"IN THE NAME OF THE LAW"
When Kittredge, with cloak and bag, stepped into his waiting cab and, for
the second time on this villainous night, started down the Champs Elysées
he was under no illusion as to his personal safety. He knew that he would
be followed and presently arrested, he knew this without even glancing
behind him, he had understood the whispers and searching looks in the
hotel; it was _certain_ that his moments of liberty were numbered, so he
must make a clean job of this thing that had to be done while still there
was time. He had told the driver to cross the bridge and go down the
Boulevard St. Germain, but now he changed the order and, half opening the
door, he bade the man turn to the right and drive on to the Rue de
Vaugirard. He knew that this was a long, ill-lighted street, one of the
longest streets in Paris.
"There's no number," he called out. "Just keep going."
The driver grumbled and cracked his whip, and a moment later, peering back
through the front window, he saw his eccentric fare absorbed in examining a
white leather bag. He could see him distinctly by the yellow light of his
two side lanterns. The young man had opened one of the inner pockets of the
bag, drawing out a flap of leather under which a name was stamped quite
visibly in gilt letters. Presently he took out a pocket knife and tried to
scrape off the name, but the letters were deeply marked and could not be
removed so easily. After a moment's hesitation the young man carefully drew
his blade across the base of the flap, severing it from the bag, which he
then threw back on the seat, holding the flap in apparent perplexity.
All this the driver observed with increasing interest until presently
Kittredge looked up and caught his eye.
"You've got a nerve," the young man muttered. "I'll fix you." And, drawing
the two black curtains, he shut off the driver's view.
As they neared the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, the American opened the
door again and told the man to turn and drive back, he wanted to have a
look at Notre-Dame, three full miles away. The driver swore softly, but
obeyed, and back they went, passing another cab just behind them which also
turned immediately and followed, as Kittredge noticed with a gloomy smile.
On the way to Notre-Dame, Kittredge changed their direction half a dozen
times, acting on accountable impulses, going by zigzags through narrow,
dark streets, instead of by the straight and natural way, so that it was
after midnight when they entered the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, which runs
just beside the cathedral, and drew up at a house indicated by the
American. The other cab drew up behind them.
"Tell your friend back there," remarked Kittredge to his driver as he got
out, "that I have important business here. There'll be plenty of time for
him to get a drink." Then, with a nervous tug at the bell, he disappeared
in the house, leaving the cloak and bag in the cab.
And now two important things happened, one of them unexpected. The expected
thing was that M. Gibelin came forward immediately from the second cab
followed by Papa Tignol and a policeman. The shadowing detective was in a
vile humor which was not improved when he got the message left by the
flippant American.
"Time for a drink! Infernal impudence! We'll teach him manners at the
depot! This farce is over," he flung out. "See where he went, ask the
_concierge_," he said to Tignol. And to the policeman: "Watch the
courtyard. If he isn't down in ten minutes _we'll go up_."
Then, as his men obeyed, Gibelin turned to Kittredge's driver. "Here's your
fare. You can go. I'm from headquarters. I have a warrant for this man's
arrest." And he showed his credentials. "I'll take the things he has left."
"Don't I get a _pourboire?_" grumbled the driver.
"No, sir. You're lucky to get anything."
"Am I?" retorted the Jehu, gathering up his reins (and now came the
unexpected happening): "Well, I'll tell you one thing, my friend, _this is
the night they made a fool of M. Gibelin!_"
The detective started. "You know my name? What do you mean?"
The cab was already moving, but the driver turned on his seat and, waving
his hand in derision, he called back: "Ask Beau Cocono!" And then to his
horse: "_Hue, cocotte!_"
Meantime Kittredge had climbed the four flights of stairs leading to the
sacristan's modest apartment. And, in order to explain how he happened to
be making so untimely a visit it is necessary to go back several hours to a
previous visit here that the young American had already made on this
momentous evening.
