“Were Kittredge and Martinez good friends?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Never had any words?  Any quarrel?”

“Why—­er—­no,” she replied in some confusion.

“I don’t want to distress you, mademoiselle,” said Coquenil gravely, “but aren’t you keeping something back?”

“No, no,” she insisted.  “I just thought of—­of a little thing that made me unhappy, but it has nothing to do with this case.  You believe me, don’t you?”

She spoke with pleading earnestness, and again M. Paul followed an intuition that told him he might get everything from this girl by going slowly and gently, whereas, by trying to force her confidence, he would get nothing.

“Of course I believe you,” he smiled.  “Now I’m going to give you some of this tea; I’m afraid it’s getting cold.”

And he proceeded to do the honors in so friendly a way that Alice was presently quite at her ease again.

“Now,” he resumed, “we’ll settle down comfortably and you can tell me what brought you here, tell me all about it.  You won’t mind if I smoke a cigarette?  Be sure to tell me everything—­there is plenty of time.”

So Alice began and told him about the mysterious lady and their agitated visit to the tower, omitting nothing, while M. Paul listened with startled interest, nodding and frowning and asking frequent questions.

“This is very important,” he said gravely when she had finished.  “What a pity you couldn’t get her name!” He shut his fingers hard on his chair arm, reflecting that for the second time this woman had escaped him.

“Did I do wrong?” asked Alice in confusion.

“I suppose not.  I understand your feelings, but—­would you know her again?” he questioned.

“Oh, yes, anywhere,” answered Alice confidently.

“How old is she?”

A mischievous light shone in the girl’s eyes.  “I will say thirty—­that is absolutely fair.”

“You think she may be older?”

“I’m sure she isn’t younger.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Oh, yes, very pretty, very animated and—­chic.”

“Would you call her a lady?”

“Why—­er—­yes.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“It isn’t that, but American ladies are—­different.”

“Why do you think she is an American?” he asked.

“I’m sure she is.  I can always tell American ladies; they wear more colors than French ladies, more embroideries, more things on their hats; I’ve often noticed it in church.  I even know them by their shiny finger nails and their shrill voices.”

“Does she speak with an accent?”

“She speaks fluently, like a foreigner who has lived a long time in Paris, but she has a slight accent.”

“Ah!  Now give me her message again.  Are you sure you remember it exactly?”

“Quite sure.  Besides, she made me write it down so as not to miss a word.  Here it is,” and, producing the torn page, she read:  “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.”