoning to them across the blue haze above the roof tops.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. In the ward, in the convalescent rooms or even in the grounds of the hospital, Moira had been a visitor with a mission of charity and cheer. Here in the fiacre the basis of their relationship seemed suddenly and quite mysteriously to change. Whether Moira felt it or not he did not know, for she looked out of her window at the passing scene and her partly averted profile revealed nothing of her thoughts. But the fact that they were for the first time really alone and driving to Moira's Paris apartment gave him a qualm of guilt on account of the impossible situation that he had created. He had, he thought, shown her deep gratitude and respect – and had succeeded in winning the friendship that Harry had perhaps taken too much for granted. It had given Jim Horton pleasure to think that Moira now really liked him for himself alone, and the whole-heartedness of her good fellowship had given him every token of her spirit of conciliation. She had had her moods of reserve before, like the one of her present silence, but the abundance of her vitality and sense of humor had responded unconsciously to his own and they had drawn closer with the artless grace of two children thrown upon their own resources. And now, here in the ramshackle vehicle, for the first time alone, Jim Horton would have very much liked to take her by the hand (which lay most temptingly upon the seat beside him) and tell her the truth. But that meant Harry's disgrace – the anguish of her discovering that such a friendship as this with her own husband could never be; for in her eyes Jim Horton had seen her own courage and a contempt for all things that Harry was or could ever hope to be. And so, with an effort he folded his arms resolutely and stared out of his window.

It was then that her voice recalled him.

"Can't you smell that goose, Harry dear?" she said.

He flashed a quick smile at her.

"Just can't I!" he laughed.

"And you're to help me cook it – and vegetables and coffee. You know" – she finished, "nothing ever tastes quite so good as when you cook it yourself."

"And you do all the cooking – ?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Sometimes – but more often we go to a café. Sometimes Madame Toupin helps, the concierge– but father thinks my cooking is the best."

"I don't doubt it. I shall, too." And then, "where is your father to-day?"

She looked at him, eyes wide as though suddenly reminded.

"I forgot," she gasped. "He asked me to tell you that he was obliged to be leaving for Ireland – about the Irish rents. Isn't it tiresome?"

"Oh," said Horton quietly. "I see."

He turned his thoughtful gaze out of the carriage window into the Avenue de Neuilly. The situation had its charm, but he had counted on the presence of Barry Quinlevin.

"How long will he be gone?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied, "a week or more perhaps. But I'll try to make you comfortable. I've wanted so to have everything nice."

He smiled at her warmth. "You forget that – that I've learned to be a soldier, Moira. A blanket on the floor of the studio and I'll be as happy as a king – "

"No. You shall have the best that there is – the very best —mon ami– "

"I don't propose to let you work for me, Moira. I can get some money. I can find a pension somewhere near and – "

She turned toward him suddenly, her eyes very close to tears. "Do you wish to make me unhappy – when I've tried so hard to – to – "

"Moira!" He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, "I didn't mean – "

"I've wanted so for you to forget how unkind I had been to you – to make this seem like a real homecoming after all you've been through. And now to hear you talking of going to a pension– "

"Moira – I thought it might be inconvenient – that it might be more pleasant for you – "

He broke down miserably. She released her fingers gently and turned away. "Sure Alanah, and I think that I should be the judge of that," she said.

"We'll say no more about it," he muttered. "But I – I'm very grateful."

Moira's lips wreathed into an adorable smile.

"I've been thinking the war has done something to you, Harry. And now I'm sure of it. You've been learning to think of somebody beside yourself."

"I'd be pretty rotten if I hadn't learned to do some thinking about you," he said, as he looked into her eyes with more hardihood than wisdom.

She met his gaze for the fraction of a minute and then raised her chin and laughed merrily up at the broad back of the cocher.

"Yes, you've changed, Harry dear. God knows how or why – but you've changed. You'll be paying me some compliments upon my pulchritude and heavenly virtues by and by."

"Why shouldn't I?" he insisted soberly when her laughter subsided. "Your loveliness is only the outward and visible sign of the inward and spiritual grace. I'm so sure of it that I don't care whether you laugh or not."

"Am I lovely? You think so? Well – it's nice to hear even if it only makes conversation. Also that my nose is not so bad, even if it does turn piously to Heaven – but there's a deep dent in my chin which means that I've got a bit of the devil in me – bad cess to him – so that you'd better do just what I want you to – or we'll have a falling out. And that would be a pity – because of the goose."

He laughed as gayly as she had done.

"I've a notion, Moira," he said, "that it's my goose you're going to cook."

"And I've a notion," she said poising a slim gloved finger for a second upon his knee, "I've a notion that we're both going to cook him."

It seemed too much like a prophecy to be quite to his liking. Her moods were Protean and her rapid transitions bewildered. And yet, under them all, he realized how sane she was, how honest with him and with herself and how free from any guile. She trusted him entirely as one good friend would trust another and the thought of any evil coming to her through his strange venture into Harry's shoes made him most unhappy. But her pretty dream of a husband with whom she could at least be on terms of friendship must some day come to an end … And yet … suppose the report that Harry was missing meant that he was dead. A bit of shrapnel – a bullet – he didn't wish it – but that chance was within the range of the possible.

They had passed down the avenue of the Grande Armée, into the place de l'Étoile, and were now in the magnificent reaches of the Champs Élysées. Jim Horton had only been in Paris for five hours between trains, little more than long enough to open an account at a bank, but Moira chattered on gayly with the point of view of an intime, showing him the places which they must visit together, throwing in a word of history here, an incident or adventure there, giving the places they passed, the personality of her point of view, highly tinged with the artist's idealism. From her talk he gathered that she had lived much in Paris during all her student days and except for the little corner in Ireland where she had been born and which she had visited from time to time, loved it better than any place in the world.