It was a distressed and sleepless night that Alice passed after the torturing scene of her lover's arrest. She would almost have preferred her haunting dreams to this pitiful reality. What had Lloyd done? Why had this woman come for him? And what would happen now? Again and again, as weariness brought slumber, the sickening fact stirred her to wakefulness—they had taken Kittredge away to prison charged with an abominable crime. And she loved him, she loved him now more than ever, she was absolutely his, as she never would have been if this trouble had not come. Ah, there was her only ray of comfort that just at the last she had made him happy. She would never forget his look of gratitude as she cried out her love and her trust in his innocence and—yes, she had kissed him, her Lloyd, before those rough men; she had kissed him, and even in the darkness of her chamber her cheeks flamed at the thought.

Soon after five she rose and dressed. This was Sunday, her busiest day, she must be in Notre-Dame for the early masses. There was a worn place in a chasuble that needed some touches of her needle; Father Anselm had asked her to see to it. And this duty done, there was the special Sunday sale of candles and rosaries and little red guidebooks of the church to keep her busy.

Alice was in the midst of all this when, shortly before ten, Mother Bonneton approached, cringing at the side of a visitor, a lady of striking beauty whose dress and general air proclaimed a lavish purse. In a first glance Alice noticed her exquisite supple figure and her full red lips. Also a delicate fragrance of violets.

"This lady wants you to show her the towers," explained the old crone with a cunning wink at the girl. "I tell her it's hard for you to leave your candles, especially now when people are coming in for high mass, but I can take your place, and," with a servile smile, "madame is generous."

"Certainly," agreed the lady, "whatever you like, five francs, ten francs."

"Five francs is quite enough," replied Alice, to Mother Bonneton's great disgust. "I love the towers on a day like this."

So they started up the winding stone stairs of the Northern tower, the lady going first with lithe, nervous steps, although Alice counseled her not to hurry.

"It's a long way to the top," cautioned the girl, "three hundred and seventy steps."

But the lady pressed on as if she had some serious purpose before her, round and round past an endless ascending surface of gloomy gray stone, scarred everywhere with names and initials of foolish sightseers, past narrow slips of fortress windows through the massive walls, round and round in narrowing circles until finally, with sighs of relief, they came out into the first gallery and stood looking down on Paris laughing under the yellow sun.

"Ouf!" panted the lady, "it is a climb."

They were standing on the graceful stone passageway that joins the two towers at the height of the bells and were looking to the west over the columned balustrade, over the Place Notre-Dame, dotted with queer little people, tinkling with bells of cab horses, clanging with gongs of yonder trolley cars curving from the Pont Neuf past old Charlemagne astride of his great bronze horse. Then on along the tree-lined river, on with widening view of towers and domes until their eyes rested on the green spreading bois and the distant heights of Saint Cloud.

And straightway Alice began to point out familiar monuments, the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, the square of the Louvre, the gilded dome of Napoleon's tomb, the crumbling Tour Saint Jacques, disfigured now with scaffolding for repairs, and the SacrÉ Cour, shining resplendent on the Montmartre hill.

To all of which the lady listened indifferently. She was plainly thinking of something else, and, furtively, she was watching the girl.

"Tell me," she asked abruptly, "is your name Alice?"

"Yes," answered the other in surprise.

The lady hesitated. "I thought that was what the old woman called you." Then, looking restlessly over the panorama: "Where is the conciergerie?"

Alice started at the word. Among all the points in Paris this was the one toward which her thoughts were tending, the conciergerie, the grim prison where her lover was!

"It is there," she replied, struggling with her emotion, "behind that cupola of the Chamber of Commerce. Do you see those short pointed towers? That is it."

"Is it still used as a prison?" continued the visitor with a strange insistence.

"Why, yes," stammered the girl, "I think so—that is, the depot is part of the conciergerie or just adjoins it."

"What is the depot?" questioned the other, eying Alice steadily.

The girl flushed. "Why do you ask me that? Why do you look at me so?"

The lady stepped closer, and speaking low: "Because I know who you are, I know why you are thinking about that prison."

