Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

At any rate she meant to make the attempt – and so, she found the end of the tunnel and with some difficulty and damage to her gloves and clothing, wrenched at the boarding. The timbers were old and rotten, as she knew, and it was not difficult to make a passage. It was so easy in fact that she began to believe that Tricot had more wisely kept his prisoner upstairs, but as she moved forward cautiously, one hand steadying her progress over the rough masonry, she caught the first dull glimmer of yellow light. As she came to a turn in the passage she paused a moment and then stole forward quietly, to the foot of the steps, peering up into the cellar.

At first she could see nothing but a litter of boxes, bottles and waste paper, and then coming up one step at a time, she searched the recesses of the cavern one by one. A smoke-stained lantern burned dimly near the foot of the flight of steps, leading to the floor above, but there was no sign of any one watching. And so she emerged cautiously from the dark hole and stood up. In a moment she found what she was looking for. Huddled in the corner to her right, she made out the contours of a human figure. With another quick glance toward the steps and a moment to listen for any sound above, she approached noiselessly. He was trussed with a rope from head to foot, his hands tied behind him. But he was the man she sought. She bent over him, noticing his heavy breathing and the odor of the drug. At the touch of her hand he stirred slightly and she saw the blood upon his face.

"Monsieur!" she whispered quickly, "it is I – Piquette – and I have come to help you."

He stirred again and tried to move, but the drug was heavy in his blood. So she shook him furiously, trying to arouse him.

"It is Piquette," she whispered again.

His lips moved and his eyelids fluttered open. "Piquette – !" he muttered, and then breathed stertorously.

This was encouraging. She shook him again and again, fighting the lethargy. He moved and groaned. It seemed almost certain that his guardians must hear him.

"Sh – ," she whispered, "Silence!"

Meanwhile she was struggling with the knots of the cord that bound his wrists. At last she managed to get his arms free and moved them backward and forward with all her strength, trying to restore his circulation. Then she unfastened the cords at his feet and pulled his knees up, thumping him from time to time and whispering at his ear.

"Wake up, Monsieur! You mus' get out of dis wit' me – "

His lips moved again. "Who – "

"It's Piquette, Monsieur," she repeated, prodding at him and shaking his shoulders.

This time his eyelids opened wider, and he looked at her vaguely. But his lips muttered her name.

"You mus' rouse yourself – you mus'! We are going out of here – at once."

With an effort he struggled up to a sitting posture while she supported him, pinching his shoulders and arms. Then she saw for the first time an earthen pitcher on a stool nearby. There was still some water in it, and she threw it in his face. He sputtered and choked, but she silenced him.

"Quiet – for your life! Dey're upstairs, aren't dey?"

"Yes – upstairs. I – I'm weak as a cat."

"Naturally, but you've got to 'elp yourself. I can't carry you."

"Carry me – no – " He toppled sideways and would have fallen, but she caught him and held him, shaking and pinching him again.

"No. You've got to wake up. Do you hear?" she whispered desperately. "They may come down 'ere at any moment."

A dim notion of what she was talking about seemed to come to him, for with an effort he threw off the heaviness that was coming over him again.

"You – Piquette – How did you – ?"

"By an old passage from dis cellar to de river. You mus' go out dat way. Do you on'erstand me?"

He nodded feebly. "River – " he muttered.

There was another struggle against the drug and another, but at last she got him to understand. He was very weak, but managed to support himself with an effort, sitting upright, while Piquette ran over toward the foot of the steps and listened intently, for if Tricot and the Englishman were listening, they must surely have heard something of the commotion she had made. But there was no sound.

She went back to the injured man. Would he be able to walk? She shook him again and pointed to the way by which she had come.

"It is dere – in de corner – the way of escape. You mus' make de effort."

She helped him struggle to his knees, one of his arms around her shoulders, but when she attempted to get him to his feet, his knees gave out and he fell, dragging her down with him.

It was at this moment of failure, that a sudden clamor of knocking at the street door upstairs came, with terrifying clearness, to her ears. And the sound of a masculine voice calling the name of Tricot. There was no time to be lost, yet what was she to do? She was strong, but she could not lift the American bodily and he had collapsed again upon the floor. For an agonized moment she listened. A long silence and then the knocking was renewed, followed by the sound of another voice upstairs and the tread of heavy feet going toward the door. Desperate now, and aware that only the American's own efforts could save him, she lifted him again by sheer strength to his knees.

"Dey'll be down 'ere in a moment," she stammered in his ear. "You've got to help yourself. You've got to. Crawl – on your knees – toward de corner beyond de pillar. I will 'elp you."

