“ She only wanted Harry Horton to know that love was not for her or for him. The fakir under the bed clothes understood. She preferred to speak of valor. Valor! If she only knew!
Jim Horton gathered courage. If he wasn't to tell the truth he would have to play his part.
"Everybody is brave—out there," he said, with a gesture.
"But not brave enough for mention," said Quinlevin genially. "It won't do, Harry boy. A hero ye were and a hero ye'll remain."
Horton felt the girl's calm gaze upon his face.
"I'm so glad you've made good, Harry. I am. And I want you to believe it." ”

“ A light showed beyond a transom on the second floor, the odor of a cigarette was wafted to them, and the sound of a voice softly singing. There was no other studio-apartment on the third floor but Moira's, and they mounted the steps softly on tiptoe, peering upward into the obscurity for signs of illumination that would proclaim occupancy. But they could see no light but the reflection of the cold starlit sky which came through a window on the stair and outlined the rail and baluster.
"Is dere no light?" asked Piquette in a voice which in spite of itself seemed no more than a whisper. ”

“ Piquette stirred slightly in her sleep and spoke his name. "Mon Jeem," she muttered, and then settled herself more comfortably against his shoulder. Jim Horton did not move for fear of awakening her, but his gaze passed over her relaxed features and a generous wave of gratitude swept over him for all that she had done for him. What a trump she was! What a loyal little soul to help him with no hope of reward but the same kind of loyalty she had given him. He must not fail her. If there were only some way in which he could help her to happiness. ”

“ Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of the fireplace. If it was to be war, she would fight. She had married Harry in a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but the understanding had been definite. And now she would rather run away—even from her father—than to fulfill the terrible vows she had taken. Jim Horton—she wanted to hear his side of the story. Reviving faith in him made her sure that if he were alive he would come to her and tell her everything.... ”

“ 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 two abortive attempts upon his life. Somehow this thought emerged with photographic distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment more definite and more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps two lives, one of them Jim Horton's, hung upon the keenness of her vision and intelligence. If Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire, whose name had been given in the Matin, was balked in getting at the truth, she would help him. ”

“ Love! You do not know what love is, you——"
"Stop, Madame!" gasped Moira, her lips gray and trembling under the wrist that masked her eyes. "You dare not tell me what love is. You don't know—everything."
"Yes," said Piquette quietly. "I know everyt'ing. But only God could keep me from de man I love."
"Yes, God!" whispered Moira tensely. "Only God."
The pallor of her face, the agonized clutch of her white fingers on the table and the tone of her voice silenced Piquette, and she glanced up at Moira partly in pity, partly in scorn. ”

“ Of course Moira's appeal for forgiveness was only the weary cry of a heart sick with disappointment—a cry for sanctuary from the dreaded evils that encompassed her. But he would not permit himself to believe that it meant any new happiness for him, except the mere joy that he would find in doing her a service. What he hoped was that at last she had decided to permit him to take her away from Quinlevin. With that he would be content—must be content—for the thing that separated them was stronger than her will or his. "There's no divorce but death." ”

“ And Jim Horton—whatever the things he had suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through her, he was not the man who could have done this thing. When she raised her head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was on her lips, a new smile of confidence and faith. She had tried him. She knew the kind of man he was. He could fight, in the open, as a brave man should, but not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his own brother in the dark. ”

“ Jim Horton, from embarrassment at the astonishing confession, began to understand its motive and sat silent, Piquette's hand in his, aware of the bond of sympathy between them.
"It's a queer world, Piquette," he said at last, with a dry laugh. "I care for somebody I can't have—you care for me—why, God knows. I've made a fine mess of things and will probably go on making a mess of things—her life, mine, yours—when you and I might have hit it off from the beginning." ”

