Part 29 (1/2)

”Then--do you know whether M. Kittredge plays tennis?”

Alice looked up in surprise. ”Why, yes, he does. I remember hearing him say he likes it better than golf.”

”Ah! Then ask him--see here. I'll show you,” and going to a corner between the bookcase and the wall, M. Paul picked out a tennis racket among a number of canes. ”Now, then,” he continued while she watched him with perplexity, ”I hold my racket _so_ in my right hand, and if a ball comes on my left, I return it with a back-hand stroke _so_, using my right hand; but there are players who s.h.i.+ft the racket to the left hand and return the ball _so_, do you see?”

”I see.”

”Now I want to know if M. Kittredge uses both hands in playing tennis or only the one hand. And I want to know _which_ hand he uses chiefly, that is, the right or the left?”

”Why do you want to know that?” inquired Alice, with a woman's curiosity.

”Never mind why, just remember it's important. Another thing is, to ask M.

Kittredge about a chest of drawers in his room at the Hotel des etrangers.

It is a piece of old oak, rather worm-eaten, but it has good bronzes for the drawer handles, two dogs fighting on either side of the lock plates.”

Alice listened in astonishment. ”I didn't suppose you knew where M.

Kittredge lived.”

”Nor did I until this morning,” he smiled. ”Since then I--well, as my friend Gibelin says, I haven't wasted my time.”

”Your friend Gibelin?” repeated Alice, not understanding.

Coquenil smiled grimly. ”He is an amiable person for whom I am preparing a--a little surprise.”

”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 a.s.sured 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 ma.s.s of the Sante prison, which, with its diverging wings and galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular s.p.a.ce between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la Sante and the Boulevard Arago.

A kind-faced policeman pointed out a ma.s.sive stone archway where she must enter, and pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long bra.s.s key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a s.h.i.+ver 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.