Kittredge was fortunate in having a sense of humor, it helped him through the horrors of his first night at the depot, which he passed with the scum of Paris streets, thieves, beggars, vagrants, the miserable crop of Saturday-night police takings, all herded into one foul room on filthy bunks so close together that a turn either way brought a man into direct contact with his neighbor.

Lloyd lay between an old pickpocket and a drunkard. He did not sleep, but passed the hours thinking. And when he could think no longer, he listened to the pickpocket who was also wakeful, and who told wonderful yarns of his conquests among the fair sex in the time of the Commune, when he was a strapping artilleryman.

"You're a pretty poor pickpocket, old chap," reflected Kittredge, "but you're an awful good liar!"

In spite of little sleep, he was serene and good-natured when they took him, handcuffed, before Judge Hauteville the next morning for his preliminary examination—a mere formality to establish the prisoner's identity. Kittredge gave the desired facts about himself with perfect willingness; his age, nationality, occupation, and present address. He realized that there was no use hiding these. When asked if he had money to employ a lawyer, he said "no"; and when told that the court would assign MaÎtre Pleindeaux for his defense, he thanked the judge and went off smiling at the thought that his interests were now in the hands of Mr. Full-of-Water. "I'll ask him to have a drink," chuckled Kittredge.

And he submitted uncomplainingly when they took him to the Bertillon measuring department and stood him up against the wall, bare as a babe, arms extended, and noted down his dimensions one by one, every limb and feature being precisely described in length and breadth, every physical peculiarity recorded, down to the impression of his thumb lines and the precise location of a small mole on his left arm.

All this happened Sunday morning, and in the afternoon other experiences awaited him—his first ride in a prison van, known as a panier À salade, and his initiation into real prison life at the SantÉ. The cell he took calmly, as well as the prison dress and food and the hard bed, for he had known rough camping in the Maine woods and was used to plain fare, but he winced a little at the regulation once a week prison shave, and the regulation bath once a month! And what disturbed him chiefly was the thought that now he would have absolutely nothing to do but sit in his cell and wait wearily for the hours to pass. Prisoners under sentence may be put to work, but one au secret is shut up not only from the rest of the world, but even from his fellow-prisoners. He is utterly alone.

"Can't I have a pack of cards?" asked Lloyd with a happy inspiration.

"Against the rule," said the guard.

"But I know some games of solitaire. I never could see what they were invented for until now. Let me have part of a pack, just enough to play old-maid solitaire. Ever heard of that?"

The guard shook his head.

"Not even a part of a pack? You won't even let me play old-maid solitaire?" And with the merry, cheery grin that had won him favor everywhere from wildest Bohemia to primest Presbyterian tea parties, Lloyd added: "That's a hell of a way to treat a murderer!"

The Sunday morning service was just ending when Kittredge reached the prison, and he got his first impressions of the place as he listened to resounding Gregorian tones chanted, or rather shouted, by tiers on tiers of prisoners, each joining in the unison with full lung power through cell doors chained ajar. The making of this rough music was one of the pleasures of the week, and at once the newcomer's heart was gripped by the indescribable sadness of it.

"And when he could think no longer, he listened to the pickpocket."

Having gone through the formalities of arrival and been instructed as to various detail of prison routine, Lloyd settled down as comfortably as might be in his cell to pass the afternoon over "The Last of the Mohicans." He chose this because the librarian assured him that no books were as popular among French convicts as the translated works of Fenimore Cooper. "Good old Stars and Stripes!" murmured Kittredge, but he stared at the same page for a long time before he began to read. And once he brushed a quick hand across his eyes.

Scarcely had Lloyd finished a single chapter when one of the guards appeared with as much of surprise on his stolid countenance as an overworked under jailer can show; for an unprecedented thing had happened—a prisoner au secret was to receive a visitor, a young woman, at that, and, sapristi, a good-looking one, who came with a special order from the director of the prison. Moreover, he was to see her in the private parlor, with not even the customary barrier of iron bars to separate them. They were to be left together for half an hour, the guard standing at the open door with instructions not to interfere except for serious reasons. In the memory of the oldest inhabitant such a thing had not been known!

