“Yes, of course,” agreed Alice, “but how shall I get a lawyer?”

The lady frowned.  “Ah, if I could only send you to my lawyer!  But that would involve explanations.  We need a man to advise us, some one who knows about these things.”

“I have it,” exclaimed Alice joyfully.  “The very person!”

“Who is that?”

“M.  Coquenil.”

“What?” The other stared.  “You mean Paul Coquenil, the detective?”

“Yes,” said the girl confidently.  “He would help us; I’m sure of it.”

“He is on the case already.  Didn’t you know that?  The papers are full of it.”

Alice shook her head.  “That doesn’t matter, does it?  He would tell us exactly what to do.  I saw him in Notre-Dame only yesterday and—­and he spoke to me so kindly.  You know, M. Coquenil is a friend of Papa Bonneton’s; he lends him his dog Caesar to guard the church.”

“It seems like providence,” murmured the lady.  “Yes, that is the thing to do, you must go to M. Coquenil at once.  Tell the old sacristan I have sent you on an errand—­for another twenty francs.”

Alice smiled faintly.  “I can manage that.  But what shall I say to M. Paul?”

“Speak to him about the lawyer and the money; I will send more if necessary.  Tell him what has happened between us and then put yourself in his hands.  Do whatever he thinks best.  There is one thing I want M. Kittredge to be told—­I wish you would write it down so as to make no mistake.  Here is a pencil and here is a piece of paper.”  With nervous haste she tore a page from a little memorandum book.  “Now, then,” and she dictated the following statement which Alice took down carefully:  “Tell M. Kittredge that the lady who called for him in the carriage knows now that the person she thought guilty last night is NOT guilty.  She knows this absolutely, so she will be able to appear and testify in favor of M. Kittredge if it becomes necessary.  But she hopes it will not be necessary.  She begs M. Kittredge to use this money for a good lawyer.”

CHAPTER XII

BY SPECIAL ORDER

It was not until after vespers that Alice was able to leave Notre-Dame and start for the Villa Montmorency—­in fact, it was nearly five when, with mingled feelings of confidence and shrinking, she opened the iron gate in the ivy-covered wall of Coquenil’s house and advanced down the neat walk between the double hedges to the solid gray mass of the villa, at once dignified and cheerful.  Melanie came to the door and showed, by a jealous glance, that she did not approve of her master receiving visits from young and good-looking females.

“M.  Paul is resting,” she grumbled; “he worked all last night and he’s worked this whole blessed day until half an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s a matter of great importance,” urged the girl.

“Good, good,” snapped Melanie.  “What name?”