“Groener,” he reflected.  “That isn’t a French name?”

“No, my family lived in Belgium, but I have only a cousin left.  He is a wood carver, in Brussels.  He has been very kind to me and would pay my board with the Bonnetons, but I don’t want to be a burden, so I work at the church.”

“I see,” he said approvingly.

The girl was seated in the full light, and as they talked, Coquenil observed her attentively, noting the pleasant tones of her voice and the charming lights in her eyes, studying her with a personal as well as a professional interest; for was not this the young woman who had so suddenly and so unaccountably influenced his life?  Who was she, what was she, this dreaming candle seller?  In spite of her shyness and modest ways, she was brave and strong of will, that was evident, and, plain dress or not, she looked the aristocrat every inch of her.  Where did she get that unconscious air of quiet poise, that trick of the lifted chin?  And how did she learn to use her hands like a great lady?

“Would you mind telling me something, mademoiselle?” he said suddenly.

Alice looked at him in surprise, and again he remarked, as he had at Notre-Dame, the singular beauty of her wondering dark eyes.

“What is it?”

“Have you any idea how you happened to dream that dream about me?”

The girl shrank away trembling.  “No one can explain dreams, can they?” she asked anxiously, and it seemed to him that her emotion was out of all proportion to its cause.

“I suppose not,” he answered kindly.  “I thought you might have some—­er—­some fancy about it.  If you ever should have, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Ye-es.”  She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but she checked the impulse, if it was there, and Coquenil did not press his demand.

“There’s one other thing,” he went on reassuringly.  “I’m asking this in the interest of M. Kittredge.  Tell me if you know anything about this crime of which he is accused?”

“Why, no,” she replied with evident sincerity.  “I haven’t even read the papers.”

“But you know who was murdered?”

Alice shook her head blankly.  “How could I?  No one has told me.”

“It was a man named Martinez.”

She started at the word.  “What?  The billiard player?” she cried.

He nodded.  “Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes, very well.”

Now it was Coquenil’s turn to feel surprise, for he had asked the question almost aimlessly.

“You knew Martinez very well?” he repeated, scarcely believing his ears.

“I often saw him,” she explained, “at the cafe where we went evenings.”

“Who were ’we’?”

“Why, Papa Bonneton would take me, or my cousin, M. Groener, or M. Kittredge.”

“Then M. Kittredge knew Martinez?”

“Of course.  He used to go sometimes to see him play billiards.”  She said all this quite simply.