“Always at the service of Paul Coquenil,” he began.  “What can I do for you, mademoiselle?”

Then, summoning her courage, and trying her best to make a good impression, Alice told him her errand.  She wanted to speak with the American, M. Kittredge, who had been sent here the night before—­she wanted to speak with him alone.

The jailer snapped his teeth and narrowed his brows in a hard stare.  “Did Paul Coquenil send you here for that?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir,” answered the girl, and her heart began to sink.  “You see, it’s a very special case and——­”

“Special case,” laughed the other harshly; “I should say so—­it’s a case of murder.”

“But he is innocent, perfectly innocent,” pleaded Alice.

“Of course, but if I let every murderer who says he’s innocent see his sweetheart—­well, this would be a fine prison.  No, no, little one,” he went on with offensive familiarity, “I am sorry to disappoint you and I hate to refuse M. Paul, but it can’t be done.  This man is au secret, which means that he must not see anyone except his lawyer.  You know they assign a lawyer to a prisoner who has no money to employ one.”

“But he has money, at least I have some for him.  Please let me see him, for a few minutes.”  Her eyes filled with tears and she reached out her hands appealingly.  “If you only knew the circumstances, if I could only make you understand.”

“Haven’t time to listen,” he said impatiently, “there’s no use whining.  I can’t do it and that’s the end of it.  If I let you talk with this man and the thing were known, I might lost my position.”  He rose abruptly as if to dismiss her.

Alice did not move.  She had been sitting by a table on which a large sheet of pink blotting paper was spread before writing materials.  And as she listened to the director’s rough words, she took up a pencil and twisted it nervously in her fingers.  Then, with increasing agitation, as she realized that her effort for Lloyd had failed, she began, without thinking, to make little marks on the blotter, and then a written scrawl—­all with a singular fixed look in her eyes.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said the jailer gruffly, seeing that she did not take his hint.

Alice started to her feet.  “I—­I beg your pardon,” she said weakly, and, staggering, she tried to reach the door.  Her distress was so evident that even this calloused man felt a thrill of pity and stepped forward to assist her.  And, as he passed the table, his eye fell on the blotting paper.

“Why, what is this?” he exclaimed, eying her sharply.

“Oh, excuse me, sir,” begged Alice, “I have spoiled your nice blotter.  I am so sorry.”

“Never mind the blotter, but—­” He bent closer over the scrawled words, and then with a troubled look:  “Did you write this?”

“Why—­er—­why—­yes, sir, I’m afraid I did,” she stammered.