“ MOIRA."
"P. S. Don't be getting killed or anything; I never wanted to marry anybody but I don't want you done away with. Besides, I've a horror of crêpe.
M."
Jim Horton read the letter through furtively with a growing sense of intrusion. It was like listening at a confessional or peering through a keyhole. And somehow its ingenuous frankness aroused his interest. Harry had been married to this girl who didn't love him and she had consented because her father had wanted her to. He felt unaccountably indignant on her account against Harry and the father. Pretty name—Moira! ”

“ And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes snapping benevolence.
"If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she'll sure be worshiping ye."
Jim Horton's gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown puckered the white forehead. And when she spoke again, her voice uttered the truth that was in her heart.
"One cannot deny valor," she said coolly. "It is the greatest thing in the world." ”

“ Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again, again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.
In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man, quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body. And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering gas-jet was that of his brother—Harry. ”

“ She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.
"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me."
"It is Jeem 'Orton who should forgive."
"I have done him a great wrong—and you. And I must do him another great wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the man you love. God has kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again."
"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly. ”

“ She entered the room slowly, with a feeling of some awe, and for a moment stood by the fireplace, glancing from one object to the other, thinking deeply. A dark stain on the rug, just before her, gave her a tremor, but she recovered herself immediately and walked slowly around the room, examining each object as though she had never seen it before.
"Does Madame wish to look in the apartment or the kitchenette?" she heard Monsieur Matthieu's voice asking.
But she shook her head. The answer to the mystery lay here—in this very room. She was already satisfied as to that. ”

“ And it was her very confession of indifference and pity for Harry as she had known him, that seemed to give Jim the right to care for and protect her. He did care for her, he was now willing to confess in a way far from fraternal. He had always been too busy to think about women, but Moira had crept into his life when he was ill and unnerved, needing the touch of a friendly hand, and their peculiar relationship had given him no chance of escape—nor her. She had captured his imagination and he had succeeded where Harry had not in winning her affection. ”

“ He had gathered in a cloudy way the general meaning of the visit to the Duc de Vautrin at Nice and had wondered at Moira's consent to go with Quinlevin on such a mission after what she must have heard that night. But he had been in no humor to ask questions the next morning, and knew nothing whatever as to the prospects of success for the undertaking. It looked very much as though with Jim Horton in on the game, the mission was dubious. And yet Quinlevin might succeed. If he did there would be enough money to stake Harry in a new life in some distant part of the world. ”

“ But she had lowered herself to her knees upon the ledge outside and clinging to the jamb of the window was carefully examining every inch of the sill and tin gutter.
Monsieur Matthieu, inside the room, had lighted a cigarette and was puffing at it contentedly, looking on with an amused tolerance at the solicitude of Monsieur Simon, who as he knew was more easily swayed than himself from the paths of his duty by a pretty face or a well-turned ankle. ”

“ Monsieur Simon, whose nervous fingers had been caressing his dark beard, while his small deep-set eyes followed the changing emotions in Moira's troubled face, now broke into the discussion with some spirit.
"It is not safe, Monsieur le Commissaire, to disregard the intuitions of a woman. In this case, since we have weighed all immediate evidence, perhaps it would be wise to give Madame Horton the opportunity of confirming to her own satisfaction the results of your investigation." ”

“ Moira was there—his wife, Barry Quinlevin perhaps. Who else? He heard sounds of laughter from somewhere upstairs. Laughter! The bitterness of it! But it didn't sound like Moira's voice. He walked to and fro watching the lighted windows and the entrance of the concierge, trying to keep up the circulation of his blood, for the night was chill and his clothing thin. He had no plan—but he was very hungry and his resolution to remain unknown was weakening. A man couldn't let himself slowly starve, and yet to seek out any one he knew meant discovery and the horrible publicity that must follow. ”

“ It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead child who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for years with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and now the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." And Piquette knew all. Blackmail it was—of the blackest.
For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself. And then only assented safely to her suggestion.
"Yes; it is the only thing to be done." ”

