Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

More than once she lost sight of him as he plunged deeper and deeper into the maze and she paused trembling in the shadows, not knowing which way to turn, but gathering courage again hurried on to catch the glint of a street light on his brown overcoat in the distance.

Above the roofs, almost hanging over her, she caught a glimpse of the grim towers of Notre Dame, the sentinels of a thousand years of time, and the sight of them gave her courage in this region of despair. With an effort she threw off her terror of the evil that seemed to hang in every shadow, trying to remember that this was Paris, her Paris, with familiar places close at hand; and that this man whom she followed was no creature of the middle ages, but Harry, her husband; that this was the Twentieth Century, and that here was the very heart of the civilization of the world. But the facts that had come to her were amazing, and Harry's confessions damnable. It was clear that his position was desperate and his intentions none less so. Here somewhere, hidden, she believed, Jim Horton lay, helpless and injured, if not by his brother's hand by that of some one in his employ. It was the only answer to the riddle of his failure to come back to her. She must find him – before they took him away – before they … Her thoughts terrified her again. Harry wouldn't dare. He was a coward at heart. She knew it now. Besides, there must be some spark of decency and manhood left to restrain him from so desperate, so terrible an expedient to save himself.

She crept cautiously to the corner of a small street into which Harry Horton had turned. It was scarcely more than an alley-way – a vestige of the old city, hedged in by squat stone houses with peaked roofs, deserted it seemed and unoccupied. Beyond she could see the Quai, the loom of the Hôtel Dieu and Notre Dame. The house at which he had stopped was but a few yards from the river front. She stole into the blackness of an angle of wall and watched. He was knocking upon the door – three quick taps followed by two slower ones. For awhile he waited impatiently and then, as no one answered the summons, he tried the window and then started up a small passage at the side not twenty feet from where she crouched.

Her pulses were throbbing violently, but the terror of her surroundings had passed. And she tried to convince herself that she did not fear Harry… And yet she hesitated to confront him, fascinated by her discovery… The brother – Jim – was here – she was as sure of it as though she had seen him. She knew that she must intercede in some way, but she was very helpless. How many were there in this house? And if she revealed herself, would not the warning give them time to carry out whatever plan they had in mind? And so she crouched watching, breathless and uncertain.

She saw him go back to the door and repeat the knock more loudly, cursing under his breath and, calling a name at the key-hole.

"Tricot!" he called. "Tricot! Tricot!"

And in a moment she heard a sound at the door, which was opened a few inches.

"C'est moi, Tricot," she heard Harry say, and then the door was opened wide, giving her a glimpse of a short man with tousled hair and a diabolic face, holding a lantern.

"Oh, Monsieur– " growled the man with the lantern, stepping aside as Harry Horton entered. And just as Moira sprang up, her husband's name on her lips, the door was closed and bolted. She ran to it and then paused in uncertainty, trying to plan what it was best to do. She felt very small, very helpless, for the sight of the villainous looking man with the lantern frightened her terribly. He seemed to typify all the evil in all the world – to explain in a glimpse all that was sinister and terrifying in the disappearance of Jim Horton. An ugly creature of the world of underground, an apache! There were others like him here. And Harry…

There was no time to be lost. Her thoughts seemed to clear, her courage to return as she cautiously returned by the way that she had come – out into the wider street, up which she hurried, turning in the direction of the Boule' Miche'. Her one idea now was to find a policeman, – any one with a vestige of authority. Men she met but she shrank away from them as she saw what they were and what they thought she was. Ten – fifteen minutes of rapid searching without result and she turned toward the Quai and, failing there, over the Petit Pont to the Island and the Prefecture de Police. It was curious that she had not thought of it before. The buildings were dark but she found at last a man in uniform to whom excitedly she told her story. He listened with maddening politeness and at last took her to an office where several other men in uniform were sitting around a stove. More alarmed than ever at the passage of time, she told her story again. Here she seemed to make some impression at last, for an older man, who sat at a desk, finally aroused himself and gave some orders. And in a few moments with two of the policemen she was leading the way back to the Quai St. Michel. She was almost running now in her eagerness so that the men had to take their longest strides to keep up with her, but more than ten minutes had already passed, it seemed an eternity to Moira, and there was still some distance to go.

"What was the name this man spoke at the door?" asked one of the policemen.

She told him.