After leaving the Ansonia banquet at about nine o'clock in the singular
manner noted by the big doorkeeper, Kittredge, in accordance with his
promise to Alice, had driven directly to the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, and
at twenty minutes past nine by the clock in the Tavern of the Three Wise
Men he had drawn up at the house where the Bonnetons lived. Five minutes
later the young man was seated in the sacristan's little _salon_ assuring
Alice that he didn't mind the rain, that the banquet was a bore, anyhow,
and that he hoped she was now going to prove herself a sensible and
reasonable little girl.
[Illustration: "'Ask Beau Cocono,' he called back."]
Alice welcomed her lover eagerly. She had been anxious about him, she did
not know why, and when the storm came she had been more anxious. But now
she was reassured and--and happy. Her mantling color, her heaving bosom,
and the fond, wistful lights in her dark eyes told how very happy she was.
And how proud! After all he trusted her, it must be so! he had left his
friends, left this fine banquet and, in spite of the pain she had given
him, in spite of the bad night, he had come to her here in her humble home.
And it would have straightway been the love scene all over again, for Alice
had never seemed so adorable, but for the sudden and ominous entrance of
Mother Bonneton. She eyed the visitor with frank unfriendliness and,
without mincing her words, proceeded to tell him certain things, notably
that his attentions to Alice must cease and that his visits here would
henceforth be unwelcome.
In vain the poor girl protested against this breach of hospitality. Mother
Bonneton held her ground grimly, declaring that she had a duty to perform
and would perform it.
"What duty?" asked the American.
"A duty to M. Groener."
At this name Alice started apprehensively. Kittredge knew that she had a
cousin named Groener, a wood carver who lived in Belgium, and who came to
Paris occasionally to see her and to get orders for his work. On one
occasion he had met this cousin and had judged him a well-meaning but
rather stupid fellow who need not be seriously considered in his efforts to
win Alice.
"Do you mean that M. Groener does not approve of me?" pursued Kittredge.
"M. Groener knows nothing about you," answered Mother Bonneton, "except
that you have been hanging around this foolish girl. But he understands his
responsibility as the only relation she has in the world and he knows she
will respect his wishes as the one who has paid her board, more or less,
for five years."
"Well?"
"Well, the last time M. Groener was here, that's about a month ago, he
asked me and my husband to make inquiries about _you_, and see what we
could find out."
"It's abominable!" exclaimed Alice.
"Abominable? Why is it abominable? Your cousin wants to know if this young
man is a proper person for you to have as a friend."
"I can decide that for myself," flashed the girl.
"Oh, can you? Ha, ha! How wise we are!"
"And--er--you have made inquiries about me?" resumed Kittredge with a
strangely anxious look.
Mother Bonneton half closed her eyes and threw out her thick lips in an
ugly leer. "I should say we have! And found out things--well, just a few!"
"What things?"
"We have found out, my pretty sir, that you lived for months last year by
gambling. I suppose you will deny it?"
"No," answered Kittredge in a low tone, "it's true."
"Ah! We found out also that the money you made by gambling you spent with a
brazen creature who----"
"Stop!" interrupted the American, and turning to the girl he said: "Alice,
I didn't mean to go into these details, I didn't see the need of it,
but----"
"I don't want to know the details," she interrupted. "I know _you_, Lloyd,
that is enough."
She looked him in the eyes trustingly and he blinked a little.
"Plucky!" he murmured. "They're trying to queer me and maybe they will,
but I'm not going to lie about it. Listen. I came to Paris a year ago on
account of a certain person. I thought I loved her and--I made a fool of
myself. I gave up a good position in New York and--after I had been here a
while I went broke. So I gambled. It's pretty bad--I don't defend myself,
only there's one thing I want you to know. This person was not a low woman,
she was a lady."
"Huh!" grunted Mother Bonneton. "A lady! The kind of a lady who dines alone
with gay young gentlemen in private rooms! Aha, we have the facts!"
The young man's eyes kindled. "No matter where she dined, I say she was a
lady, and the proof of it is I--I wanted her to get a divorce and--and
marry me."
