“The man you love,” blazed the girl.  “The man whose life you have ruined.”

“It’s true I—­I loved him,” murmured the other.

“What right had you to love him, you a married woman?”

The lady caught her breath with a little gasp and her hands shut tight.

“He told you that?”

[Illustration:  “‘I know why you are thinking about that prison.’”]

“Yes, because he was forced to—­the thing was known.  Don’t be afraid, he didn’t tell your name, he never would tell it.  But I know enough, I know that you tortured him and—­when he got free from you, after struggling and—­starving and——­”

“Starving?”

“Yes, starving.  After all that, when he was just getting a little happy, you had to come again, and—­and now he’s there.”

She looked fixedly at the prison, then with angry fires flashing in her dark eyes:  “I hate you, I hate you,” she cried.

In spite of her growing emotion the lady forced herself to speak calmly:  “Hate me if you will, but hear me.”

“No,” went on Alice fiercely, “you shall hear me.  You have done this wicked, shameless thing, and now you come to me, think of that, to me! You must be mad.  Anyhow, you are here and you shall tell me what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” trembled the woman.

“I want to know, first, who you are.  I want your name and address.”

“Certainly; I am—­er—­Madam Marius, and I live at—­er—­6 Avenue Martignon.”

“Ah!  May I have one of your cards?”

“I—­er—­I’m afraid I have no card here,” evaded the other, pretending to search in a gold bag.  Her face was very pale.

The girl made no reply, but walked quickly to a turn of the gallery.

“Valentine,” she called.

“Yes,” answered a voice.

“Ah, you are there.  I may need you in a minute.”

“Bien!”

Then, returning, she said quietly:  “Valentine is a friend of mine.  She sells postal cards up here.  Unless you tell me the truth, I shall ask her to go down and call the sacristan.  Now then, who are you?”

“Don’t ask who I am,” pleaded the lady.

“I ask what I want to know.”

“Anything but that!”

“Then you are not Madam Marius?”

“No.”

“You lied to me?”

“Yes.”

“Valentine!” called Alice, and promptly a girl of about sixteen, bare-headed, appeared at the end of the gallery.  “Go down and ask Papa Bonneton to come here at once.  Say it’s important.  Hurry!”

With an understanding nod Valentine disappeared inside the tower and the quick clatter of her wooden shoes echoed up from below.

“But—­what will you tell him?” gasped the lady.

“I shall tell him you were concerned in that crime last night.  I don’t know what it was, I haven’t read the papers, but he has.”