It was not until after vespers that Alice was able to leave Notre-Dame and start for the Villa Montmorency—in fact, it was nearly five when, with mingled feelings of confidence and shrinking, she opened the iron gate in the ivy-covered wall of Coquenil's house and advanced down the neat walk between the double hedges to the solid gray mass of the villa, at once dignified and cheerful. Melanie came to the door and showed, by a jealous glance, that she did not approve of her master receiving visits from young and good-looking females.

"M. Paul is resting," she grumbled; "he worked all last night and he's worked this whole blessed day until half an hour ago."

"I'm sorry, but it's a matter of great importance," urged the girl.

"Good, good," snapped Melanie. "What name?"

"He wouldn't know my name. Please say it's the girl who sells candles in Notre-Dame."

"Huh! I'll tell him. Wait here," and with scant courtesy the old servant left Alice standing in the blue-tiled hallway, near a long diamond-paned window. A moment later Melanie reappeared with mollified countenance. "M. Paul says will you please take a seat in here." She opened the study door and pointed to one of the big red-leather chairs. "He'll be down in a moment."

Left alone, Alice glanced in surprise about this strange room. She saw a photograph of CÆsar and his master on the wall and went nearer to look at it. Then she noticed the collection of plaster hands and was just bending over it when Coquenil entered, wearing a loosely cut house garment of pale yellow with dark-green braid around the jacket and down the legs of the trousers. He looked pale, almost haggard, but his face lighted in welcome as he came forward.

"She was just bending over it when Coquenil entered."

"Glad to see you," he said.

She had not heard his step and turned with a start of surprise.

"I—I beg your pardon," she murmured in embarrassment.

"Are you interested in my plaster casts?" he asked pleasantly.

"I was looking at this hand," replied the girl. "I have seen one like it."

Coquenil shook his head good-naturedly. "That is very improbable."

Alice looked closer. "Oh, but I have," she insisted.

"You mean in a museum?"

"No, no, in life—I am positive I have."

M. Paul listened with increasing interest. "You have seen a hand with a little finger as long as this one?"

"Yes; it's as long as the third finger and square at the end. I've often noticed it."

"Then you have seen something very uncommon, mademoiselle, something I have never seen. That is the most remarkable hand in my collection; it is the hand of a man who lived nearly two hundred years ago. He was one of the greatest criminals the world has ever known."

"Really?" cried Alice, her eyes wide with sudden fright. "I—I must have been mistaken."

But now the detective's curiosity was aroused. "Would you mind telling me the name of the person—of course it's a man—who has this hand?"

"Yes," said Alice, "it's a man, but I should not like to give his name after what you have told me."

"He is a good man?"

"Oh, yes."

"A kind man?"

"Yes."

"A man that you like?"

"Why—er—why, yes, I like him," she replied, but the detective noticed a strange, anxious look in her eyes. And immediately he changed the subject.

"You'll have a cup of tea with me, won't you? I've asked Melanie to bring it in. Then we can talk comfortably. By the way, you haven't told me your name."

"My name is Alice Groener," she answered simply.

"Groener," he reflected. "That isn't a French name?"

"No, my family lived in Belgium, but I have only a cousin left. He is a wood carver, in Brussels. He has been very kind to me and would pay my board with the Bonnetons, but I don't want to be a burden, so I work at the church."

"I see," he said approvingly.

The girl was seated in the full light, and as they talked, Coquenil observed her attentively, noting the pleasant tones of her voice and the charming lights in her eyes, studying her with a personal as well as a professional interest; for was not this the young woman who had so suddenly and so unaccountably influenced his life? Who was she, what was she, this dreaming candle seller? In spite of her shyness and modest ways, she was brave and strong of will, that was evident, and, plain dress or not, she looked the aristocrat every inch of her. Where did she get that unconscious air of quiet poise, that trick of the lifted chin? And how did she learn to use her hands like a great lady?

"Would you mind telling me something, mademoiselle?" he said suddenly.

Alice looked at him in surprise, and again he remarked, as he had at Notre-Dame, the singular beauty of her wondering dark eyes.

"What is it?"

"Have you any idea how you happened to dream that dream about me?"

The girl shrank away trembling. "No one can explain dreams, can they?" she asked anxiously, and it seemed to him that her emotion was out of all proportion to its cause.

"I suppose not," he answered kindly. "I thought you might have some—er—some fancy about it. If you ever should have, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Ye-es." She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but she checked the impulse, if it was there, and Coquenil did not press his demand.