Alice stared at her with widening eyes and heaving bosom. The woman's tone was kind, her look almost appealing, yet the girl drew back, guided by an instinct of danger.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Don't you know who I am?" answered the other, and now her emotion broke through the mask of calm. "I am the lady who—who called for M. Kittredge last night."

"Oh!" burst out Alice scornfully. "A lady! You call yourself a lady!"

"Call me anything you like but——"

"I don't wish to speak to you; it's an outrage your coming here; I—I'm going down." And she started for the stairs.

"Wait!" cried the visitor. "You shall hear me. I have come to help the man you love."

"The man you love," blazed the girl. "The man whose life you have ruined."

"It's true I—I loved him," murmured the other.

"What right had you to love him, you a married woman?"

The lady caught her breath with a little gasp and her hands shut tight.

"He told you that?"

"'I know why you are thinking about that prison.'"

"Yes, because he was forced to—the thing was known. Don't be afraid, he didn't tell your name, he never would tell it. But I know enough, I know that you tortured him and—when he got free from you, after struggling and—starving and——"

"Starving?"

"Yes, starving. After all that, when he was just getting a little happy, you had to come again, and—and now he's there."

She looked fixedly at the prison, then with angry fires flashing in her dark eyes: "I hate you, I hate you," she cried.

In spite of her growing emotion the lady forced herself to speak calmly: "Hate me if you will, but hear me."

"No," went on Alice fiercely, "you shall hear me. You have done this wicked, shameless thing, and now you come to me, think of that, to me! You must be mad. Anyhow, you are here and you shall tell me what I want to know."

"What do you want to know?" trembled the woman.

"I want to know, first, who you are. I want your name and address."

"Certainly; I am—er—Madam Marius, and I live at—er—6 Avenue Martignon."

"Ah! May I have one of your cards?"

"I—er—I'm afraid I have no card here," evaded the other, pretending to search in a gold bag. Her face was very pale.

The girl made no reply, but walked quickly to a turn of the gallery.

"Valentine," she called.

"Yes," answered a voice.

"Ah, you are there. I may need you in a minute."

"Bien!"

Then, returning, she said quietly: "Valentine is a friend of mine. She sells postal cards up here. Unless you tell me the truth, I shall ask her to go down and call the sacristan. Now then, who are you?"

"Don't ask who I am," pleaded the lady.

"I ask what I want to know."

"Anything but that!"

"Then you are not Madam Marius?"

"No."

"You lied to me?"

"Yes."

"Valentine!" called Alice, and promptly a girl of about sixteen, bare-headed, appeared at the end of the gallery. "Go down and ask Papa Bonneton to come here at once. Say it's important. Hurry!"

With an understanding nod Valentine disappeared inside the tower and the quick clatter of her wooden shoes echoed up from below.

"But—what will you tell him?" gasped the lady.

"I shall tell him you were concerned in that crime last night. I don't know what it was, I haven't read the papers, but he has."

"Do you want to ruin me?" cried the woman; then, with a supplicating gesture: "Spare me this shame; I will give you money, a large sum. See here!" and, opening her gold bag, she drew out some folded notes. "I'll give you a thousand francs—five thousand. Don't turn away! I'll give you more—my jewels, my pearls, my rings. Look at them." She held out her hands, flashing with precious stones.

Suddenly she felt the girl's eyes on her in utter scorn. "You are not even intelligent," Alice flung back; "you were a fool to come here; now you are stupid enough to think you can buy my silence. Mon Dieu, what a base soul!"

"Forgive me, I don't know what I am saying," begged the other. "Don't be angry. Listen; you say I was a fool to come here, but it isn't true. I realized my danger, I knew what I was risking, and yet I came, because I had to come. I felt I could trust you. I came in my desperation because there was no other person in Paris I dared go to."

"Is that true?" asked the girl, more gently.

"Indeed it is," implored the lady, her eyes swimming with tears. "I beg your pardon sincerely for offering you money. I know you are loyal and kind and—I'm ashamed of myself. I have suffered so much since last night that—as you say, I must be mad."

