The Splendid Outcast

by George Gibbs

  *CHAPTER XXIII*

  *ESCAPE*

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

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

  "What is it ye want, alanah?"

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

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

  But Moira pushed her way past the woman.

  "Something dreadful has happened--in there," she stammered, her facewhite, "I can't stay----"

  "What then----"

  "A fight--Mr. Quinlevin and Tricot----"

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

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

  "Come then. Quickly."

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

  Her first impulse had been to flee from it all--to escape anywhere--butwithout money where should she go? With the return of reason camecourage. And with courage a resolve to go back and do what she couldfor Piquette Morin. They would not have dared to kill her. It wasimpossible. An impulse to tell the people of the hotel what hadhappened came to her again, but as she turned toward the gardens,followed heavily by the frightened Nora, she resolved to go upstairs andface whatever was in store for her.

  What she found was rather terrifying at first, but when she summonednerve enough to turn on the light, she saw two swaddled figuressquirming to be free. Madame Morin had vanished. With the help ofNora, who came out of her state of coma when the facts were madeobvious, she liberated the two men and questioned eagerly.

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

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

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

  "Jim Horton!" gasped Moira.

  "The same--damn him."

  "And Madame?"

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

  "Thank God," said Moira fervently.

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

  * * * * *

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

  Moira was sorry for the woman who had brought her safely through herbaby diseases and acted as guide, counselor and friend until it was timefor her to go away to boarding school. And so, mingled with thecontempt that Moira felt for her, there was a little pity too, and aleaven of the old affection. In those moments of rapprochement andconfession, Moira learned in astonishment the secret of her birth. JimHorton had not been mistaken. She was not the daughter of BarryQuinlevin, but his niece, posthumous daughter of his younger brother,whose widow had died in childbirth. Barry Quinlevin's own wife, aninvalid and bedridden, had acquiesced in the plan of adopting thedaughter of her sister-in-law, but had not known in the few years beforeher own death of the deception that was to be practiced upon Monsieur deVautrin. The community in which the families lived was sparselysettled, the neighbors ignorant and illiterate. If Monsieur de Vautrinhad taken pains to make inquiries at this time he must surely havediscovered the ruse, but he had apparently taken all things told him forgranted, or was too enwrapped in his own selfish pursuits to give thecase attention. So long as he was left to the enjoyment of his fortuneby the paying of the tribute Quinlevin demanded, he was satisfied. Andso Quinlevin managed things in his own way, paying Nora for her silenceand keeping Moira in ignorance as to the source of their income.

  If Quinlevin guessed the nature of the conversation that passed betweenthe two women upon the train he gave no sign of it, but when theyreached Paris and returned to the studio, he seemed to experience achange of heart toward Moira, did what he could to restore the breach intheir old relations, admitting the truth of Nora's confession andshrugging off his failure as a matter that was ended. Apparently takingMoira's forgiveness for granted, he treated her, in their new relationof uncle and niece, with marked consideration, and planned in hisgrandiose way for the future. He seemed to have plenty of money andspent it upon her generously, but he did not leave her for a moment.And when he proposed a trip to Fontainebleau, a spot which in formeryears she had loved to visit, he asked her to accompany him. Herreasons for acquiescence were logical enough. Until she decided upon adefinite plan of separation from him, she thought it wisest to assume anattitude of forbearance. She wanted to go away somewhere where she couldthink and she wanted to hide herself where Jim Horton couldn't find her.For she was sure that he would not be content to let their affair remainas she had desired it. He would come pleading with her and then--Godknows what she would do. Alone, helpless--she was afraid--of herself.

  The little inn in the Forest where they stopped was not far from thehouse of some friends of Moira's, and thither if the opportunityoffered, she could go for sanctuary. But here again she felt theconstant supervision of her indomitable foster-father and uncle. Herecovered some of his old spirits and his old affection as he seemed tobe trying to obliterate from her memory the last few weeks which hadbeen so disastrous to them both. But she accepted these marks of hisregeneration with reserve, enjoying the rest and recuperation and tryingher best to forget the man she loved, praying for strength and guidanceand planning the struggle for existence which must begin when this briefinterlude came to an end. And so in a few days she lulled him into asense of security and convinced him of h
er spirit of resignation.

  She wandered off alone into the forest, and sometimes did not see himfor hours at a time, but she did not attempt escape. She was thinkingdeeply. She was still afraid that an escape from Quinlevin meant theother--the greater danger to her soul.

  It was upon her return from one of her solitary pilgrimages through thedripping woods (for the early morn had been foggy), that she learnedthat Barry Quinlevin was still in bed. She smiled as she thought howeasily her acquiescence had disarmed him. But when she sent up amessage that she had returned he sent down word that he would join herat _dejeuner_. Something of the old attraction toward him stillremained in spite of her knowledge of his villainy. She had not yetbeen able to obliterate from her mind the many years of hisencouragement in her work, his gentleness and the many marks ofaffection. In his strange way he loved her, and the fact that she nowfelt contempt for him did not disguise the fact that she felt a littlepity too. But she knew that she must decide very soon what she woulddo. There were so many years to set in the balance against the present.Rogue? Yes. But full of consideration and a lively appreciation of thecreature that he had made her. To cut him out of her life--root andbranch--much as she had learned to despise him, was not easy. But shemust do it--for her own self-respect--to-morrow--the next day....

