True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

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      "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 СКАЧАТЬ