He seemed to understand and struggled a few feet, paused in weakness, then struggled on again. And all the while Piquette was listening to the sounds upstairs, the voices which now seemed to be near the head of the stairway, coming to her ears distinctly.

"We've got to get him away from here – out into the country somewhere – and lose him." Harry Horton's voice.

"Why?" growled a voice in English.

"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."

An oath from Tricot as the other translated.

"Who told her?"

"No one. She guessed it."

"Parbleu! We shall take no chances then."

"You must take him away – a cab – out into the country," said Harry's voice again.

"And leave him to recover and set the police on us? Not much. He'll have to go the long road."

"My God! No. Not that!" cried Harry.

"The river!" growled Tricot.

And then the other voice.

"You started this thing. And it's got to be finished. Did you bring the money?"

"To-morrow. But – I can't – "

There was the beginning of a violent discussion in which Tricot's advice seemed to prevail. Harry's opinions wouldn't matter much to these precious villains.

But Piquette had heard enough. It seemed that they were about to descend the stairs to the prisoner, and glancing backward she labored with the injured man until they reached the shadows of the pillar into which she pushed and dragged him until they were both hidden from the light of the lantern. But the steps into the passage were still ten feet away. Already there were footsteps on the stair, where one of the men stood, still arguing with Harry Horton. With a final effort, she urged the drugged man toward the opening and then tumbled him down into the darkness.

She heard the steps coming down the stairs, heard them pause and a voice again raised in argument. But she listened no more. The situation was desperate, for in a few seconds at the least, the escape of the prisoner would be discovered, so forgetting caution, she pinched and shook him, by main strength of her strong young arms, urging him forward. Something of the imminence of his danger seemed to come to him, for he crawled to the corner and then stumbled in some fashion to his feet, clinging to her. The air beyond the turn in the passage seemed to revive him and in a moment, swaying and struggling against his weakness, he stood outside the opening upon the river-bank, leaning against the wall, while Piquette thrust the boards across the opening.

She heard a cry now from beyond the passage and with the injured man's arm around her shoulders, led the way down the bank to the landing. He caught her intention. There was a boat there and she got him into it and pushed off from the shore into the stream. She was almost exhausted by this time, but managed to get out the oars and make some progress down the river before the timbers fell from before the opening in the wall and three men appeared – Tricot, Harry and the Englishman. She saw their shapes dimly in the shadow of the wall.

But a strange thing happened then. For the three figures went flying up the steps to the Quai and then ran as though for their lives in the direction of the Pont St. Michel.

But she managed at last to reach the Quai du Louvre, where with the help of a belated passer-by, she managed to get the man she had rescued into a fiacre and so to the Boulevard Clichy.

CHAPTER X
THE SAMARITAN

When Jim Horton came to his senses after his rescue, he found himself in a small room overlooking a pleasant façade of gray stone, tinted softly by the pale morning sunlight. It was some moments before he managed to gather his scattered wits together and out of the haze and darkness in which he had been groping for two nights and a day, recall the incidents of his escape. Piquette! He remembered… But what was this room? There had been a cab-drive late in the night – he had been carried up a flight of stairs … As he turned in the bed he was aware of a figure which rose from the corner of the room and approached him. It was an oldish woman in the neat uniform of a maid.

She smiled. "Monsieur is awake?" And then, moving toward the door, "Madame shall come at once."

But when Piquette entered the small room, attired in a gorgeous pink lounging robe of silk and lace and wearing a boudoir-cap embroidered with silken flowers and golden thread, she dazzled him for a moment with her splendor, and he did not recognize her. She came forward to him quickly and laid her cool hand on his brow.

"Ah, mon petit, c'est mieux." And then, in English, "'Ow do you feel?"

"Better. But everything doesn't seem – very clear to me yet."

"Naturellement. You mus' 'ave some food and de doctor will be 'ere soon."

Jim Horton glanced about the small room.

"Would you mind telling me where I am?" he asked.

"Dis room is in de hallway adjoining my apartment – "

"You brought me here – ?"

"Las' night," she said, with a smile, "an' a beautiful time we had getting you up de stair – "

"I – I remember – a man with a lantern – and then a struggle – with you helping – through a passage – to the river – a boat – "

"A voiture an' den – here," she added as he paused.

He put out his hand and fingered the lace of her sleeve.

"Why – why did you do this for me, Piquette?"

She caught his hand, pressed it in hers, and then rose abruptly.