  As she thought of her problems she sank into an arm chair by the fireand picked up a copy of a morning paper, which a new visitor had justbrought in from the city. It was part of Moira's purpose in hidingherself from the world to hide also the world from herself. But shepicked up the _Matin_ and in a moment was absorbed in the account of theprojected Peace Conference.

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

  "MURDER IN A STUDIO IN THE QUARTIER. Captain Horton, U.S.A., killed under strange circumstances."

  Then the news which followed, describing briefly (for space wasvaluable) the known facts regarding the mystery, the arrest of anAmerican, James Horton, and a French woman, Piquette Morin, pending afurther investigation of the mysterious crime. Apparently all the factsin the possession of the police were given, which, unless some otherdetails of the mystery were discovered, pointed the finger of suspicionat the American, who was the twin brother of the dead man.

  Moira read with growing horror the familiar address, the names of MadameToupin and the other tenants, her own name and Barry Quinlevin's, whoseabsence had added to the mystery. The type danced before her eyes likethe shifting colors in a kaleidoscope and then became merged andincomprehensible. Was she dreaming? With an effort, she focused againupon the damnable page, aware of this new crisis that had sought her outfrom the depths of her retreat.

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

  She got up, paper in hand, and scarcely aware of what she was doing,went to her room and quickly put on her hat and coat, coming down stairsa few moments later and taking the road in the direction of the RailroadStation. She had no definite plan except to escape her uncle and get toParis as quickly as possible. But she was aware that some instinct wasguiding her. She inquired of the Station Agent when the Paris train wasdue. She was lucky. There would be a train in half an hour. Shebought a ticket out of the slender means in her possession and waited,going over and over in her mind the terrible phrases which seemedalready to have burned themselves indelibly upon her memory. The motivefor the crime? There seemed to be none--"except that the two brothershad not been friendly." Motive! Harry--her husband--and Jim----! HolyVirgin! She leaned against a tree by the roadside and wordlesslyprayed. Not that motive--not that! And Jim Horton--whatever the thingshe had suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through_her_, he was not the man who could have done this thing. When sheraised her head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was onher lips, a new smile of confidence and faith. She had tried him. Sheknew the kind of man he was. He could fight, in the open, as a braveman should, but not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his ownbrother in the dark.

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

  She stared at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing. But therewas a frown at her brows and her lips were drawn together in a firmline. She was beginning to see with an inner vision, to turn over oneby one the events of the last few weeks and the motives of all thoseconcerned in them. The police did not know who had committed this crimeif Jim Horton were innocent. The circumstances were such as to precludethe possibility of any one escaping from the room. _And yet some onemust have been there and some one, somehow, must have escaped_.

  Out of her own knowledge emerged a motive for a murder--not of Harry,but of his brother--a motive that had already been the cause of twoabortive attempts upon his life. Somehow this thought emerged withphotographic distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment moredefinite and more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps twolives, one of them Jim Horton's, hung upon the keenness of her visionand intelligence. If Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire_, whose namehad been given in the _Matin_, was balked in getting at the truth, shewould help him. There were many things he did not know, many thingsthat she could tell him, such as would perhaps open new vistas forinvestigation.

  Quite calmly now she took out the paper and re-read the details, herimagination catching at neglected clues, her instinct groping, and herhorror grew--not at the thought of Jim in his prison, but of othersuspicions that rose from every known fact and confronted her--pointingaccusing fingers.

  She passed between the white columns of the entrance to the Palais deJustice, through the iron and gilt barrier and then paused, but not inany fear, for her mind was made up and her courage had come back to herwith a rush that put to shame her days of uncertainty. So sheapproached one of the palace guards and asked to be shown to the officeof the _Prefet_. The _Prefet_, she was informed, was not in thebuilding. Would any one else do? Was it upon a matter connected withthe administration of justice? She replied promptly that she came upona matter in connection with the murder mystery in the studio at No. 7Rue de Tavennes and the man pricked up his ears, conducting her promptlyup a long flight of stone steps to the left, where he told her she wouldfind the _Juge d'Instruction_. And when in reply to his question as towhat name he should announce, she told him that she was Madame Horton,his interest and activity were intense. With a word to the _greffier_who stood near, he disappeared through a door and in a moment returnedwith two gentlemen who hurried forward to meet her, introducingthemselves as Monsieur Simon, the _Juge d'Instruction_, who had takencharge of the investigation, and Monsieur Matthieu, the _Commissaire dePolice_ for the District in which the crime had been committed.

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

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

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

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

  "But you must admit, Madame," broke in the practical _Commissaire_, whohad a reputation at stake, "that instead of tending to clear MonsieurHorton of suspicion, you have only added one more thread to the net thatalready enmeshes him."

  "What do you mean, Monsieur?"

