“Oh!  And what about the chest of drawers?”

“It’s about one particular drawer, the small upper one on the right-hand side—­better write that down.”

“The small upper drawer on the right-hand side,” repeated Alice.

“I find that M. Kittredge always kept this drawer locked.  He seems to be a methodical person, and I want to know if he remembers opening it a few days ago and finding, it unlocked.  Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good!  Oh, one thing more.  Find out if M. Kittredge ever suffers from rheumatism or gout.”

The girl smiled.  “Of course he doesn’t; he is only twenty-eight.”

“Please do not take this lightly, mademoiselle,” the detective chided gently.  “It is perhaps the most important point of all—­his release from prison may depend on it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I’m not taking it lightly, indeed I’m not,” and, with tears in her eyes, Alice assured M. Paul that she fully realized the importance of this mission and would spare no effort to make it successful.

A few moments later she hurried away, buoyed up by the thought that she was not only to see her lover but to serve him.

It was after six when Alice left the circular railway at the Montrouge station.  She was in a remote and unfamiliar part of Paris, the region of the catacombs and the Gobelin tapestry works, and, although M. Paul had given her precise instructions, she wandered about for some time among streets of hospitals and convents until at last she came to an open place where she recognized Bartholdi’s famous Belfort lion.  Then she knew her way, and hurrying along the Boulevard Arago, she came presently to the gloomy mass of the Sante prison, which, with its diverging wings and galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular space between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la Sante and the Boulevard Arago.

A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must enter, and passing here, beside a stolid soldier in his sentry box, she came presently to a black iron door in front of which were waiting two yellow-and-black prison vans, windowless.  In this prison door were four glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass key and turned the bolt.  The door swung back, and with a shiver of repulsion the girl stepped inside.  This was the prison, these men standing about were the jailers and—­what did that matter so long as she got to him, to her dear Lloyd.  There was nothing she would not face or endure for his sake.

No sooner had the guard heard that she came with a note from M. Paul Coquenil (that was a name to conjure with) than he showed her politely to a small waiting room, assuring her that the note would be given at once to the director of the prison.  And a few moments later another door opened and a hard-faced, low-browed man of heavy build bowed to her with a crooked, sinister smile and motioned her into his private office.  It was M. Dedet, the chief jailer.