Splendid Outcast — 25 The Conclusion

*CONCLUSION*

Jim Horton passed the night pacing the floor of his prison, and his interrogation by Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d'Instruction_, with the assistance of the _Commissaire de Police_ in the morning gave him little hope of release.

The examination was severe, but his inquisitors had not been able, of course, to shake his testimony and had left his cell more puzzled than when they had entered it.

But he had sense enough to see that unless it were proven possible for some one to have been in the studio to commit the murder all the evidence must point to him.

And yet he could not help them, nor could he suggest a line of investigation.

He was still completely in the dark about the whole tragic affair and could scarcely blame them for their uncompromising attitude toward himself--and poor Piquette--toward her also.

He sat upon the edge of his cot for hours after the examination, his head in his hands, trying to evolve some possible explanation of the mystery.

A more encouraging affair was the visit in the late afternoon of a captain of the regular army of the United States, representing the Judge Advocate General's office, who interviewed him in the presence of an officer of the _Prefet de Police_.

And in the course of this investigation Jim Horton learned of Harry's second defection from the army which had resulted in his horrible death.

Captain Waring questioned shrewdly, but Jim Horton now needed no encouragement or threat to reveal the whole truth, for, whatever happened to him at the hands of the _Prefet de Police_, he knew that there was nothing left for him but to throw himself upon the mercy of the Army officials.

And so he told the whole story, from the moment when as Corporal of Engineers, he had heard the Infantry Major's instructions to his brother, of his meeting with Harry, of his effort to save his brother's name and position by attempting to carry out the Major's orders, the changing of uniforms, the fight at Boissiere Wood, the hospital, and the events that had followed in Paris, leaving out what references he could to Harry's wife, and palliating where he could his brother's offenses against the military law.

From sternness, he saw Captain Waring's expression change to interest, from interest to sympathy, and to Horton's surprise, when the officer finished taking the testimony, he extended his hand frankly.

"You have committed a military offense, Corporal Horton.

But your story has impressed me.

It can be easily verified.

I will do what I can for you at Headquarters.

It was _your Croix de Guerre_, you see."

"Thank you, sir," said Jim, "but it looks as though I'm in a bad position here.

Do you think I could have done this horrible thing, sir?

Do you?"

"No," said the Captain, "but sit tight, Corporal.

I think you'll find that things will turn out all right."

What did the man mean?

Jim Horton followed his neatly fitting uniform out of the cell with his gaze and then, more mystified than ever at this mingling of good fortune and bad, sank again upon his cot to try and think it out.

But he was no sooner seated than the man who had done the most to put him where he was, Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire de Police_, again entered the cell.

His manner during the examination by the _Juge d'Instruction_ in the morning had been aggressive--Horton's ordeal had been most unpleasant, the French counterpart of what he had heard of in his own country as the "Third Degree."

But Monsieur Matthieu's ugly face was now almost kindly, its expression quite calm.

And while Horton wondered what was the meaning of the visit the _Commissaire_ explained.

"Evidence has been introduced into this case, Monsieur, which somewhat changes its complexion."

"Ah!

You have found Tricot?

Or Quinlevin?"

"No--not yet, Monsieur.

But we have hopes.

The evidence came from another quarter.

We believe that the _apache_ committed this crime."

Horton couldn't restrain a gasp of relief.

"It is only what I told you, Monsieur."

Monsieur Matthieu nodded.

"But you will not blame us for not accepting, with some reserve, the testimony of a person in your position."

"Who has testified, Monsieur?"

"Madame Horton."

And in a few words he described the line of procedure which had resulted in the discovery of the part the lay figure had played in the tragedy.

Moira had come to the rescue!

Moira--whose eyes, it seemed, had been keener than his own, keener even than those of this veteran detective.

And amazement at the simplicity of the device, and the ease with which it had been put into practice, made him dumb.

"It is always so, Monsieur.

The mysteries which seem most difficult to solve are always the simplest in conception."

"But Tricot did not invent this crime, Monsieur.

The _apache_ is shrewd, but the brain that conceived this plan----" "I believe you now, Monsieur.

But I'm afraid that he will not be easy to catch.

He was at Fontainebleau last night and this morning.

It was his alibi.