"There's one other thing," he went on reassuringly. "I'm asking this in the interest of M. Kittredge. Tell me if you know anything about this crime of which he is accused?"

"Why, no," she replied with evident sincerity. "I haven't even read the papers."

"But you know who was murdered?"

Alice shook her head blankly. "How could I? No one has told me."

"It was a man named Martinez."

She started at the word. "What? The billiard player?" she cried.

He nodded. "Did you know him?"

"Oh, yes, very well."

Now it was Coquenil's turn to feel surprise, for he had asked the question almost aimlessly.

"You knew Martinez very well?" he repeated, scarcely believing his ears.

"I often saw him," she explained, "at the cafÉ where we went evenings."

"Who were 'we'?"

"Why, Papa Bonneton would take me, or my cousin, M. Groener, or M. Kittredge."

"Then M. Kittredge knew Martinez?"

"Of course. He used to go sometimes to see him play billiards." She said all this quite simply.

"Were Kittredge and Martinez good friends?"

"Oh, yes."

"Never had any words? Any quarrel?"

"Why—er—no," she replied in some confusion.

"I don't want to distress you, mademoiselle," said Coquenil gravely, "but aren't you keeping something back?"

"No, no," she insisted. "I just thought of—of a little thing that made me unhappy, but it has nothing to do with this case. You believe me, don't you?"

She spoke with pleading earnestness, and again M. Paul followed an intuition that told him he might get everything from this girl by going slowly and gently, whereas, by trying to force her confidence, he would get nothing.

"Of course I believe you," he smiled. "Now I'm going to give you some of this tea; I'm afraid it's getting cold."

And he proceeded to do the honors in so friendly a way that Alice was presently quite at her ease again.

"Now," he resumed, "we'll settle down comfortably and you can tell me what brought you here, tell me all about it. You won't mind if I smoke a cigarette? Be sure to tell me everything—there is plenty of time."

So Alice began and told him about the mysterious lady and their agitated visit to the tower, omitting nothing, while M. Paul listened with startled interest, nodding and frowning and asking frequent questions.

"This is very important," he said gravely when she had finished. "What a pity you couldn't get her name!" He shut his fingers hard on his chair arm, reflecting that for the second time this woman had escaped him.

"Did I do wrong?" asked Alice in confusion.

"I suppose not. I understand your feelings, but—would you know her again?" he questioned.

"Oh, yes, anywhere," answered Alice confidently.

"How old is she?"

A mischievous light shone in the girl's eyes. "I will say thirty—that is absolutely fair."

"You think she may be older?"

"I'm sure she isn't younger."

"Is she pretty?"

"Oh, yes, very pretty, very animated and—chic."

"Would you call her a lady?"

"Why—er—yes."

"Aren't you sure?"

"It isn't that, but American ladies are—different."

"Why do you think she is an American?" he asked.

"I'm sure she is. I can always tell American ladies; they wear more colors than French ladies, more embroideries, more things on their hats; I've often noticed it in church. I even know them by their shiny finger nails and their shrill voices."

"Does she speak with an accent?"

"She speaks fluently, like a foreigner who has lived a long time in Paris, but she has a slight accent."

"Ah! Now give me her message again. Are you sure you remember it exactly?"

"Quite sure. Besides, she made me write it down so as not to miss a word. Here it is," and, producing the torn page, she read: "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."

"She didn't say who this person is that she thought guilty last night?"

"No."

"Did she say why she thought him guilty or what changed her mind? Did she drop any hint? Try to remember."

Alice shook her head. "No, she said nothing about that."

Coquenil rose and walked back and forth across the study, hands deep in his pockets, head forward, eyes on the floor, back and forth several times without a word. Then he stopped before Alice, eying her intently as if making up his mind about something.

"I'm going to trust you, mademoiselle, with an important mission. You're only a girl, but—you've been thrown into this tragic affair, and—you'll be glad to help your lover, won't you?"

"Oh, yes," she answered eagerly.

"You may as well know that we are facing a situation not altogether—er—encouraging. I believe M. Kittredge is innocent and I hope to prove it, but others think differently and they have serious things against him."

"What things?" she demanded, her cheeks paling.

"No matter now."

"There can be nothing against him," declared the girl, "he is the soul of honor."

"I hope so," answered the detective dryly, "but he is also in prison, and unless we do something he is apt to stay there."

