Through the Wall

"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.

"'Did you write this?'"

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."

CHAPTER XIII

"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.