“Lloyd,” she said gently, “come to the house to-night.”

He shook his head.  “Got an appointment.”

“An appointment?”

“Yes, a banquet.”

She looked at him in surprise.  “You didn’t tell me!”

“No.”

She was silent a moment.  “Where is the banquet?”

“At the Ansonia.  It’s a new restaurant on the Champs Elysees, very swell.  I didn’t tell you because—­well, because I didn’t.”

“Lloyd,” she whispered, “don’t go to the banquet.”

“Don’t go?  Why, this is our national holiday.  I’m down to tell some stories.  I’ve got to go.  Besides, I wouldn’t come to you, anyway.  What’s the use?  I’ve said all I can, and you’ve said ‘No.’  So it’s all off—­that’s right, Alice, it’s all off.”  His eyes were kinder now, but he spoke firmly.

“Lloyd,” she begged, “come after the banquet.”

“No!”

“I ask it for you.  I—­I feel that something is going to happen.  Don’t laugh.  Look at the sky, there beyond the black towers.  It’s red, red like blood, and—­Lloyd, I’m afraid.”

Her eyes were fixed in the west with an enthralled expression, as if she saw something there besides the masses of red and purple that crowned the setting sun, something strange and terrifying.  And in her agitation she took the book and pencil from the bench, and nervously, almost unconsciously wrote something on one of the fly leaves.

“Good-by, Alice,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Good-by, Lloyd,” she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the book and giving him her own little hand.

As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly leaf.

“Why,” he started, “what is this?” He looked more closely at the words, then sharply at her.

“I—­I’m so sorry,” she stammered.  “Have I spoiled your book?”

“Never mind the book, but—­how did you come to write this?”

“I—­I didn’t notice what I wrote,” she said, in confusion.

“Do you mean to say that you don’t know what you wrote?”

“I don’t know at all,” she replied with evident sincerity.

“It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard of,” he muttered.  And then, with a puzzled look:  “See here, I guess I’ve been too previous.  I’ll cut out that banquet to-night—­that is, I’ll show up for soup and fish, and then I’ll come to you.  Do I get a smile now?”

“O Lloyd!” she murmured happily.

“I’ll be there about nine.”

“About nine,” she repeated, and again her eyes turned anxiously to the blood-red western sky.

CHAPTER II

COQUENIL’S GREATEST CASE

After leaving Notre-Dame, Paul Coquenil directed his steps toward the prefecture of police, but halfway across the square he glanced back at the church clock that shows its white face above the grinning gargoyles, and, pausing, he stood a moment in deep thought.