"What can we do?" murmured Alice, twining her fingers piteously.

"We must get at the truth, we must find this woman who came to see you. The quickest way to do that is through Kittredge himself. He knows all about her, if we can make him speak. So far he has refused to say a word, but there is one person who ought to unseal his lips—that is the girl he loves."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Alice, her face lighting with new hope, "I think I could, I am sure I could, only—will they let me see him?"

"That is the point. It is against the prison rule for a person au secret to see anyone except his lawyer, but I know the director of the SantÉ and I think——"

"You mean the director of the depot?"

"No, for M. Kittredge was transferred from the depot this morning. You know the depot is only a temporary receiving station, but the SantÉ is one of the regular French prisons. It's there they send men charged with murder."

Alice shivered at the word. "Yes," she murmured, "and—what were you saying?"

"I say that I know the director of the SantÉ and I think, if I send you to him with a strong note, he will make an exception—I think so."

"Splendid!" she cried joyfully. "And when shall I present the note?"

"To-day, at once; there isn't an hour to lose. I will write it now."

Coquenil sat down at his massive Louis XV table with its fine bronzes and quickly addressed an urgent appeal to M. Dedet, director of the SantÉ, asking him to grant the bearer a request that she would make in person, and assuring him that, by so doing, he would confer upon Paul Coquenil a deeply appreciated favor. Alice watched him with a sense of awe, and she thought uneasily of her dream about the face in the angry sun and the land of the black people.

"There," he said, handing her the note. "Now listen. You are to find out certain things from your lover. I can't tell you how to find them out, that is your affair, but you must do it."

"I will," declared Alice.

"You must find them out even if he doesn't wish to tell you. His safety and your happiness may depend on it."

"I understand."

"One thing is this woman's name and address."

"Yes," replied Alice, and then her face clouded. "But if it isn't honorable for him to tell her name?"

"You must make him see that it is honorable. The lady herself says she is ready to testify if necessary. At first she was afraid of implicating some person she thought guilty, but now she knows that person is not guilty. Besides, you can say that we shall certainly know all about this woman in a few days whether he tells us or not, so he may as well save us valuable time. Better write that down—here is a pad."

"Save us valuable time," repeated Alice, pencil in hand.

"Then I want to know about the lady's husband. Is he dark or fair? Tall or short? Does Kittredge know him? Has he ever had words with him or any trouble? Got that?"

"Yes," replied Alice, writing busily.

"Then—do you know whether M. Kittredge plays tennis?"

Alice looked up in surprise. "Why, yes, he does. I remember hearing him say he likes it better than golf."

"Ah! Then ask him—see here. I'll show you," and going to a corner between the bookcase and the wall, M. Paul picked out a tennis racket among a number of canes. "Now, then," he continued while she watched him with perplexity, "I hold my racket so in my right hand, and if a ball comes on my left, I return it with a back-hand stroke so, using my right hand; but there are players who shift the racket to the left hand and return the ball so, do you see?"

"I see."

"Now I want to know if M. Kittredge uses both hands in playing tennis or only the one hand. And I want to know which hand he uses chiefly, that is, the right or the left?"

"Why do you want to know that?" inquired Alice, with a woman's curiosity.

"Never mind why, just remember it's important. Another thing is, to ask M. Kittredge about a chest of drawers in his room at the HÔtel des Étrangers. It is a piece of old oak, rather worm-eaten, but it has good bronzes for the drawer handles, two dogs fighting on either side of the lock plates."

Alice listened in astonishment. "I didn't suppose you knew where M. Kittredge lived."

"Nor did I until this morning," he smiled. "Since then I—well, as my friend Gibelin says, I haven't wasted my time."

"Your friend Gibelin?" repeated Alice, not understanding.

Coquenil smiled grimly. "He is an amiable person for whom I am preparing a—a little surprise."

"Oh! And what about the chest of drawers?"

"It's about one particular drawer, the small upper one on the right-hand side—better write that down."

"The small upper drawer on the right-hand side," repeated Alice.

"I find that M. Kittredge always kept this drawer locked. He seems to be a methodical person, and I want to know if he remembers opening it a few days ago and finding, it unlocked. Have you got that?"

"Yes."

"Good! Oh, one thing more. Find out if M. Kittredge ever suffers from rheumatism or gout."

The girl smiled. "Of course he doesn't; he is only twenty-eight."