"Oh!" winced Alice.
"You see what he is," triumphed the sacristan's wife, "running after a
married woman."
But Kittredge went on doggedly: "You've got to hear the rest now. One day
something happened that--that made me realize what an idiot I had been.
When I say this person was a lady I'm not denying that she raised the devil
with me. She did that good and plenty, so at last I decided to break away
and I did. It wasn't exactly a path of roses for me those weeks, but I
stuck to it, because--because I had some one to help me," he paused and
looked tenderly at Alice, "and--well, I cut the whole thing out, gambling
and all. That was six months ago."
"And the lady?" sneered Mother Bonneton. "Do you mean to tell us you
haven't had anything to do with her for six months?"
"I haven't even seen her," he declared, "for more than six months."
"A likely story! Besides, what we know is enough. I shall write M. Groener
to-night and tell him the facts. Meantime--" She rose and pointed to the
door.
Alice and Kittredge rose also, the one indignant and aggrieved at this
wanton affront to her lover, the other gloomily resigned to what seemed to
be his fate.
"Well," said he, facing Alice with a discouraged gesture, "things are
against us. I'm grateful to you for believing in me and I--I'd like to know
why you turned me down this afternoon. But I probably never shall. I--I'll
be going now."
He was actually moving toward the door, and she, almost fainting with
emotion, was rallying her strength for a last appeal when the bell in the
hall tinkled sharply. Mother Bonneton answered the call and returned a
moment later followed by the doorkeeper from below, a cheery little woman
who bustled in carrying a note.
"It's for the gentleman," she explained, "from a lady waiting in a
carriage. It's very important." With this she delivered a note to Kittredge
and added in an exultant whisper to the sacristan's wife that the lady had
given her a franc for her trouble.
"A lady waiting in a carriage!" chuckled Mother Bonneton. "What kind of a
lady?"
"Oh, very swell," replied the doorkeeper mysteriously "Grande toilette,
bare shoulders, and no hat. I should think she'd take cold."
"Poor thing!" jeered the other. And then to Kittredge: "I suppose this is
_another one_ you haven't seen for six months."
Kittredge stood as if in a daze staring at the note. He read it, then read
it again, then he crumpled it in his hand, muttering: "O God!" And his face
was white.
"Good-by!" he said to Alice in extreme agitation. "I don't know what you
think of this, I can't stop to explain, I--I must go at once!" And taking
up his hat and cane he started away.
"But you'll come back?" cried the girl.
"No, no! This is the end!"
She went to him swiftly and laid a hand on his arm. "Lloyd, you _must_ come
back. You must come back to-night. It's the last thing I'll ever ask you.
You need never see me again but--_you must come back to-night_."
She stood transformed as she spoke, not pleading but commanding and
beautiful beyond words.
"It may be very late," he stammered.
"I'll wait until you come," she said simply, "no matter what time. I'll
wait. But you'll surely come, Lloyd?"
He hesitated a moment and then, before the power of her eyes: "I'll surely
come," he promised, and a moment later he was gone.
Then the hours passed, anxious, ominous hours! Ten, eleven, twelve! And
still Alice waited for her lover, silencing Mother Bonneton's grumblings
with a look that this hard old woman had once or twice seen in the girl's
face and had learned to respect. At half past twelve a carriage sounded in
the quiet street, then a quick step on the stairs. Kittredge had kept his
word.
The door was opened by Mother Bonneton, very sleepy and arrayed in a
wrapper of purple and gold pieced together from discarded altar coverings.
She eyed the young man sternly but said nothing, for Alice was at her back
holding the lamp and there was something in the American's face, something
half reckless, half appealing, that startled her. She felt the cold breath
of a sinister happening and regretted Bonneton's absence at the church.
"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 God!" 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
passionately on the mouth--their first kiss. And she murmured: "I love you,
I love you."
Then they led Kittredge away.
[Illustration: "'Alice, I am innocent.'"]