Kittredge, however, was not surprised, first, because nothing could surprise him, and, also, because he had no idea what an extraordinary exception had been made in his favor. So he walked before the guard indifferently enough toward the door indicated, but when he crossed the threshold he started back with a cry of amazement.

"Alice!" he gasped, and his face lighted with transfiguring joy. It was a bare room with bare floors and bare yellow painted walls, the only furnishings being two cane chairs and a cheap table, but to Kittredge it was a marvelous and radiantly happy place, for Alice was there; he stared at her almost unbelieving, but it was true—by some kind miracle Alice, his Alice, was there!

Then, without any prelude, without so much as asking for an explanation or giving her time to make one, Lloyd sprang forward and caught the trembling girl in his arms and drew her close to him with tender words, while the guard muttered: "Nom d'un chien! Il ne perd pas de temps, celui-la!"

This was not at all the meeting that Alice had planned, but as she felt her lover's arms about her and his warm breath on her face, she forgot the message that she brought and the questions she was to ask, she forgot his danger and her own responsibility, she forgot everything but this one blessed fact of their great love, his and hers, the love that had drawn them together and was holding them together now here, together, close together, she and her Lloyd.

"You darling," he whispered, "you brave, beautiful darling! I love you! I love you!" And he would have said it still again had not his lips been closed by her warm, red lips. So they stood silent, she limp in his arms, gasping, thrilling, weeping and laughing, he feasting insatiable on her lips, on the fragrance of her hair, on the lithe roundness of her body.

"Voyons, voyons!" warned the guard. "Soyons serieux!"

"He is right," murmured Alice, "we must be serious. Lloyd, let me go," and with an effort she freed herself. "I can only stay here half an hour, and I don't know how much of it we have wasted already." She tried to look at him reproachfully, but her eyes were swimming with tenderness.

"It wasn't wasted, dear," he answered fondly. "To have held you in my arms like that will give me courage for whatever is to come."

"But, Lloyd," she reasoned, "nothing bad will come if you do what I say. I am here to help you, to get you out of this dreadful place."

"You little angel!" he smiled. "How are you going to do it?"

"I'll tell you in a moment," she said, "but, first, you must answer some questions. Never mind why I ask them, just answer. You will, won't you, Lloyd? You trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, sweetheart, and I'll answer anything that I—that I can."

"Good. I'll begin with the easiest question," she said, consulting her list. "Sit down here—that's right. Now, then, have you ever had gout or rheumatism? Don't laugh—it's important."

"Never," he answered, and she wrote it down.

"Do you play tennis with your right hand or your left hand?"

"Oh, see here," he protested, "what's the use of——"

"No, no," she insisted, "you must tell me. Please, the right hand or the left?"

"I use both hands," he answered, and she wrote it down.

"Now," she continued, "you have a chest of drawers in your room with two brass dogs fighting about the lock plates?"

Kittredge stared at her. "How the devil did you know that?"

"Never mind. You usually keep the right-hand upper drawer locked, don't you?"

"That's true."

"Do you remember going to this drawer any time lately and finding it unlocked?"

He thought a moment. "No, I don't."

Alice hesitated, and then, with a flush of embarrassment, she went on bravely: "Now, Lloyd, I come to the hardest part. You must help me and—and not think that I am hurt or—or jealous."

"Well?"

"It's about the lady who—who called for you. This is all her fault, so—so naturally she wants to help you."

"How do you know she does?" he asked quickly.

"Because I have seen her."

"What?"

"Yes, and, Lloyd, she is sorry for the harm she has done and——"

"You have seen her?" he cried, half dazed. "How? Where?"

Then, in as few words as possible, Alice told of her talk with the lady at the church. "And I have this message for you from her and—and this." She handed him the note and the folded bank notes.

