“Thank you, Cousin Adolf,” she said eagerly.  “I’ll hurry right back; I’ll be here by ten minutes past three.”

He eyed her keenly.  “You needn’t trouble to come back, I’ll go to the church with you.”

“And wait there?” she asked with a shade of disappointment.

“Yes,” he answered briefly.

There was nothing more to say, and a few minutes later Alice, anxious-eyed but altogether lovely in flower-spread hat and a fleecy pink gown, entered Notre-Dame followed by the wood carver.

“Will you wait here, cousin, by my little table?” she asked sweetly.

“You seem anxious to get rid of me,” he smiled.

“No, no,” she protested, but her cheeks flushed; “I only thought this chair would be more comfortable.”

“Any chair will do for me,” he said dryly.  “Where is your confessional?”

“On the other side,” and she led the way down the right aisle, past various recessed chapels, past various confessional boxes, each bearing the name of the priest who officiated there.  And presently as they came to a confessional box in the space near the sacristy Alice pointed to the name, “Father Anselm.”

“There,” she said.

“Is the priest inside?”

“Yes.”  And then, with a new idea:  “Cousin Adolf,” she whispered, “if you go along there back of the choir and down a little stairway, you will come to the treasure room.  It might interest you.”

He looked at her in frank amusement.  “I’m interested already.  I’ll get along very nicely here.  Now go ahead and get through with it.”

The girl glanced about her with a helpless gesture, and then, sighing resignedly, she entered the confessional.  Groener seated himself on one of the little chairs and leaned back with a satisfied chuckle.  He was so near the confessional that he could hear a faint murmur of voices—­Alice’s sweet tones and then the priest’s low questions.

Five minutes passed, ten minutes!  Groener looked at his watch impatiently.  He heard footsteps on the stone of the choir, and, glancing up, saw 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.