"What does it matter? You s'all talk no more until after de doctor 'as seen you. Sh – "

Later in the day after Jim Horton had slept again, Piquette visited him, dressed for the street. In a few words she told him how she had guessed at the double identity – then confirmed it, and then how she had discovered the means Harry Horton had employed to get his brother out of the way. She dwelt lightly on his rescue from the house in the Rue Charron and explained quite frankly her own relations with the criminals.

"C'est la grande vie, Monsieur l'Americain," she said with an expressive gesture. "You remember perhaps what Monsieur Valcourt 'as said. I am still de vrai gamine. I know dat vilain Pochard since I am so high."

"But why have you done this for me, Piquette? When you found out that I was not my brother – "

"Oh, la, la! Who can tell? Perhaps I like' you a little de night in Javet's. De thought of de adventure – perhaps, but more dat Tricot and Le Singe Anglais– dey would 'ave t'rown you in de river, Monsieur."

"You saved my life – "

"Yes. You see, Monsieur – Monsieur," she paused in search of a name.

"My name is Jim Horton."

"Jeem! C'est bon ça. Jeem 'Orton, dere wasn' anyt'ing else for me to do. You were a good Americain – who 'ad fought at La Boissière for France and for me. An' he had not. It could not be dat you should die. But dere are many t'ings I do not yet on'erstand. If you would tell me – ?"

Jim Horton was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

"You were a friend of my brother's."

He put it more in the form of a statement than a question.

"Yes, Jeem 'Orton," she said, "before 'e went to de front. Dat does not matter now, I can assure you. What 'appen' at Boissière Wood, mon ami? Pochard tol' me what 'Arry 'Orton said – " And she related it as nearly as possible in Pochard's own words.

Jim Horton listened, smiling slightly, until she had finished. And then,

"I had intended to keep silent about this thing, Piquette. But I'm not going to keep silent now. I'm going to tell the truth, whatever happens to Harry or to me. He would have killed me – "

"No," she broke in. "I t'ink 'Arry was frighten' at what he 'ad done – "

"He wasn't too frightened to get those chaps to knock me in the head," he put in dryly, then broke off with a sudden sense of the situation. "I hope, Madame, that you do not care for him."

She had been watching him intently and now put her hand over his.

"No – no, Jeem 'Orton," she said carelessly. "But tell me de truth – "

He looked at her for a long moment.

"No one has a better right to know it than you."

And then, without ornamentation, he related the facts from the unfortunate moment that night when he had put on Harry's uniform and gone into the fight until he had met his brother in the Rue de Tavennes. She heard him through to the end.

"You 'ave not told me everyt'ing, Jeem 'Orton," And then, significantly, "About Madame – Madame 'Orton?"

He frowned and then went on with an assumption of carelessness.

"The situation was impossible, as you will see. I would have gone away – " he shrugged, "if Harry hadn't saved me the need of it. But now – "

He paused and clenched a fist. "He has much to answer to me for."

She was silent for a while, watching him.

"A coward! I might 'ave known," she murmured after a moment.

In the conversation that followed many things were revealed to Jim Horton, many things to Piquette. He learned from her own lips every detail of the story of Quinlevin's plot against the Duc and what was to be Moira's share in it, and he listened in anger and amazement. As to her relations with de Vautrin, she spoke with the utmost frankness. He was not a pleasant person, and to her mind, for all his money and position, possessed fewer virtues even than the outrageous Pochard and his crew, who at least were good-natured villains and made no pretenses. The Duc was stingy – cruel, self-obsessed and degenerate. Que ça m'embête ça! Why she had not cut loose from him and gone back to live in the Quartiershe did not know, except that it was comfortable in the Boulevard Clichy and she was tired of working hard.

He found himself regarding Piquette with interest. The type was new to him, but he liked her immensely. She might betray her Duc, but in her own mind she would have perfectly adequate reasons for doing so.

As to Moira, little enough was said. If she suspected anything of his tenderness in that quarter she gave not a sign of it. But he could see that the facts as to his brother's marriage had come as a surprise to her.

"An' now, Jeem 'Orton," said Piquette the next morning, when he had strength enough to sit in a chair by the window, "what are you going to do about it?"

He thought for a moment.

"You have given me my life. I should dislike to do anything that would give you unhappiness."

"As to that, mon petit," she said carelessly, "you s'all do what you t'ink bes'. You know perhaps dat to-morrow in de Place de la Concorde, your brother 'Arry is to receive de Croix de Guerre?"

He had forgotten, but the announcement had no effect upon him.

"It does not matter," he muttered. What he had been thinking in his moments of wakefulness was of Harry going to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes. Moira was his wife. Would she, like Piquette, learn at once of the deception? Or would she accept him…?