It was a strange picture—this brilliant beauty, forgetful of pride and station, humbling herself to a poor candle seller. Alice looked at her in wonder.

"I don't understand yet why you came to me," she said.

"I want to make amends for the harm I have done, I want to save M. Kittredge—not for myself. Don't think that! He has gone out of my life and will never come into it again. I want to save him because it's right that I should, because he has been accused of this crime through me and I know he is innocent."

"Ah," murmured Alice joyfully, "you know he is innocent."

"Yes; and, if necessary, I will give evidence to clear him. I will tell exactly what happened."

"What happened where?"

"In the room where this man was—was shot. Ugh!" She pressed her hands over her eyes as if to drive away some horrid vision.

"You were—there?" asked the girl.

The woman nodded with a wild, frightened look. "Don't ask me about it. There isn't time now and—I told him everything."

"You mean Lloyd? You told Lloyd everything?"

"Yes, in the carriage. He realizes that I acted for the best, but—don't you see, if I come forward now and tell the truth, I shall be disgraced, ruined."

"And if you don't come forward, Lloyd will remain in prison," flashed the girl.

"You don't understand. There is no case against Lloyd. He is bound to be released for want of evidence against him. I only ask you to be patient a few days and let me help him without destroying myself."

"How can you help him unless you speak out?"

"I can help with money for a good lawyer. That is why I brought these bank notes." Again she offered the notes. "You won't refuse them—for him?"

But Alice pushed the money from her. "A lawyer's efforts might free him in the future, your testimony will free him now."

"Then you will betray me?" demanded the woman fiercely.

"Betray?" answered the girl. "That's a fine-sounding word, but what does it mean? I shall do the best I can for the man I love."

"Ha! The best you can! And what is that? To make him ashamed of you! To make him suffer!"

"Suffer?"

"Why not? Don't you suppose he will suffer to find that you have no sympathy with his wishes?"

"What do you mean?"

"You threaten to do the very thing that he went to prison to prevent. You're going to denounce me, aren't you?"

"To save him—yes."

"When it isn't necessary, when it will cause a dreadful calamity. If he wanted to be saved that way, wouldn't he denounce me himself? He knows my name, he knows the whole story. Wouldn't he tell it himself if he wanted it told?"

The girl hesitated, taken aback at this new view. "I suppose he thinks it a matter of honor."

"Exactly. And you who pretend to love him have so little heart, so little delicacy, that you care nothing for what he thinks a matter of honor. A pretty thing your sense of honor must be!"

"Oh!" shrank Alice, and the woman, seeing her advantage, pursued it relentlessly. "Did you ever hear of a debt of honor? How do you know that your lover doesn't owe me such a debt and isn't paying it now down there?"

So biting were the words, so fierce the scorn, that Alice found herself wavering. After all, she knew nothing of what had happened, nor could she be sure of Lloyd's wishes. He had certainly spoken of things in his life that he regretted. Could it be that he was bound in honor to save this woman at any cost? As she stood irresolute, there came up from below the sound of steps on the stairs, ascending steps, nearer and nearer, then distinctly the clatter of Valentine's wooden shoes, then another and a heavier tread. The sacristan was coming.

"Here is your chance," taunted the lady; "give me up, denounce me, and then remember what Lloyd will remember always, that when a distressed and helpless sister woman came to you and trusted you, you showed her no pity, but deliberately wrecked her life."

Half sorry, half triumphant, but without a word, Alice watched the torture of this former rival; and now the loud breathing of the sacristan was plainly heard on the stairs.

"Remember," flung out the other in a final defiance that was also a final appeal, "remember that nothing brought me here but the sacredness of a love that is gone, a sacredness that I respect and he respects but that you trample on."

As she said this Valentine emerged from the tower door followed wearily by Papa Bonneton, in full regalia, his mild face expressing all that it could of severity.

"What has happened?" he said sharply to Alice. Then, with a habit of deference, he lifted his three-cornered hat to the lady: "Madam will understand that it was difficult for me to leave my duties."