When my men reached there, he had gone."

"And Tricot?"

"It is as to Tricot that I wished to see you.

We have watched the house in the Rue Charron.

Every haunt of men of his type is under observation.

I thought perhaps that you might give us a further clue."

"Emile Pochard should know.

Pochard in the Rue Dalmon--under arrest he may talk----" "Good, Monsieur.

The help that you give us will make your deliverance the more speedy."

"I know nothing more."

"You understand, it is not possible to release you until the evidence is more definitely confirmed.

But I will do what I can for your comfort and convenience."

"Thanks.

And for Madame Morin?"

"Yes, Monsieur.

She is, I think, now quite contented."

And the _Commissaire_ departed as rapidly as he had entered.

Presently Jim Horton lay down at full length on his bed--the first time since he had been shown into the cell.

Everything would be right.

He knew it.

And it was Moira who had come from her retreat at the first news of his trouble and Piquette's to help them.

Behind the reserve of Monsieur Matthieu's disclosures he had read that it was Moira's will--her intelligence that had been matched against that of the _Commissaire_ and Barry Quinlevin, her instinct--her faith in him that had drawn her unerringly to the neglected clues.

Where was she?

Would she come to him now?

Or was the hypnotic spell of Barry Quinlevin still upon her?

He stared into the darkness, thinking of the tragedy of Moira's life, and the greater tragedy of his brother Harry's. But in spite of the terrible climax of Harry's strange career and his own unwitting part in it, Jim Horton found himself repeating Moira's wild words, "No divorce--but death----" And this was the divorce that neither of them had wished for nor dreamed of.

But Destiny, which had woven the threads of Harry's life and Moira's and his together for awhile, had destroyed the imperfect tissue--to begin anew.

In a while Jim Horton slept, soundly, dreamlessly.

The morning dragged heavily and no one came to his cell.

It almost seemed that Monsieur Matthieu had forgotten him and it was not until the afternoon that he was again conducted to the room in which his examination and Piquette's had taken place.

There he was brought face to face with the _Juge d'Instruction_, who shook him by the hand and informed him that word had just been received that the _apache_, Tricot, had been captured and in charge of Monsieur Matthieu was to be brought at once to confront the witnesses.

Monsieur Simon informed him that a partial confession having been extracted from Tricot, the case was simplified and that there seemed little doubt that he would be restored to freedom in a few hours.

While disposing of some other cases, Monsieur Matthieu showed the prisoner into the inner room, where Piquette had preceded him.

They were both still technically prisoners, but that did not prevent Piquette from springing up from beside her guard and rushing to meet him.

"Oh, _mon_ Jeem!"

she cried joyfully.

"I knew it could not be for long."

"Piquette!

They're going to set us free!"

"_Oui, mon brave_.

An' 'ave you not 'eard?

It is Madame 'Orton who 'as make de way clear?

Dey capture' Tricot an hour ago in a cellar out near de _Porte Maillot_.

You may know dat I am 'appy.

Gr----!"

And she made a queer little sound of repulsion in her throat.

"And Quinlevin?"

"Escape'--gone!

Dey cannot find him."

He sat beside her and they talked while they waited.

"What are you going to do, Piquette?"

he asked, after awhile.

"Do?

Jus' go on living, _mon vieux_.

What else?"

she replied calmly.

"I want to help you to get away from _him_, Piquette----" "_Sapristi_!

I need no 'elp for dat.

Don' worry, _mon ami_.

I s'all be 'appy----" "Not with Monsieur----" She laughed rather harshly.

"Oh, la la!

You are not de on'y man in de worl'----" And then, as she saw the look of pain in his eyes, she caught him by the arm again.

"You _are_ de on'y man in de worl'--for 'er--_mon vieux_, but not for me.

You t'ink of me?

_Eh bien_.

What you say?

Forget it.

I s'all be 'appy--and free."

At this moment Monsieur Simon entered bringing no less a personage than Monsieur de Vautrin, who had been apprehended as a witness the moment he had returned to Paris.

And the details of the affair at Nice having been set down, Monsieur Simon went out to question Tricot, who had just been brought in under heavy guard.

The birth certificate and other papers were still in possession of the _Juge d'Instruction_, but the Duc had been permitted to examine them and questioned Horton and Piquette eagerly as to what had happened after his departure from Nice.