"Ah, Tricot! Parbleu! I think perhaps, Mademoiselle, that there may be some reason in your anxiety."

"You know – ?"

"An apache of the old régime, Mademoiselle. We would do well to find him."

And so, explaining her fears, but not yet revealing all the reasons for them, she led the way down the streets by which she had come and to the house which Harry Horton had entered.

The older man knocked loudly upon the door. There was no response. Again. Silence. The other man went up the alley way on the side and called to them. There was a shutter and a window open. Without hesitation, he drew a weapon and crawled over the sill, the other man following, leaving Moira alone. She listened, as they moved about inside, saw the glint of an electric torch and then heard the bolts of the door shot back and the police officer calling to her.

"Enter, Mademoiselle," he said, when she had come around. "You are sure that this is the house?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"There is no one here. The house is deserted. It is a street of deserted houses."

"That is impossible – " she stammered. "With my own eyes, less than an hour ago, this Tricot met the other at the door."

"Allons! We will search a little further, then."

She followed them up the rickety stairway and then they found evidences of recent occupation – two pallets of straw – some food – a bottle containing absinthe.

"Mademoiselle, you are right. This bottle is not yet empty. There's something suspicious here."

And now moving with more rapidity they explored the house thoroughly, descending at last into the cellar, with, weapons drawn, Moira, half-hoping, half-fearing, following just behind them, her gaze searching the shadows. The place smelled of the earth and the walls were damp to the touch, but a quick examination with the torch showed the marks of many foot-prints in the earthen floor. The astonishing feature of the cellar was its size, for it seemed to extend under two houses, and its vaulted ceiling of rough stone of great antiquity was upheld by huge piers, that might at one time have supported the walls of a great edifice. At first they could make out nothing but a litter of papers, bottles and packing cases, but as the torch of the police officer searched the shadows in a distant corner, they heard his exclamation of astonishment. There was another pallet of straw here covered with rags and quite distinctly there came to their nostrils the odor of chloroform. Moira peering over the shoulders of the man with the light saw him bend over and pick up a rag and examine it carefully. There were dark stains upon it. And then with another exclamation he picked up some pieces of rope.

"Some one lay here but a short while ago," he muttered positively, "tied hand and foot. The bed is still warm."

"They can't have gone far then – "

"But the door was bolted on the inside – "

"The window – "

"There would hardly have been time, is it not so, Mademoiselle?"

"I don't know," whispered Moira in dismay. "Is there no outlet to this place? There must be. The light, Monsieur – yonder, in the corners beyond the stone-work – "

The man with the torch, his professional instincts now thoroughly alive, obeyed. They sounded the walls, first one side and then on the other, coming at last, in the further corner, toward the river, upon a stone arch over some steps leading into a dark opening. The man who held the light suddenly extinguished it and a warning sound came from his lips.

"Listen," he whispered.

Scarcely able to breathe, Moira obeyed. From the passage-way at a distance, there came the sounds of voices.

"Come, follow me, Dupuy! Mademoiselle had better remain."

And with that, turning his light into the dark hole, he descended, the other following. But the thought of remaining alone in this terrible house frightened her and she clutched at the hand of the second policeman.

"I dare not stay here, Monsieur. I must go with you."

"Bien. But I warn you it may be dangerous."

And yet what could be more dangerous than remaining in the cellar of the apache, Tricot? With shaking limbs she followed down the passage, stumbling and clinging to the shoulder of the gallant policeman. The man who led them disappeared beyond a turn in the passage, but they reached it and as they turned the corner felt the chill of the night air beating in their faces. And in a moment they came out on the shore of the river near a boat landing.

"Tonnerre de Dieu!" shouted the man with the light, and started running toward the steps that led to the Quai above. The other had reached the boat landing and stared for a moment down into the dark mists above the river. Then he ran up the steps after his companion.

Frightened and mystified, Moira followed up the steps where after a moment the two men joined her.

"We have missed them. We were too late – "

"But the captive – the prisoner," pleaded Moira, in an agony of apprehension.

"That's the point – the prisoner," said the younger man. "Wait a moment, Mademoiselle."

And he ran down the steps to the boat landing again, peering eagerly down the stream. Already far away, merely a blotch in the shadows beyond the Pont Neuf, there was a boat at the Quai du Louvre.

"Vite, Dupuy. There may be yet time."