"You do not care for de honors you have won?" asked Piquette, breaking on his thought.

"They weren't my honors – "

"But you bear de wounds – "

"Yes, and they're proofs my brother will find it hard to answer. But tell me, Piquette, what you have heard. Do they suspect you of having carried me off?"

Piquette laughed. "No. I saw Émile Pochard las' night. 'E does not dare speak. Tricot, 'Arry, Le Singe– I saw dem at Pochard's. Dey t'ink you are a devil. It is de police worries dem mos'."

"The police?"

"Some one followed 'Arry 'Orton to de house in de Rue Charron and tol' de police. Dey came jus' as we escape'. Your brother was lucky to get away."

"Who could this have been?"

"I don' know. But what does it matter since you are safe?" And then, after a long pause, "No harm 'as been done except to your poor head. We mus' let de matter drop, Jeem 'Orton. It is better so."

"If that is your wish, Piquette – "

"Yes. It will be safer for us both, for you because you mus' keep in hiding – for me – because I 'ave a reputation at stake."

His eager look inquired her meaning.

"Émile Pochard would never trus' me again."

He laughed. "And you value the friendship of Monsieur Tricot?"

"No. But I know de law of de apache. It would not be pleasant to 'ave one's t'roat cut an' be t'rown in de Seine."

The true meaning of the danger that she had run for him gave Jim Horton a new and lively sense of his obligations and responsibilities to this strange creature. He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it warmly.

"How can I ever repay you?" he blurted out.

Her face flushed gently and she regarded him with eyes almost maternal.

"What a boy you are!" she laughed.

"But a stranger to you. To have run such risks – to have made such a struggle just because you knew I was helpless."

"It amuse' me, Jeem 'Orton. Sometimes I t'ink it is fear dat is de grande passion– when one has tasted everyt'ing else in life. Fear. To succeed in an adventure like this —Et nous voilà! Quite safe and comfortable – an' each of us 'as made a friend. Is not dees wort' all de trouble?"

"Piquette!" he said, "you're a wonder! I'll never forget – "

"Ah, yes, you will, mon petit," she broke in with a shrug, "you are different from 'Arry. You are always le grand serieux. It was what I noticed at Javet's. You will love much, but you will never lie jus' to make a woman 'appy. And me – you will forget, Jeem 'Orton."

"Never," he said stoutly, "never, Piquette. You're the bravest, squarest woman in the world."

She laughed again. "Allons! For dat – I shall kees you, mon ami."

And she did, with a friendly frankness, upon the mouth.

It was a very pleasant sanctuary, this, into which fortune had thrown him, but deep in his heart Jim Horton knew that Piquette had read him truly. He was no panderer to women's caprices, and he could not forget the tragedy of the woman he loved, which might almost be laid at his door.

"You do not mind my keesing you, mon petit?" she asked.

"No. I like it," said Horton with a laugh.

But Piquette knew. Life in the streets of Paris had given her a sense of the fourth dimension. And curiously enough her prescience only quieted her, made her a little graver, matching her mind – her mood to his. He provided a new sensation, this outcast hero who owed her his life and yet was to pay her only in gratitude.

* * * * *

Jim Horton was penniless, for with an irony not lost on him, the money he had gotten from the bank had gone to pay Tricot and Le Singe their price for his knock on the head. The clothing he found himself in had been none too good when Harry had worn it, and the incarceration in the filthy cellar had done nothing to improve it. Outcast he might be, but he meant while he had money in bank at least to look presentable. So Piquette got him a blank check from the bank which he made out and Piquette cashed, and the next day when he was able to go out, he bought himself a suit. He came back in the afternoon and with much pride exhibited his purchase.

She gave the clothing her approval and then shrugged.

"An' now, mon Jeem, you will be going away, n'est ce pas?"

"Is it not better, Piquette? I have not the honor of Monsieur de Vautrin's acquaintance."

"Oh, ça!" she said with a quick gesture. "Il est bête. He would never know."

Jim Horton put his hands on her shoulders and made her look in his eyes.

"That's not the way, Piquette. You are too fine not to see. I can't be an object of your charity any longer – because it's his charity. I owe you my life. I want to pay – but not like this. I want you to see my gratitude in my eyes, the depth of my friendship, I want you to know that what you've done for me has given a new meaning to courage and unselfishness."

She turned her head away as he paused, and then gently took his hands from her shoulders.

"I can pay, Piquette," he insisted quietly. "You do not love the Duc de Vautrin. Come away from here with me. I have a little money. I can get more from America. We will find you a place in the Quartier where you will be happy until you have the home you deserve – "

"And you – ," she faltered.