And when he learned the facts, his gratitude expressed itself in a desire to kiss Horton on both cheeks, which Piquette only frustrated by quickly interposing her small person.

"And I, Olivier?"

she asked in French with a spirit of _diablerie_.

"What is my reward for helping in the great affair?"

"You, Piquette!"

he laughed, "you are as ever my angelic child who can do no wrong.

Come to my arms."

But Piquette laughed and tossed her chin.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you are still an angelic child," said de Vautrin.

"I shall give you money--much money."

"And if I refuse that too?"

she asked.

He started a pace back from her in amazement.

"You would desert me now, _ma petite_?"

Piquette's face grew suddenly solemn.

"Yes, _Monsieur le Duc_.

We shall make no more pretenses, you and I. I

go back to the _Quartier_ where I am free.

Perhaps one day I shall marry.

Then you shall give me a present.

But now----" And she extended a hand, "_Adieu, mon ami_."

He glanced at her and at Horton as though unwilling to believe what he had heard, then took a pace toward Piquette, his arms extended.

But she only smiled at him.

"_C'est fini, Olivier_," she said quietly.

De Vautrin pulled at his long mustache and laughing turned away.

"_A demain_, Piquette----" he said confidently.

"_Adieu, Olivier_," she repeated.

The Duc stared at her again and then with a shrug, took up his hat and stick and swaggered out of the room.

"Piquette," whispered Horton eagerly.

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, _mon brave_," she returned lightly.

"To be free--free----!"

And she took a long breath, while she gazed past him out of the big window into the sunshine.

There was a commotion outside and they turned to the outer door, as two policemen entered, between them Tricot, securely manacled, and followed by the _Juge_, the _Commissaire de Police_, Madame Toupin, Moira, Madame Simon, the carpenter, Paul Joubert, and the other witnesses whose testimony had already been taken.

Moira's gaze and Jim Horton's met for a moment, full of meaning for them both, and then she turned away to the seat beside Monsieur Simon to which the _Juge_ directed her.

She was very pale and sat for a while with eyes downcast during the preliminaries which led to the confession of the _apache_.

Tricot stood with bowed head, listening to the evidence against him, his long arms hanging from his bent shoulders, his thin lips compressed, his small eyes concealed by the frowning thatch of his dark brows.

He was surly but indifferent as to his fate, and answered the questions of Monsieur Simon in a low voice, but distinctly, evading nothing.

His identification by the carpenter Joubert and two others as the man who had emerged from the room in the hallway when the crowd had surged upon the upper landing, caused him to shrug.

The corroboration of Madame Toupin who saw him leave the courtyard after the murder only caused him to shrug again.

"I did it----" he growled.

"I've confessed.

What's the use?"

"Silence!"

commanded the _Juge_.

"You will answer only when questioned.

Are these two persons," indicating Horton and Piquette, "the ones who first entered the studio?"

"They are."

"And when _Monsieur le Capitaine_ entered the studio, you thought he was his brother--yonder?"

indicating Jim.

"I did.

I made a mistake----" "And your motive for this crime, Tricot?"

"I was paid," he muttered.

"How much?"

"Five thousand francs."

"By whom?"

Tricot paused, and then gasped the name.

"Monsieur Quinlevin."

"Do you know where Monsieur Quinlevin is now?"

"No." "Would you tell if you knew?"

"Yes."

"Have you anything further to say?"

"No." Monsieur Simon waved his hand in the direction of the door.

"Take him away.

The proof is now complete."

And then to the witnesses, "You will hold yourselves in readiness to attend the trial.

_Bonjour, messieurs_."

And rising from his chair at the head of the table he came over to Jim and Piquette and shook them warmly by the hands, while Monsieur Matthieu, who had taken no part in the proceedings, quickly followed his example.

"You are now free, Monsieur Horton--Madame Morin, I thank you both, in the name of Justice, for your indulgence and apologize for the inconvenience that has been caused you.

Had it not been for the keenness of Madame Horton yonder, you would still doubtless have been languishing in your cells."

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Horton gravely.

"Let me add, Monsieur Horton, that before the murderer arrived, I was in consultation with _Monsieur le Capitaine Waring_ of the office of the Judge Advocate of the American Army.

