The girl hesitated, and Mother Bonneton put in harshly:  “I’ll tell you, she’s fretting about that American who was sent to prison—­a good riddance it was.”

“You have no right to say that,” flashed Alice.

“I have a right to tell your cousin about this foolishness.  I’ve tried my best to look after you and be a mother to you, but when a girl won’t listen to reason, when she goes to a prison to see a worthless lover——­”

“Stop!” cried Alice, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.

“No, no, I’ll tell it all.  When a girl slips away from her work at the church and goes to see a man like Paul Coquenil——­”

“Paul Coquenil?” repeated the wood carver blankly.

“Have you never heard of Paul Coquenil?” smiled Matthieu, kicking Papa Bonneton warningly under the table.

Groener looked straight at the detective and answered with perfect simplicity:  “No wonder you smile, M. Matthieu, but think how far away from Paris I live!  Besides, I want this to be a happy day.  Come, little cousin, you shall tell me all about it when we are out together.  Run along now and put on your nice dress and hat.  We’ll start in about half an hour.”

Alice rose from the table, deathly white.  She tried to speak, but the words failed her; it seemed to Coquenil that her eyes met his in desperate appeal, and then, with a glance at Groener, half of submission, half of defiance, she turned and left the room.

“Now Madam Bonneton,” resumed Groener cheerfully, “while the young lady gets into her finery we might have a little talk.  There are a few matters—­er—­” He looked apologetically at the others.  “You and I will meet to-morrow, M. Matthieu; I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“Thanks,” said Matthieu, rising in response to this hint for his departure.  He bowed politely, and followed by the sacristan, went out.

“Don’t speak until we get downstairs,” whispered Coquenil, and they descended the four flights in silence.

“Now, Bonneton,” ordered the detective sharply, when they were in the lower hallway, “don’t ask questions, just do what I say.  I want you to go right across to Notre-Dame, and when you get to the door take your hat off and stand there for a minute or so fanning yourself.  Understand?”

The simple-minded sacristan was in a daze with all this mystery, but he repeated the words resignedly:  “I’m to stand at the church door and fan myself with my hat.  Is that it?”

“That’s it.  Then Tignol, who’s watching in one of these doorways, the sly old fox, will come across and join you.  Tell him to be ready to move any minute now.  He’d better loaf around the corner of the church until he gets a signal from me.  I’ll wait here.  Now go on.”

“But let me say—­” began the other in mild protest.  “No, no,” broke in M. Paul impatiently, “there’s no time.  Listen!  Some one is coming down.  Go, go!”

“I’m going, M. Paul, I’m going,” obeyed Bonneton, and he hurried across the few yards of pavement that separated them from the cathedral.