And the two of them started running toward the distant bridge, leaving Moira to follow as fast as she could.

When Moira reached them on the opposite side of the river, breathless and almost dead of apprehension, they were questioning a man on the Quai du Louvre. He reported that a man had attempted suicide by drowning and that a woman had saved him just as he was about to leap into the water. She herself had asked his assistance and together they had hailed a passing fiacre in which the woman had driven away.

"Did you notice anything extraordinary about the rescued man?" questioned Dupuy.

"Nothing, except that he was very pale. Also that there was an odor of chloroform on his clothing."

"Chloroform! Are you sure?"

The man shrugged. "You may smell for yourself."

And he extended a hand and arm upon which the odor was unmistakable.

She heard the officer take the address of the witness and then turn to her.

"Mademoiselle is no doubt weary. There is nothing more that can be done to-night. If you will permit me to conduct you home."

A woman? Who?

Moira nodded in a bewildered way.

"A fiacre, Monsieur, if you please," she stammered. "I – I am very tired."

CHAPTER IX
PIQUETTE TAKES A HAND

As Monsieur Valcourt, the sculptor, had said, Piquette Morin was a gamine. She liked the warm nest in the Boulevard Clichy, with which the Duc de Vautrin had provided her, because it satisfied a craving for the creature comforts which she had been so long denied, and because it filled the hearts of other young women of her acquaintance with envy. But she was not happy. After all was she not young and had she not her life to live?

It was enough indeed to have grown in a few short years from a seller of flowers and a model for the figure into a lady of fashion, but her heart was still in the Rive Gauche and there she went when she pleased, searching out her old haunts, and the companions of her days of want, with whom she could throw off the restraint of her gilded cage and laugh with an open throat at the ancient jests and dance her way again into happiness. Life she loved, all shades of it, from the somber in which she had been born to the brilliant artificial high lights of café and restaurant. All sorts of people she knew – cochers, bandits, dancers, poet-singers, satirists, artists, journalists, and she rejoiced in them for what they taught her of the grande vie.

Quite unhampered by morals of any sort, trusting entirely to her impulses, which were often good, the creature of her birth and surroundings, she was a pupil in the school of the world, speaking, after a fashion, three languages. She discovered that she had a brain, and the war had made her think. Without the help of the Americans, France must fall, and so when they came she rejoiced in their splendid soldierly appearance and the promise they gave of rescue and help for France. She met Harry Horton in the Taverne du Pantheon. He was quite drunk and didn't seem to have any Hôtel, so she took him to the Boulevard Clichy in a fiacre and put him to bed. According to her own lights, it was the only natural, the only decent thing for her to do.

Thus it happened that Harry Horton found himself, to his surprise, on excellent terms with a friend of the Duc de Vautrin, about whom Barry Quinlevin had been writing him, the source of the Irishman's income. In a reckless moment he confided to Piquette Barry Quinlevin's secret. And as the Duc de Vautrin had provoked her that afternoon by refusing her the money for a hat that she particularly admired, she turned against her patron, entering with interest into a plan which eventually seemed to promise much. That she repented of her disloyalty the next day when Monsieur de Vautrin relented was a disappointment to Harry Horton, who saw a way in which she could be useful to him. Also, Harry Horton was sure that he had talked too much, for it was hardly safe to make a confidante of a weathervane.

When Harry Horton left Paris to join his regiment, Piquette shrugged her pretty shoulders and in a few days he was only a memory. He had been her bel ami, but … enfin, even in the Quartier, one got drunk like a gentleman.

The meeting in the restaurant of Leon Javet came at an opportune moment. The Duc had again developed a habit of meticulous inquiry; also, for reasons of his own, had reduced her allowance. The familiar figure in brown was pleasing after the day of labor in the studio of Monsieur Valcourt. He represented a part of life that she could not taste – and this very morning she had read of him in the bulletins as the hero of Boissière wood. And so she had welcomed him in her joyous way, sure, in spite of his deficiencies, that their friendship had been no mistake. A hero. Saperlotte! Of course she was glad to see him.

