The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
Matthieu polishing the carved stalls. Some ladies passed with a guide who was showing them the church. Groener rose and paced back and forth nervously. What a time the girl was taking! Then the door of the confessional box opened and a black-robed priest came out and moved solemnly away. Enfin! It was over! And with a feeling of relief Groener watched the priest as he disappeared in the passage leading to the sacristy.
Still Alice lingered, saying a last prayer, no doubt. But the hour was advancing. Groener looked at his watch again. Twenty minutes past three! She had been in that box over half an hour. It was ridiculous, unreasonable. Besides, the priest was gone; her confession was finished. She must come out.
"Alice!" he called in a low tone, standing near the penitent's curtain.
There was no answer.
Then he knocked sharply on the woodwork: "Alice, what are you doing?"
Still no answer.
Groener's face darkened, and with sudden suspicion he drew aside the curtain.
The confessional box was empty—Alice was gone!
Chapter XXII.
At the Hairdresser's
What had happened was very simple. The confessional box from which Alice had vanished was one not in use at the moment, owing to repairs in the wall behind it. These repairs had necessitated the removal of several large stones, replaced temporarily by lengths of supporting timbers between which a person might easily pass. Coquenil, with his habit of careful observation, had remarked this fact during his night in the church, and now he had taken advantage of it to effect Alice's escape. The girl had entered the confessional in the usual way, had remained there long enough to let Groener hear her voice, and had then slipped out through the open wall into the sacristy passage beyond. And the priest was Tignol!
"I scored on him that time," chuckled Coquenil, rubbing away at the woodwork and thinking of Alice hastening to the safe place he had chosen for her.
"M. Matthieu!" called Groener. "Would you mind coming here a moment?"
"I was just going to ask you to look at these carvings," replied Matthieu, coming forward innocently.
"No, no," answered the other excitedly, "a most unfortunate thing has happened. Look at that!" and he opened the door of the confessional. "She has gone—run away!"
Matthieu stared in blank surprise. "Name of a pipe!" he muttered. "Not your cousin?"
Groener nodded with half-shut eyes in which the detective caught a flash of black rage, but only a flash. In a moment the man's face was placid and good-natured as before.
"Yes," he said quietly, "my cousin has run away. It makes me sad because—Sit down a minute, M. Matthieu, I'll tell you about it."
"We'll be more quiet in here," suggested Matthieu, indicating the sacristy.
The wood carver shook his head. "I'd sooner go outside, if you don't mind. Will you join me in a glass at the tavern?"
His companion, marveling inwardly, agreed to this, and a few moments later the two men were seated under the awning of the Three Wise Men.
"Now," began Groener, with perfect simplicity and friendliness, "I'll explain the trouble between Alice and me. I've had a hard time with that girl, M. Matthieu, a very hard time. If it wasn't for her mother, I'd have washed my hands of her long ago; but her mother was a fine woman, a noble woman. It's true she made one mistake that ruined her life and practically killed her, still——"
"What mistake was that?" inquired Matthieu with sympathy.
"Why, she married an American who was—the less we say about him the better. The point is, Alice is half American, and ever since she has been old enough to take notice, she has been crazy about American men." He leaned closer and, lowering his voice, added: "That's why I had to send her to Paris five years ago."
"You don't say!"
"She was only thirteen then, but well developed and very pretty and—M. Matthieu, she got gone on an American who was spending the winter in Brussels, a married man. I had to break it up somehow, so I sent her away. Yes, sir." He shook his head sorrowfully.
"And now it's another American, a man in prison, charged with a horrible crime. Think of that! As soon as Mother Bonneton wrote me about it, I saw I'd have to take the girl away again. I told her this morning she must pack up her things and go back to Brussels with me, and that made the trouble."
"Ah!" exclaimed Matthieu with an understanding nod. "Then she knew at luncheon that you would take her back to Brussels?"
"Of course she did. You know how she acted; she had made up her mind she wouldn't go. Only she was tricky about it. She knew I had my eye on her, so she got this priest to help her."
Now the other stared in genuine astonishment. "Why—was the priest in it?"
"Was he in it? Of course he was in it. He was the whole thing. This Father Anselm has been encouraging the girl for months, filling her up with nonsense about how it's right for a young girl to choose her own husband. Mother Bonneton told me."
"You mean that Father Anselm helped her to run away?" gasped Matthieu.
"Of course he did. You saw him come out of the confessional, didn't you?"
"I was too far away to see his face," replied the other, studying the wood carver closely. "Did you see his face?"
"Certainly I did. He passed within ten feet of me. I saw his face distinctly."
"Are you sure it was he? I don't doubt you, M. Groener, but I'm a sort of official here and this is a serious charge, so I ask if you are sure it was Father Anselm?".
"I'm absolutely sure it was Father Anselm," answered the wood carver positively. He paused a moment while the detective wondered what was the meaning of this extraordinary statement. Why was the man giving him these details about Alice, and how much of them was true? Did Groener know he was talking to Paul Coquenil? If so, he knew that Coquenil must know he was lying about Father Anselm. Then why say such a thing? What was his game?
"Have another glass?" asked the wood carver. "Or shall we go on?"
"Go on—where?"
"Oh, of course, you don't know my plan. I will tell you. You see, I must find Alice, I must try to save her from this folly, for her mother's sake. Well, I know how to find her."
He spoke so earnestly and straightforwardly that Coquenil began to think Groener had really been deceived by the Matthieu disguise. After all, why not? Tignol had been deceived by it.
"How will you find her?"
"I'll tell you as we drive along. We'll take a cab and—you won't leave me, M. Matthieu?" he said anxiously.
Coquenil tried to soften the grimness of his smile. "No, M. Groener, I won't leave you."
"Good! Now then!" He threw down some money for the drinks, then he hailed a passing carriage.
"Rue Tronchet, near the Place de la Madeleine," he directed, and as they rolled away, he added: "Stop at the nearest telegraph office."
The adventure was taking a new turn. Groener, evidently, had some definite plan which he hoped to carry out. Coquenil felt for cigarettes in his coat pocket and his hand touched the friendly barrel of a revolver. Then he glanced back and saw the big automobile, which had been waiting