Madam stood silent, ghastly white, hands clinched so hard that the gems cut into her flesh, eyes fixed on the girl in a last anguished supplication.

Then Alice said to the sacristan: "Madam wants to hear the sound of the great bell. She asked me to strike it with the hammer, but I told her that is forbidden during high mass. Madam offered ten francs—twenty francs—she is going away and is very anxious to hear the bell; she has read about its beautiful tone. When madam offered twenty francs, I thought it my duty to let you know." All this with a self-possession that the daughters of Eve have acquired through centuries of practice.

"Twenty francs!" muttered the guileless Bonneton. "You were right, my child, perfectly right. That rule was made for ordinary visitors, but with madam it is different. I myself will strike the bell for madam." And with all dispatch he entered the Southern tower, where the great bourdon hangs, whispering: "Twenty francs! It's a miracle."

No sooner was he gone than the lady caught the girl's two hands in hers, and with her whole soul in her eyes she cried: "God bless you! God bless you!"

Alice tried to speak, but the words choked her, and, leaning over the balustrade, she looked yearningly toward the prison, her lips moving in silence: "Lloyd! Lloyd!" Then the great bell struck and she turned with a start, brushing away the tears that dimmed her eyes.

A moment later Papa Bonneton reappeared, scarcely believing that already he had earned his louis and insisting on telling madam various things about the bell—that it was presented by Louis XIV, and weighed over seventeen tons; that eight men were required to ring it, two poised at each corner of the rocking framework; that the note it sounded was fa diese—did madam understand that? Do, re, mi, fa? And more of the sort until madam assured him that she was fully satisfied and would not keep him longer from his duties. Whereupon, with a torrent of thanks, the old man disappeared in the tower, looking unbelievingly at the gold piece in his hand.

"And now what?" asked Alice with feverish eagerness when they were alone again.

"Let me tell you, first, what you have saved me from," said the lady, leaning weakly against the balustrade. A feeling of faintness had come over her in the reaction from her violent emotion.

"No, no," replied the girl, "this is the time for action, not sentiment. You have promised to save him, now do it."

"I will," declared the other, and the light of a fine purpose gave a dignity to her rather selfish beauty. "Or, rather, we will save him together. First, I want you to take this money—you will take it now for him? That's right, put it in your dress. Ah," she smiled as Alice obeyed her. "That is for a lawyer. He must have a good lawyer at once."

"Yes, of course," agreed Alice, "but how shall I get a lawyer?"

The lady frowned. "Ah, if I could only send you to my lawyer! But that would involve explanations. We need a man to advise us, some one who knows about these things."

"I have it," exclaimed Alice joyfully. "The very person!"

"Who is that?"

"M. Coquenil."

"What?" The other stared. "You mean Paul Coquenil, the detective?"

"Yes," said the girl confidently. "He would help us; I'm sure of it."

"He is on the case already. Didn't you know that? The papers are full of it."

Alice shook her head. "That doesn't matter, does it? He would tell us exactly what to do. I saw him in Notre-Dame only yesterday and—and he spoke to me so kindly. You know, M. Coquenil is a friend of Papa Bonneton's; he lends him his dog CÆsar to guard the church."

"It seems like providence," murmured the lady. "Yes, that is the thing to do, you must go to M. Coquenil at once. Tell the old sacristan I have sent you on an errand—for another twenty francs."

Alice smiled faintly. "I can manage that. But what shall I say to M. Paul?"

"Speak to him about the lawyer and the money; I will send more if necessary. Tell him what has happened between us and then put yourself in his hands. Do whatever he thinks best. There is one thing I want M. Kittredge to be told—I wish you would write it down so as to make no mistake. Here is a pencil and here is a piece of paper." With nervous haste she tore a page from a little memorandum book. "Now, then," and she dictated the following statement which Alice took down carefully: "Tell M. Kittredge that the lady who called for him in the carriage knows now that the person she thought guilty last night is NOT guilty. She knows this absolutely, so she will be able to appear and testify in favor of M. Kittredge if it becomes necessary. But she hopes it will not be necessary. She begs M. Kittredge to use this money for a good lawyer."