But the reserve in his manner had mystified her. He was like another man. He was quieter, finer, gentler and yet very brave and strong. A little triste, perhaps, but more deep, more interesting, and touched with the dignity of one who faces death for a noble purpose. But Piquette had not lived in the streets of Paris all these years for nothing. A few months of warfare would not change a man's soul. What was this strangeness? What had come over him? He had packed her home in a fiacre, just when she was becoming most interested in this extraordinary transformation. She had never before suffered from pique, and it annoyed her that he shouldn't have been more eager to resume their ancient fellowship. Who was this unshaven fellow with the slouch hat and worn clothing who had so great a claim upon his attention? His figure too had a familiar look. His manner had been urgent – threatening even, and Harry had obeyed the summons, banishing her, Piquette, to the outer darkness of the Boulevard Clichy.

And he had not written her or telephoned. All day she waited in, expecting to hear from him, and expectation increased her interest and her disappointment. Also, meditation gave her a perspective. They were curious, these second thoughts, deepening the impression of a striking difference between this Harry Horton and the one who had gotten drunk in the Taverne du Pantheon. Idiosyncrasies that had escaped her during the few moments they had been together at Javet's, came to her now with startling clearness, the slow direct gaze, the deliberate motions of the hands, their touch on hers – and parbleu!

She started upright as a thought came to her like a coup de foudre. The twisted little finger he had broken that night at the Pantheon. It had bothered him only a few days and it had never been set. She remembered now the fingers of the right hand of the visitor on his wine glass at Javet's, remarking how strong they were. The little finger was straight!

It was curious that such a trifle should come to her with such significance. It was also curious that she hadn't noticed it at the time. Could she be mistaken? When night came and she had not heard from Harry she went out and made her way across the river, leaving word where she was to be found if the visitor called, and went straight to the café of Gabriel Pochard.

She and Gabriel were friends of long standing. Many years ago, when she was but a child-model for Fabien, Gabriel Pochard had posed around the studios with long hair, for prophets and saints. But he had married some money and opened the café which bore his name.

It was not a beautiful place, and as she knew was frequented by persons not of the vrai type, the gamblers, the sharpers, the wealthy outcasts of all kinds, who knew a good omelette when they tasted one and relished a particular kind of seclusion. For here no questions were asked. It was at Gabriel Pochard's that Harry Horton spent much time, for he had come with a letter to Gabriel from Monsieur Quinlevin, who had known Pochard since the days of posing for the great Monsieur Gerôme. It was here that she would find Harry Horton or news of him, and information which would perhaps answer the strange sequence of questions that had come rising to her mind. She had the French passion for the mysterious, the unexplainable, and with her own pride as the stake, she meant to leave no stone unturned which would help her to a solution of the problem.

She found Gabriel, wearing a sober air, busy with his bottles and the café was blue with tobacco smoke.

"All, mon vieux," she said in the argot. "You wear a worried look. Has Leon Javet been stealing away your customers?"

"Ah, c'est toi, petite! What brings you here alone?"

"Ma foi, my legs, if you would know the truth – and a woman's curiosity."

"Tiens! That is nothing new. How can I help you?"

"I want you tell me what you know of 'Arry 'Orton."

Gabriel frowned and glanced about him cautiously.

"Sh – ," he said warningly. And then, in a whisper, "Who told you that Monsieur 'Orton was here?"

She laughed. "Did I not see him myself with my own eyes last night?"

"Where?"

"At Javet's." And then, in a meaning tone, as she looked him in the eyes, "Him – or another."

He glanced at her, his face, which still showed traces of great beauty, twisted unpleasantly, and then beckoned her to follow him through a door nearby into his office. And when they were seated, "What did you mean, Piquette?"

"What I said," put in Piquette, lighting a cigarette. "Him – or another." And then, as Gabriel's frown deepened, she shot straight at her mark. "There are two 'Arry 'Ortons, Gabriel Pochard," she said coolly.

The effect of her words on Gabriel was not lost on her. He looked around him furtively and caught her by the wrist.

"Who told you this?"

"It's true, then?" asked Piquette.

"Who told you?"

"My own eyes. The visitor at Javet's had no twisted little finger."

"And no one else has noticed?"

"Not so far as I am aware."

Gabriel Pochard gave a great gasp of relief.

"Ma foi, child, but you have sharp eyes!"

"If they weren't sharp, mon vieux, I would still be selling flowers outside the Café Soufflet. Tell me the truth of this thing, Gabriel," she said, settling herself in her chair with the air of one who has come to stay, "it is what I came here to find out."

He glanced at her, then frowned at the floor and shook his head.