Lloyd's face clouded. "She sent me money?" he said in a changed voice, and his lips grew white.

"Read the note," she begged, and he did so, frowning.

"No, no," he declared, "it's quite impossible. I cannot take it," and he handed the money back. "You wouldn't have me take it?"

He looked at her gravely, and she thrilled with pride in him.

"But the lawyer?" she protested weakly. "And your safety?"

"Would you want me to owe my safety to her?"

"Oh, no," she murmured.

"Besides, they have given me a lawyer. I dare say he is a good one, Mr. Full-of-Water." He tried to speak lightly.

"Then—then what shall I do with these?" She looked at the bank notes in perplexity.

"Return them."

"Ah, yes," she agreed, snatching at a new idea. "I will return them, I will say that you thank her, that we thank her, Lloyd, but we cannot accept the money. Is that right?"

"Exactly."

"I will go to her apartment in the morning. Let me see, it's on the Avenue—Where did I put her address?" and she went through the form of searching in her pocketbook.

"The Avenue Kleber," he supplied, unsuspecting.

"Of course, the Avenue Kleber. Where is that card? I've forgotten the number, too. Do you remember it, dear?"

Poor child, she tried so hard to speak naturally, but her emotion betrayed her. Indeed, it seemed to Alice, in that moment of suspense, that her lover must hear the loud beating of her heart.

"Ah, I see," he cried, eying her steadily, "she did not give you her address and you are trying to get it from me. Do you even know her name?"

"No," confessed Alice shamefacedly. "Forgive me, I—I wanted to help you."

"By making me do a dishonorable thing?"

"Don't look at me like that. I wouldn't have you do a dishonorable thing; but——"

"Who told you to ask me these questions?"

"M. Coquenil."

"What, the detective?"

"Yes. He believes you innocent, Lloyd, and he's going to prove it."

"I hope he does, but—tell him to leave this woman alone."

"Oh, he won't do that; he says he will find out who she is in a few days, anyway. That's why I thought——"

"I understand," he said comfortingly, "and the Lord knows I want to get out of this hole, but—we've got to play fair, eh? Now let's drop all that and—do you want to make me the happiest man in the world? I'm the happiest man in Paris already, even here, but if you will tell me one thing—why—er—this prison won't cut any ice at all."

"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked uneasily.

"You little darling!" he said tenderly. "You needn't tell me anything if it's going to make you feel badly, but, you see, I've got some lonely hours to get through here and—well, I think of you most of the time and—" He took her hand fondly in his.

"Dear, dear Lloyd!" she murmured.

"And I've sort of got it in my head that—do you want to know?"

"Yes, I want to know," she said anxiously.

"I believe there's some confounded mystery about you, and, if you don't mind, why—er——"

Alice started to her feet, and Lloyd noticed, as she faced him, that the pupils of her eyes widened and then grew small as if from fright or violent emotion.

"Why do you say that? What makes you think there is a mystery about me?" she demanded, trying vainly to hide her agitation.

"Now don't get upset—please don't!" soothed Kittredge. "If there isn't anything, just say so, and if there is, what's the matter with telling a chap who loves you and worships you and whose love wouldn't change for fifty mysteries—what's the matter with telling him all about it?"

"Are you sure your love wouldn't change?" she asked, still trembling.

"Did yours change when they told you things about me? Did it change when they arrested me and put me in prison? Yes, by Jove, it did change, it grew stronger, and that's the way mine would change, that's the only way."

He spoke so earnestly and with such a thrill of fondness that Alice was reassured, and giving him her hand with a happy little gesture, she said: "I know, dear. You see, I love you so much that—if anything should come between us, why—it would just kill me."

"Nothing will come between us," he said simply, and then after a pause: "So there is a mystery."

"I'm—I'm afraid so."

