Through the Wall Part 10

"Well, I'm here," said Kittredge with a queer little smile. "I couldn't come any sooner and--I can't stay."

The girl questioned him with frightened eyes. "Isn't it over yet?"

He looked at her sharply. "I don't know what you mean by 'it,' but, as a matter of fact, _it_ hasn't begun yet. If you have any questions you'd better ask 'em."

Alice turned and said quietly: "Was the woman who came in the carriage the one you told us about?"

"Yes."

"Have you been with her ever since?"

"No. I was with her only about ten minutes."

"Is she in trouble?"

"Yes."

"And you?"

Kittredge nodded slowly. "Oh, I'm in trouble, all right."

"Can I help you?"

He shook his head. "The only way you can help is by believing in me. I haven't lied to you. I hadn't seen that woman for over six months. I didn't know she was coming here. I don't love her, I love you, but I did love her, and what I have done to-night I--I _had_ to do." He spoke with growing agitation which he tried vainly to control.

Alice looked at him steadily for a moment and then in a low voice she spoke the words that were pressing on her heart: "_What_ have you done?"

"There's no use going into that," he answered unsteadily. "I can only ask you to trust me."

"I trust you, Lloyd," she said.

While they were talking Mother Bonneton had gone to the window attracted by sounds from below, and as she peered down her face showed surprise and then intense excitement.

"Kind saints!" she muttered. "The courtyard is full of policemen." Then with sudden understanding she exclaimed: "Perhaps we will know now what he has been doing." As she spoke a heavy tread was heard on the stairs and the murmur of voices.

"It's nothing," said Alice weakly.

"Nothing?" mocked the old woman. "Hear that!"

An impatient hand sounded at the door while a harsh voice called out those terrifying words: "_Open in the name of the law_."

With a mingling of alarm and satisfaction Mother Bonneton obeyed the summons, and a moment later, as she unlatched the door, a fat man with a bristling red mustache and keen eyes pushed forward into the room where the lovers were waiting. Two burly policemen followed him.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gibelin with a gesture of relief as his eye fell on Kittredge. Then producing a paper he said: "I am from headquarters. I am looking for"--he studied the writing in perplexity--"for M. Lo-eed Keetredge. What is _your_ name?"

"That's it," replied the American, "you made a good stab at it."

"You are M. Lo-eed Keetredge?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must come with me. I have a warrant for your arrest." And he showed the paper.

But Alice staggered forward. "Why do you arrest him? What has he done?"

The man from headquarters answered, shrugging his shoulders: "I don't know what he's done, _he's charged with murder_."

"Murder!" echoed the sacristan's wife. "Holy angels! A murderer in my house!"

"Take him," ordered the detective, and the two policemen laid hold of Kittredge on either side.

"Alice!" cried the young man, and his eyes yearned toward her. "Alice, I am innocent."

"Come," said the men gruffly, and Kittredge felt a sickening sense of shame as he realized that he was a prisoner.

"Wait! One moment!" protested the girl, and the men paused. Then, going close to her lover, Alice spoke to him in low, thrilling words that came straight from her soul:

"Lloyd, I believe you, I trust you, I love you. No matter what you have done, I love you. It was because my love is so great that I refused you this afternoon. But you need me now, you're in trouble now, and, Lloyd, if--if you want me still, I'm yours, all yours."

"O G.o.d!" murmured Kittredge, and even the hardened policeman choked a little. "I'm the happiest man in Paris, but--" He could say no more except with a last longing look: "Good-by."

Wildly, fiercely she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him pa.s.sionately on the mouth--their first kiss. And she murmured: "I love you, I love you."

Then they led Kittredge away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Alice, I am innocent.'"]

CHAPTER V

COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME

It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz. France is a land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting born or getting married lead to endless formalities. Judge, then, of the complicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as getting murdered--especially in a fashionable restaurant! Long before the commissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M.

Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper man whose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regretted confidences.

And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, a cold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said, by social disappointments and ill health. He was in evening dress, having been summoned posthaste from the theater. Both of these officials went over the case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body and studied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, both proceeded to draw up a report. And the doctor drew up _his_ report. And already Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notes for _his_ report. And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score of reporters all busy with _their_ reports. No doubt that, in the matter of paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this gallant billiard player!

Meantime the official police photographer and his a.s.sistants had arrived (this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing the victim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hours owing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera that photographed the body _from above_ as it lay on the floor.

In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case with a wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M.

Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leaned toward suicide. The doctor was undecided.

"But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge; "the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"

"Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned, and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol was fired not six inches from the victim."