"Oh, yes, mon vieux, you will tell me that it is none of my business," she said firmly. "Eh, bien, it is my business – my right to know." And then, as he remained silent, "You are aware that I am not one to be refused."

Gabriel rose from the chair at the desk and paced up and down the narrow apartment, but still he did not speak. And then at last, "What devil put it into your head to come here inquiring of this matter?"

"The devil himself – I – ," she said with a gesture. And then, with a little shrug and a sober mien, "You may trust me, Gabriel."

He stopped and sat in his chair again.

"Eh, bien! As you have said. It is your right. But it is no matter to be breathed outside this room."

"It will not be the first time I have kept your secrets."

"I should not tell you."

"Speak – "

Gabriel Pochard shrugged. "Last night, late, a man came in here to see me, a man wearing old clothing and a three weeks' growth of beard. It was Monsieur 'Orton. He was very much excited and told me a remarkable story that rivals the tales of Monsieur Hugo."

"Yes, I understand. Go on."

"He said he was wounded upon the battlefield at night, when out of the darkness appeared just beside him the very image of himself. It was his twin brother, whom he had not seen for five years, a brother with whom he did not speak."

"Ah – it was what I thought – "

"The brother took from Monsieur 'Orton his uniform and went on, leading his men to victory. It was the fight of Boissière Wood. You have heard?"

Piquette nodded.

"This interloper took Monsieur 'Orton's uniform, his rank and identity, and now comes back to Paris – to Monsieur 'Orton's own apartment, and Monsieur 'Orton's wife – "

Piquette had started to her feet, her fingers grasping the shoulder of Gabriel.

"His wife!" she broke in.

"Parfaitement, his wife," repeated Pochard. "You did not know?"

"He never told me," she stammered. "Who – ?"

"The daughter of my ancient friend, Monsieur Barry Quinlevin," said Pochard with a shrug.

"You're sure?"

"As certain as I sit here, ma petite."

Piquette sank into her chair, frowning deeply.

"Go on," she muttered.

"They had met last night on the street in the dark. Monsieur 'Orton demanded of his brother to relinquish his identity. He refused. Monsieur 'Orton came to me. It was an act of injustice. Monsieur 'Orton was outcast. Something had to be done. I helped him. Voilà tout."

Piquette had been listening intently, thinking deeply the while. As Pochard finished, she searched his face keenly – her frown deepening.

"There's something at the back of this, Pochard. Tell me the rest."

Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder. "I do not like it, you understand. It has worried me all day – an American – a soldier. One cannot tell what would happen if the police – "

Piquette understood at once. Her fingers closed again over the arm of Pochard.

"What have you done with him?"

Pochard bent forward, whispering. "He lies in the house in the Rue Charron by the river. A knock on the head —c'est tout– and chloroform."

Piquette was silent, staring at the wall. Then she fixed her wide gaze on the conspirator.

"Bah! You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch you sure. How much?"

"Two thousand francs."

"And you get half," contemptuously. "Who did it?"

"Tricot and Le Singe Anglais."

"Tricot!"

Piquette got up and paced the length of the room, turning quickly.

"You are an idiot, Pochard," she stormed at him furiously. "An American! Don't you know what you have done? It is the hero of Boissière Wood that you have struck down. An American – who has risked his life for you and me – "

"But Monsieur 'Orton – "

"He has lied to you. I do not believe – " She broke off, caught Pochard by the arm again and shook him. "When did this happen?"

"L-late last right – "

"And 'Arry 'Orton?"

"Was here – this afternoon – "

"Drunk – ?"

Pochard shrugged. "No – not bad. He was in uniform."

"Where is he now?"

"I think he has gone to find his wife."

"His wife!"

Piquette sank into her chair, took out a cigarette and smoked rapidly for a moment. And then,

"What were you going to do with this – this twin brother?"

"I?" Pochard gave a gesture of abnegation. "Nothing. I am through. That is the affair of Monsieur 'Orton."

"All, mon ami, but you can't wriggle out so easily. You've received money – blood money – "

Pochard put his hands deep in his pockets and extended his long legs, frowning at the floor.

"I am sorry now. It is a bad business – "

"The man is safe?"

"So far, yes – "

"But Tricot?"

"He waits for orders."

Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with an air of decision.

"This American must be liberated at once!"