"What I do doesn't matter. An outcast – "

She started.

"You will leave Paris?"

"I do not know."

She released her fingers quickly and went to the window, looking over the rooftops in a long significant moment of silence.

"And de oder woman – "

She spoke the words distinctly, and yet he thought he must have misunderstood.

"Piquette, I – "

"What 'appens between you an' your brother's wife?" she asked quietly.

He had no reply and while he hesitated she turned slowly and faced him.

"I know, mon petit," she said with a smile. "I 'ave known it from de firs'. You love 'er. C'est dommage. It is a pity. She is ver' beautiful, dey say."

"I am a fool, Piquette."

"You are not de firs' in de worl' – "

He sank on the edge of the bed, wondering at his own confession.

"I was sorry for her – for her innocence, married to a man like that. She was kind to me. I played the part and kept silence. They were going to use her – palm her off as de Vautrin's child – "

He paused and looked up at Piquette, aware that the topic that he had not dared to broach now suddenly loomed between them.

Piquette faced him gravely.

"Yes, mon ami," she said, and the rising inflection was very gentle.

"I do not know what you wish to do, Piquette, and it is not for me to say. But before I was hurt, I had planned to find out all the facts of this conspiracy and tell both Harry's wife and the Duc de Vautrin. You have given me the facts. Do you want me to use them?"

Piquette was silent a moment, regarding him with a smile.

"Well, mon ami, 'as anyt'ing 'appen' to make you change your mind?"

He looked up at her in wonder.

"Piquette, I thought – " he began. But she broke in lightly.

"You s'all do what you wish, but it is a difficult game you play an' dangereux. You do not know Monsieur Quinlevin. If Tricot is de wolf an' Émile Pochard de fox, it is Barry Quinlevin who is de tiger. 'Arry 'Orton knows. 'E is afraid – what you call – eat out of his 'and."

"I've got to beat him, Piquette."

"Eh, bien! But remember, 'e is not a man to be easily vanquished. 'E is ver' quiet, ver' cool, le vrai gentilhomme, but 'e 'as sharp claws, Jeem 'Orton."

"A thief – "

"And de Vautrin?" she broke in. "Monsieur le Duc is no better dan he. He did not care 'ow 'e got de money."

Horton paced the room slowly, in deep abstraction, but in a moment stopped before her and caught her hands in his.

"Piquette," he said gravely, "you were in this thing – I don't know why or how, because a woman with a soul as big as yours oughtn't to be stooping to this kind of rottenness."

For a long while she made no reply, but she turned her head away and looked out of the window.

"I can't change de way I was born, Jeem 'Orton," she said quietly.

He was silent, aware of the false situation, and thinking deeply.

"I've got to tell her the truth, Piquette," he said at last.

Another moment of silence and then Piquette turned toward him, both arms outstretched.

"You are right, mon petit Jeem. You s'all go to 'er and tell 'er – "

"Piquette – !"

"Je ne me fiche pas. Go. It's nothing to me."

Jim Horton had risen and put his arms around her, turning her face up to his and kissing her gently. She made no resistance, but she did not return his caress.

"You are too good for him, Piquette."

She stirred uneasily in his arms and then released herself.

"Go, Jeem – ", she said. "Go."

"Will you meet me to-night at Javet's?"

"Yes. Au revoir, mon brave."

She watched him go down the stair and then turned in at the door of her own apartment.

* * * * *

Jim Horton was no squire of dames, but he couldn't be unaware of the attractions of this lovely pagan. Like her he was an outcast and their ways perhaps lay along the same paths to oblivion, but before he started down that road he had a duty still to perform, a wrong to set right, and he meant to do it without delay. If Harry had succeeded in ingratiating himself with Moira he knew that she must despise him for his betrayal of her credulity. But he meant to seek her out just the same and tell her the truth about Barry Quinlevin as he knew it. He wanted to see her again – just this once, in order to try and justify himself in her eyes for his imposture, and then he would go – he didn't much care where.

But he realized as he crossed the river that it was not going to be an easy matter to reach her unobserved. He knew that Harry must be passing some uneasy moments and it was better that Harry didn't see him just yet. But there was the watchful Madame Toupin to pass and it was still half an hour until dusk when he hoped to slip through the gate and up the stairs. Meanwhile he found himself a lodging in an obscure street and then with his hat-brim pulled down walked into the Rue de Tavennes and boldly approached the familiar gate.

"Madame Horton?" he asked.

"Oui, Monsieur. She is in. Do you know the way?"

Nothing could have been more simple. Madame Toupin had pulled the latch without even looking up at him.