“ An aromatic odor of burning leaves was in the air and about him aged men and women worked in road and garden as though the alarms of war had never come to their ears. The signing of the armistice, which had taken place while Horton was still in his bed, had been the cause of much quiet joy throughout the hospital. But with the return of health, Jim Horton had begun wondering what effect the peace was to have upon his strange fortunes—and upon Harry's. ”

“ It would have been easy for Quinlevin to have shot him in the back, and at the moment Jim Horton wouldn't much have cared if he had. He went down the stairs slowly, across the court and out into the street, wandering aimlessly, bare headed, with no sense of any intention or direction. "There's no divorce—but death." Moira's words rang again and again in his brain. That was a part of her creed, her faith, her religion. She had once spoken of what her Church had always meant to her—her Mother, she had called it,—and she was true to her convictions. "There's no divorce—but death." ”

“ Moira's lips wreathed into an adorable smile.
"I've been thinking the war has done something to you, Harry. And now I'm sure of it. You've been learning to think of somebody beside yourself."
"I'd be pretty rotten if I hadn't learned to do some thinking about you," he said, as he looked into her eyes with more hardihood than wisdom.
She met his gaze for the fraction of a minute and then raised her chin and laughed merrily up at the broad back of the cocher.
"Yes, you've changed, Harry dear. God knows how or why—but you've changed. ”

“ He would have liked to be able to go to Moira. She was the one creature in the world whose opinion seemed to matter now. She would have been his on the next furlough. He knew women. If you couldn't get them one way you could another. Already her letters had been gentler—more conciliatory. His wife—the wife of an outcast! God! Why had he ever gone into the service? How had he known back there that he wouldn't have been able to stand up under fire—that he would have found the grinning head of the hated Levinski in the wheat field? Waves of goose flesh went over him and left him cold and weak.... ”

“ Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with her her immense dot, with the provision from her father's will that if any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of the mother's death."
"Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself. "Athlone!"
"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her—Mary Callonby dying in childbirth." And then softly, "Do you follow me, Moira? It's very important." ”

“ He laughed gayly as he took her hand.
"And there's a goose in the pantry, bought at a fabulous price, just waiting for the pan——"
"Be sure you don't kill your prisoner with kindness," put in Nurse Newberry.
"I'll take that risk," said Horton genially.
"Sure and he must," put in Moira. "It isn't every day one brings a conquering hero home."
"Especially when he's your husband," said the artless Miss Newberry wistfully.
Jim Horton had a glimpse of the color that ran like a flame up Moira's throat to her brow but he glanced quickly away and busied himself with a buckle at his belt. ”

“ She knew nothing of what Barry Quinlevin was doing.
Her next remark was disquieting.
"It's very strange, the way I'm thinking about you. You've grown different in the army—or is it the sickness? There's a sweeter look to your mouth, and a firmer turn to your jaw. Your gaze is wider and your heart has grown soft, with the suffering. It's like another man, I'm seeing somehow, Harry, and I'm glad." ”

“ She had settled that matter definitely the night when he had come in drunk from the Rue Charron.
He reached Paris and lost himself in Montmartre, avoiding the old haunts. There he found new acquaintances and many bottles to soothe the awakening pangs. Many bottles ... moments of lucidity ... how long would it be before Moira and Quinlevin returned to the Rue de Tavennes? He would have to sober up. Things weren't bad at all now. What difference did it make to any one but himself what he did or what he became? It was his own life to do what he pleased with. ”

“ There's no divorce—except death——"
"I ask nothing of you, Moira," Jim was pleading again, "only to go with me—away from here—to-night—for your own self-respect."
"An outcast——," sneered Quinlevin.
He saw how the game was going, but he went too far. She turned on him defiantly.
"An outcast!" she said. "I would be proud to be facing the world alone with such an outcast as Jim Horton—the shame and the glory of following blindly where my heart was leading me——"
"Come, then," said Jim.
"No. Don't you see? I can't. What Harry says is true. I married with my eyes open. I swore to a lie. ”