Pochard rose and faced her. "It's too late," he growled,

"No. It's not too late. I know the sort that Tricot is – with the river just there – at his elbow."

"I can do nothing. That's what worries me. Tricot and Le Singe will look after their own skins now."

"You mean," she paused significantly. "The Seine – "

He nodded somberly.

"It is the solution of many problems."

She caught him by the shoulders and shook him.

"But not of this problem. You understand. It will not do. I will not have it."

"You," he laughed. "What can you do?"

"You shall go with me now – and liberate him – "

He took her hands from his arms roughly and turned away. "No," he growled, "not I. Have I not told you that I am through?"

"Yes. You will be through, when the police come to find out what you know about the matter."

"They will not find out."

"Don't be too sure. 'Arry 'Orton is a fool when he drinks. He will betray you – "

Pochard scowled. "And betray himself – ?"

"You can't be too sure."

"I can't. But I must trust to luck."

Piquette stamped her foot.

"I've no patience with you." And then, "You will not liberate him?"

"No. I refuse to have anything more to do with the matter."

"You will regret it."

"Perhaps. That will be my own lookout."

She stared at him in a moment of indecision, and then with a shrug, turned toward the door into the café.

"You are an idiot, Gabriel."

Pochard grunted as he followed her.

"You will say nothing?"

"Naturellement," scornfully. "I am not an informer. But I should like to knock you on the head too."

She put her hand on the knob of the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the Rue Charron."

He caught her hand away from the knob and held her.

"You – ! Why should you intrude in this affair?"

"It amuses me."

"I warn you that you will run into danger."

"They will not harm me."

"You must not go."

"Yes. I shall save you from the results of your cupidity – since you will not save yourself."

"I will not permit it – "

"You have nothing to say in the matter – since you've washed your hands of it."

She threw his hand off and opened the door.

"Piquette!" he called, but she went rapidly into the other room before he could intercept her, ran quickly out into the street and disappeared in the darkness.

She was throbbing now, deep with purpose. It was only in moments like these that life ran swiftly in her veins. The excitement of the venture was like a tonic, and she went on rapidly toward the Boule' Miche'.

As she walked she went over in detail the conversation she had had last night in the Café Javet. It was not surprising that she had not guessed the truth last night, for the new Harry Horton's information as to his brother's affairs had blinded her to the physical differences such as there were, between them. Perhaps it was the glamor that his heroism had thrown about him, perhaps it was his gravity, or perhaps the depth of his voice or the penetrating quality of his steady gaze, but she had not been able to deny all day a new and extraordinary appreciation of the newcomer, whose virtues, half guessed at, seemed to bring Harry Horton's deficiencies into higher relief. And the mystery of his sudden appearance and the strange tale of Gabriel Pochard provided the added touches to stimulate her interest in him. As she had told Gabriel, there was something back of this mystery of dual identity, and she meant to discover the truth. As to one thing she was resolved, the beautiful young soldier of the Café Javet should not die, if there was anything that she could do to prevent it.

Tricot was a bad one. So was Le Singe Anglais. Either of them was capable of anything. She was acquainted with them both, but she did not fear them, for she knew the freemasonry of their evil calling and had even been in the little room of Gabriel Pochard when they had discussed their business affairs. But this matter concerned a human being in whom she was interested. No harm should come to him. It could not be. She wanted him for herself.

And so at last, having decided that she must move with caution and leave the rest to chance and opportunity, she went toward the house in the Rue Charron. She had been there before some years ago with Gabriel Pochard, when the boat-load of champagne from up the river had been smuggled in. Thus it was that she knew the secret of the old passage to the river bank, hidden from the opposite shore by a barricade of old timber. So instead of approaching the house by way of the Rue Charron she went down toward the river and turned in to the Quai des Augustins. There were a few people about but she watched her opportunity and when she reached the steps descended to the boat landing, where she found herself alone and unobserved, hidden from the lights above by the shadow of the retaining wall. Here she paused a moment to think and plan. According to all the rules of the underworld the prisoner would be in the cellar of the house in the Rue Charron. But if Tricot or Le Singe were taking turns guarding him there, her problem would be difficult. Because it meant a scene in which her persuasions and promises of immunity might fail, and Tricot could be ugly. Money? Yes, perhaps, if everything else failed. But she had a sense of pride in the belief that with luck favoring her she could accomplish this rescue alone.