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

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

  "We have thought of all that, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "and I amwilling to admit that there are several points in his testimony whichare very puzzling. We have only finished his examination and that ofMadame Morin, which have lasted the greater part of the morning. Bothhe and Madame Morin have repeated without the slightest divergence thetestimony taken in the preliminary examination at the scene of thecrime. I am glad to say also that their statements confirm in a generalway your own in regard to what has happened in the affair of the Duc deVautrin. The entire department of Police is now upon a search forMonsieur Barry Quinlevin and the man named Tricot, who will, of course,be given the opportunity to explain where they were last night at eighto'clock. An agent goes at once to Fontainebleau. But that does notexonerate Monsieur Horton or Madame Morin. A man has been killed in aroom from which the murderer could not have emerged without detection.The door to the sleeping apartments was locked, the key on the outside,the window was sixty feet from the stone flagging below. The window andwall were carefully studied this morning after daybreak. The murderercould not have climbed down. It is impossible. Monsieur Horton admitsthat he did not escape by the stair. How then did he escape? The doorshave been guarded. He is not there now nor did Monsieur Horton discoverhim either before or after the murder----"

  "And yet he was there, Monsieur Simon----" said Moira, her voicegathering strength and clearness from the depth of her faith andconviction. "He was there, _Monsieur le Commissaire_," she repeated,"all the time. Nothing else is possible."

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

  "I should be very willing to believe you, Madame," he said, with politescepticism, "had I not ocular demonstration that there could have beenno one in the room at any moment between the arrival of Monsieur Hortonand Madame Morin and the alarm given by Monsieur Horton himself. I havenot yet exhausted every avenue of investigation, but I need not concealfrom you the extreme danger of the position in which Monsieur Hortonfinds himself. We have a motive for the crime. Even you, Madame, haveonly added testimony as to that. With his brother dead, there was noobstacle to your unfortunate affection----"

  "Monsieur----!" Moira had drawn back from him in dismay, her faceblanched again.

  "If I seem cruel, I only speak with the cold logic of the professionalanalyst of human motives. The fact that you are a Catholic and opposedto divorce only provides another reason why your husband should beremoved from the path of Monsieur Horton----"

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

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

  "Or accessory----" put in Monsieur Matthieu sharply.

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

  Monsieur Simon nodded approval.

  "I am glad you have made that point, Madame. It is our trade to makeour witnesses uncomfortable that they may controvert themselves. Butyou have probed quite straight. And instead of answering your question,permit me to ask you another. Did you send a _Petit Bleu_ to MonsieurHorton requesting him to come to your studio last night at eighto'clock?"

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

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

  The two men exchanged glances of new interest.

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

  Moira started forward in her chair.

  "What did that message say, Messieurs?"

  Monsieur Simon took the blue slip from a packet of papers and laid itbefore her. With eyes dilated, she read the message that was signedwith her name. Then for a moment frowned deeply, staring at thisconfirmation of her suspicion.

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

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

  "It is as I supposed, Messieurs. Monsieur Jim Horton was lured to thestudio by this message and--my husband--was killed by mistake in hisstead."

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

  Moira made a nervous gesture of recantation.

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

  "Monsieur Quinlevin?"

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

  "Then who----?"

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

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

  "Madame Horton, let us confine ourselves to the physical evidence thatconfronts us. _No one could have been in that studio between the momentwhen Monsieur Jim Horton and Madame Morin say they left it until theysay they returned some moments later_. That is the fact. I know. It ismy business to neglect nothing. I _have_ neglected nothing. ThereforeI tell you that no matter whom you suspect to have committed thismurder, no matter whom Monsieur Simon or I might believe to have had amotive in committing it, the fact remains that he could not have enteredthe studio or departed from it during the short period in which thiscrime was committed. And I say to you now that _no human being exceptMonsieur Horton could have been present to commit this murder_."

  "And yet," said Moira desperately, "a human being other than MonsieurHorton killed my husband."

  Monsieur Matthieu shrugged and smiled.

  "You have not investigated as I have done, Madame," he said.

  "No, Monsieur. But I am right," she said firmly.

  "You are persistent."

  "It is my duty to find the truth of this matter."

  "And mine--but not to achieve the impossible----"

  Monsieur Simon, whose nervous fingers had been caressing his dark beard,while his small deep-set eyes followed the changing emotions in Moira'stroubled face, now broke into the discussion with some spirit.

  "It is not safe, _Monsieur le Commissaire_, to disregard the intuitionsof a woman. In this case, since we have weighed all immediate evidence,perhaps it would be wise to give Madame Horton the opportunity ofconfirming to her own satisfaction the results of your investigation."

  Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged again.

  "_Volontiers_, Monsieur, if you think it worth while."

  "At least it can do no harm. Madame Horton is familiar with her ownstudio. Perhaps she may notice something that has escaped your eye."

  "As you please."

  "It is that which you desire, Madame?" asked the Judge.

  "Oh,
thanks, Monsieur," uttered Moira gratefully. "I could not besatisfied, even after the skill of _Monsieur le Commissaire_, unless Ihad probed this mystery with my own eyes."

  "Come, then, Madame. There is still time. We shall go at once."