I told him what had happened in the case and he informed me that there was no disposition to make you suffer for an act which resulted in the _Croix de Guerre_.

He empowers me to ask only for your parole to report to him to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, to comply with the military law.

I should say that in the end you will have nothing to fear."

"Thank God!"

muttered Horton, half to himself.

"And now, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," said the _Juge_, with a smile, "Madame Simon, Madame Morin, perhaps we had better leave Monsieur the American to give his thanks to the lady who has helped us to liberate him--Madame Horton----" "Piquette----" Horton turned around to look for her but she had gone.

The others were already filing out of the door and suddenly Jim and Moira found themselves silent, face to face by the big window in the sunlight, amazed at the sudden termination of the case, and what it meant to them.

Their glances met and a gentle flush stole along the pallor of Moira's face, suddenly flooding it from brow to chin.

Scarcely daring to believe this evidence of his happiness, Jim stared at her awkwardly, and then took a pace forward.

"Moira," he whispered at last.

"Thank God," she murmured.

He took her in his arms, gently, as though she were a child, and held her silently in a moment of wordless communion.

Beyond the river below them, the city of their tribulations murmured as before, but to them it held a note of solace and of joy.

"You did this, Moira--you!"

he said at last.

"Something stronger than I, Jim.

Faith, Hope----" "And Charity," he added.

"I knew that I must succeed," she went on quickly.

"I was driven by some inward force which gave me new courage, and strength.

It was Faith, Jim, the Faith in you that my blindness had lost in the darkness of my uncertainty--the Faith that I found again.

I had to succeed where others had failed.

Faith gave me new vision--just in time," she finished with a gasp.

"You never believed that I could have----" "No, never, Jim," she broke in in a hushed voice.

"Not for a moment.

It was too horrible!"

She hid her eyes with a hand for a moment as though to blot out the stain of the thought.

"I've wondered why they didn't see as I saw.

It's like a dream--all that afternoon after Fontainebleau.

I hardly seem to remember why I did _what_ I did.

It seems so easy now that it's done.

I only know that I prayed again and again--that you--not he--should triumph."

"Quinlevin----" he muttered.

She drew closer into his arms.

"He has escaped," she said with a shudder.

"Perhaps it is best."

"Did you find out----?"

he began, but she broke in quickly, reading his thought.

"He was--my uncle--my father's brother.

Nora told me everything.

You've blamed me in your thoughts, Jim----" "No, Moira----" "Yes, I know," she insisted, "but I couldn't forget the long years of his kindness--until I knew what--what had happened--the horror of it.

I

ran away--here.

Even then I did not tell them everything.

And when they went to take him, it was too late.

He's gone."

"You poor child.

You've suffered----" "I wanted to go to you, Jim--that night when they came to the studio.

I

wanted to--and again at Nice.

But I was afraid, Jim."

"Afraid----" "Of myself--if I had gone to you then ...

our love had been so sweet a thing, Jim--so pure and beautiful.

I _couldn't_ let it be anything else.

I had never known what love was before.

I am afraid," she whispered.

"But not now, dear?"

"No. Not of myself or of you.

Only afraid that it's all a dream--that I'll wake up imprisoned by vows that may not be broken----" "You're released from them now, Moira," he said soberly.

"Yes, Jim."

"And you'll marry me, dear?"

"Yes, Jim.

But it would be a sin for us to be too happy too soon."

"I can be patient----" "You won't be needing to be too patient, Jim," she whispered, her warm lips on his.

He held her in the hollow of his arm, where she was meant to be, both of them muttering the phrases that had been so long delayed, while their eyes looked down toward the sun-lit river, when suddenly Jim felt the girl's fingers tighten in his and he followed the direction of her gaze.

Across the _Petit Pont_, just below them, a figure passed, a female figure in a heavy coat with a small hat that they both recognized, set rakishly upon a dark head.

"Piquette!"

said Moira.

Jim was silent and they watched for another moment.

Piquette paused for a moment on the bridge and then, raising her head quickly, squared her shoulders and went quickly along the Quai toward the Boulevard Saint Michel, where she was engulfed in the crowded thoroughfare.

END

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