"Ah, I knew it. I figured it out from a lot of little things. That's all I've had to do here, and—for instance, I said to myself: 'How the devil does she happen to speak English without any accent?' You can't tell me that the cousin of a poor wood carver in Belgium would know English as you do. It's part of the mystery, eh?"

"Why—er," she stammered, "I have always known English."

"Exactly, but how? And I suppose you've always known how to do those corking fine embroideries that the priests are so stuck on? But how did you learn? And how does it come that you look like a dead swell? And where did you get those hands like a saint in a stained-glass window? And that hair? I'll bet you anything you like you're a princess in disguise."

"I'm your princess, dear," she smiled.

"Now for the mystery," he persisted. "Go on, what is it?"

At this her lovely face clouded and her eyes grew sad. "It's not the kind of mystery you think, Lloyd; I—I can't tell you about it very well—because—" She hesitated.

"Don't you worry, little sweetheart. I don't care what it is, I don't care if you're the daughter of a Zulu chief." Then, seeing her distress, he said tenderly: "Is it something you don't understand?"

"That's it," she answered in a low voice, "it's something I don't understand."

"Ah! Something about yourself?"

"Ye-es."

"Does anyone else know it?"

"No, no one could know it, I—I've been afraid to speak of it."

"Afraid?"

She nodded, and again he noticed that the pupils of her eyes were widening and contracting.

"And that is why you said you wouldn't marry me?"

"Yes, that is why."

He stopped in perplexity. He saw that, in spite of her bravest efforts, the girl was almost fainting under the strain of these questions.

"You dear, darling child," said Lloyd, as a wave of pity took him, "I'm a brute to make you talk about this."

But Alice answered anxiously: "You understand it's nothing I have done that is wrong, nothing I'm ashamed of?"

"Of course," he assured her. "Let's drop it. We'll never speak of it again."

"I want to speak of it. It's something strange in my thoughts, dear, or—or my soul," she went on timidly, "something that's—different and that—frightens me—especially at night."

"What do you expect?" he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, "when you spend all your time in a cold, black church full of bones and ghosts? Wait till I get you away from there, wait till we're over in God's country, living in a nice little house out in Orange, N. J., and I'm commuting every day."

"What's commuting, Lloyd?"

"You'll find out—you'll like it, except the tunnel. And you'll be so happy you'll never think about your soul—no, sir, and you won't be afraid nights, either! Oh, you beauty, you little beauty!" he burst out, and was about to take her in his arms again when the guard came forward to warn them that the time was nearly up, they had three minutes more.

"All right," nodded Lloyd, and as he turned to Alice, she saw tears in his eyes. "It's tough, but never mind. You've made a man of me, little one, and I'll prove it. I used to have a sort of religion and then I lost it, and now I've got it again, a new religion and a new creed. It's short and easy to say, but it's all I need, and it's going to keep me game through this whole rotten business. Want to hear my creed? You know it already, darling, for you taught it to me. Here it is: 'I believe in Alice'; that's all, that's enough. Let me kiss you."

"Lloyd," she whispered as he bent toward her, "can't you trust me with that woman's name?"

He drew back and looked at her half reproachfully and her cheeks flushed. She would not have him think that she could bargain for her lips, and throwing her arms about him, she murmured: "Kiss me, kiss me as much as you like. I am yours, yours."

Then there was a long, delicious, agonizing moment of passion and pain until the guard's gruff voice came between them.

"One moment," Kittredge said, and then to the clinging girl: "Why do you ask that woman's name when you know it already?"

Wide-eyed, she faced him and shook her head. "I don't know her name, I don't want to know it."

"You don't know her name?" he repeated, and even in the tumult of their last farewell her frank and honest denial lingered in his mind.

She did not know the woman's name! Back in his lonely cell Kittredge pondered this, and reaching for his little volume of De Musset, his treasured pocket companion that the jailer had let him keep, he opened it at the fly leaves. She did not know this woman's name! And, wonderingly, he read on the white page the words and the name written by Alice herself, scrawlingly but distinctly, the day before in the garden of Notre-Dame.