"Please do not take this lightly, mademoiselle," the detective chided gently. "It is perhaps the most important point of all—his release from prison may depend on it."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not taking it lightly, indeed I'm not," and, with tears in her eyes, Alice assured M. Paul that she fully realized the importance of this mission and would spare no effort to make it successful.

A few moments later she hurried away, buoyed up by the thought that she was not only to see her lover but to serve him.

It was after six when Alice left the circular railway at the Montrouge station. She was in a remote and unfamiliar part of Paris, the region of the catacombs and the Gobelin tapestry works, and, although M. Paul had given her precise instructions, she wandered about for some time among streets of hospitals and convents until at last she came to an open place where she recognized Bartholdi's famous Belfort lion. Then she knew her way, and hurrying along the Boulevard Arago, she came presently to the gloomy mass of the SantÉ prison, which, with its diverging wings and galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular space between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la SantÉ and the Boulevard Arago.

A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must enter, and passing here, beside a stolid soldier in his sentry box, she came presently to a black iron door in front of which were waiting two yellow-and-black prison vans, windowless. In this prison door were four glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a shiver of repulsion the girl stepped inside. This was the prison, these men standing about were the jailers and—what did that matter so long as she got to him, to her dear Lloyd. There was nothing she would not face or endure for his sake.

No sooner had the guard heard that she came with a note from M. Paul Coquenil (that was a name to conjure with) than he showed her politely to a small waiting room, assuring her that the note would be given at once to the director of the prison. And a few moments later another door opened and a hard-faced, low-browed man of heavy build bowed to her with a crooked, sinister smile and motioned her into his private office. It was M. Dedet, the chief jailer.

"Always at the service of Paul Coquenil," he began. "What can I do for you, mademoiselle?"

Then, summoning her courage, and trying her best to make a good impression, Alice told him her errand. She wanted to speak with the American, M. Kittredge, who had been sent here the night before—she wanted to speak with him alone.

The jailer snapped his teeth and narrowed his brows in a hard stare. "Did Paul Coquenil send you here for that?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir," answered the girl, and her heart began to sink. "You see, it's a very special case and——"

"Special case," laughed the other harshly; "I should say so—it's a case of murder."

"But he is innocent, perfectly innocent," pleaded Alice.

"Of course, but if I let every murderer who says he's innocent see his sweetheart—well, this would be a fine prison. No, no, little one," he went on with offensive familiarity, "I am sorry to disappoint you and I hate to refuse M. Paul, but it can't be done. This man is au secret, which means that he must not see anyone except his lawyer. You know they assign a lawyer to a prisoner who has no money to employ one."

"But he has money, at least I have some for him. Please let me see him, for a few minutes." Her eyes filled with tears and she reached out her hands appealingly. "If you only knew the circumstances, if I could only make you understand."

"Haven't time to listen," he said impatiently, "there's no use whining. I can't do it and that's the end of it. If I let you talk with this man and the thing were known, I might lost my position." He rose abruptly as if to dismiss her.

Alice did not move. She had been sitting by a table on which a large sheet of pink blotting paper was spread before writing materials. And as she listened to the director's rough words, she took up a pencil and twisted it nervously in her fingers. Then, with increasing agitation, as she realized that her effort for Lloyd had failed, she began, without thinking, to make little marks on the blotter, and then a written scrawl—all with a singular fixed look in her eyes.

"You'll have to excuse me," said the jailer gruffly, seeing that she did not take his hint.

Alice started to her feet. "I—I beg your pardon," she said weakly, and, staggering, she tried to reach the door. Her distress was so evident that even this calloused man felt a thrill of pity and stepped forward to assist her. And, as he passed the table, his eye fell on the blotting paper.

"Why, what is this?" he exclaimed, eying her sharply.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," begged Alice, "I have spoiled your nice blotter. I am so sorry."

"Never mind the blotter, but—" He bent closer over the scrawled words, and then with a troubled look: "Did you write this?"

"Why—er—why—yes, sir, I'm afraid I did," she stammered.

"Don't you know you did?" he demanded.

"I—I wasn't thinking," she pleaded in fright.

He stared at her for a moment, then he went to his desk, picked up a printed form, filled it out quickly and handed it to her.

"There," he said, and his voice was almost gentle, "I guess I don't quite understand about this thing."

Alice looked at the paper blankly. "But—what is it?" she asked.

The jailer closed one eye very slowly with a wise nod. "It's what you asked for, a permit to see this American prisoner, by special order."