The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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