“Yes, of course,” agreed Alice, “I will obey orders; you can depend on me and”—­she held out her slim hand in a grateful movement—­“thank you.”

For a moment he pressed the trembling fingers in a reassuring clasp, then he watched her wonderingly, as, with a brave little smile, she turned and went back up the stairs.

“She has the air of a princess, that girl,” he mused, “Who is she?  What is she?  I ought to know in a few hours now,” and moving to the wide space of the open door, the detective glanced carelessly over the Place Notre-Dame.

It was about two o’clock, and under a dazzling sun the trees and buildings of the square were outlined on the asphalt in sharp black shadows.  A ’bus lumbered sleepily over the bridge with three straining horses.  A big yellow-and-black automobile throbbed quietly before the hospital.  Some tourists passed, mopping red faces.  A beggar crouched in the shade near the entrance to the cathedral, intoning his woes.  Coquenil took out his watch and proceeded to wind it slowly.  At which the beggar dragged himself lazily out of his cool corner and limped across the street.

“A little charity, kind gentleman,” he whined as he came nearer.

“In here, Papa Tignol,” beckoned Coquenil; “there’s something new.  It’s all right, I’ve fixed the doorkeeper.”

And a moment later the two associates were talking earnestly near the doorkeeper’s lodge.

Meantime, Alice, with new life in her heart, was putting on her best dress and hat as Groener had bidden her, and presently she joined her cousin in the salon where he sat smoking a cheap cigar and finishing his talk with Mother Bonneton.

“Ah,” he said, “are you ready?” And looking at her more closely, he added:  “Poor child, you’ve been crying.  Wait!” and he motioned Mother Bonneton to leave them.

“Now,” he began kindly, when the woman had gone, “sit down here and tell me what has made my little cousin unhappy.”

He spoke in a pleasant, sympathetic tone, and the girl approached him as if trying to overcome an instinctive shrinking, but she did not take the offered chair, she simply stood beside it.

“It’s only a little thing,” she answered with an effort, “but I was afraid you might be displeased.  What time is it?”

He looked at his watch.  “Twenty minutes to three.”

“Would you mind very much if we didn’t start until five or ten minutes past three?”

“Why—­er—­what’s the matter?”

Alice hesitated, then with pleading eyes:  “I’ve been troubled about different things lately, so I spoke to Father Anselm yesterday and he said I might come to him to-day at a quarter to three.”

“You mean for confession?”

“Yes.”

“I see.  How long does it take?”

“Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Will it make you feel happier?”

“Oh, yes, much happier.”

“All right,” he nodded, “I’ll wait.”