“Ouf!” panted the lady, “it is a climb.”

They were standing on the graceful stone passageway that joins the two towers at the height of the bells and were looking to the west over the columned balustrade, over the Place Notre-Dame, dotted with queer little people, tinkling with bells of cab horses, clanging with gongs of yonder trolley cars curving from the Pont Neuf past old Charlemagne astride of his great bronze horse.  Then on along the tree-lined river, on with widening view of towers and domes until their eyes rested on the green spreading bois and the distant heights of Saint Cloud.

And straightway Alice began to point out familiar monuments, the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, the square of the Louvre, the gilded dome of Napoleon’s tomb, the crumbling Tour Saint Jacques, disfigured now with scaffolding for repairs, and the Sacre Cour, shining resplendent on the Montmartre hill.

To all of which the lady listened indifferently.  She was plainly thinking of something else, and, furtively, she was watching the girl.

“Tell me,” she asked abruptly, “is your name Alice?”

“Yes,” answered the other in surprise.

The lady hesitated.  “I thought that was what the old woman called you.”  Then, looking restlessly over the panorama:  “Where is the conciergerie?”

Alice started at the word.  Among all the points in Paris this was the one toward which her thoughts were tending, the conciergerie, the grim prison where her lover was!

“It is there,” she replied, struggling with her emotion, “behind that cupola of the Chamber of Commerce.  Do you see those short pointed towers?  That is it.”

“Is it still used as a prison?” continued the visitor with a strange insistence.

“Why, yes,” stammered the girl, “I think so—­that is, the depot is part of the conciergerie or just adjoins it.”

“What is the depot?” questioned the other, eying Alice steadily.

The girl flushed.  “Why do you ask me that?  Why do you look at me so?”

The lady stepped closer, and speaking low:  “Because I know who you are, I know why you are thinking about that prison.”

Alice stared at her with widening eyes and heaving bosom.  The woman’s tone was kind, her look almost appealing, yet the girl drew back, guided by an instinct of danger.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Don’t you know who I am?” answered the other, and now her emotion broke through the mask of calm.  “I am the lady who—­who called for M. Kittredge last night.”

“Oh!” burst out Alice scornfully.  “A lady!  You call yourself a lady!”

“Call me anything you like but——­”

“I don’t wish to speak to you; it’s an outrage your coming here; I—­I’m going down.”  And she started for the stairs.

“Wait!” cried the visitor.  “You shall hear me.  I have come to help the man you love.”