“That’s it,” replied the American, “you made a good stab at it.”

“You are M. Lo-eed Keetredge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must come with me.  I have a warrant for your arrest.”  And he showed the paper.

But Alice staggered forward.  “Why do you arrest him?  What has he done?”

The man from headquarters answered, shrugging his shoulders:  “I don’t know what he’s done, he’s charged with murder.”

“Murder!” echoed the sacristan’s wife.  “Holy angels!  A murderer in my house!”

“Take him,” ordered the detective, and the two policemen laid hold of Kittredge on either side.

“Alice!” cried the young man, and his eyes yearned toward her.  “Alice, I am innocent.”

“Come,” said the men gruffly, and Kittredge felt a sickening sense of shame as he realized that he was a prisoner.

“Wait!  One moment!” protested the girl, and the men paused.  Then, going close to her lover, Alice spoke to him in low, thrilling words that came straight from her soul: 

“Lloyd, I believe you, I trust you, I love you.  No matter what you have done, I love you.  It was because my love is so great that I refused you this afternoon.  But you need me now, you’re in trouble now, and, Lloyd, if—­if you want me still, I’m yours, all yours.”

“O God!” murmured Kittredge, and even the hardened policeman choked a little.  “I’m the happiest man in Paris, but—­” He could say no more except with a last longing look:  “Good-by.”

Wildly, fiercely she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth—­their first kiss.  And she murmured:  “I love you, I love you.”

Then they led Kittredge away.

[Illustration:  “‘Alice, I am innocent.’”]

CHAPTER V

COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME

It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz.  France is a land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting born or getting married lead to endless formalities.  Judge, then, of the complicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as getting murdered—­especially in a fashionable restaurant!  Long before the commissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M. Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper man whose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regretted confidences.

And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, a cold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said, by social disappointments and ill health.  He was in evening dress, having been summoned posthaste from the theater.  Both of these officials went over the case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body and studied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, both proceeded to draw up a report.  And the doctor drew up his report.  And already Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notes for his report.  And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score of reporters all busy with their reports.  No doubt that, in the matter of paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this gallant billiard player!