MRS. LLOYD KITTREDGE
The details of the hours that followed remained blurred memories in the
minds of Alice and her rescuer. There was, first, a period of utter blank
when Coquenil, overcome by the violence of his struggle and the agony of
his burns, fell unconscious near the unconscious girl. How long they lay
thus in the dark playground of the fairies, so near the raging fire, yet
safe from it, was never known exactly; nor how long they wandered
afterwards through a strange subterranean region of passages and cross
passages, that widened and narrowed, that ascended and descended, that were
sometimes smooth under foot, but oftener blocked with rough stones and
always black as night. The fairies must have been sorry at their plight,
for, indeed, it was a pitiable one; bruised, blistered, covered with grime
and with little else, they stumbled on aimlessly, cutting their bare feet,
falling often in sheer weakness, and lying for minutes where they fell
before they could summon strength to stumble on. Surely no more pathetic
pair than these two ever braved the mazes of the Paris catacombs!
Perhaps the fairies finally felt that the odds were too great against them,
and somehow led them to safety. At any rate, through the ghastly horror of
darkness and weakness and pain there presently came hope--flickering
torches in the distance, then faint voices and the presence of friends,
some workingmen, occupied with drainage repairs, who produced stimulants
and rough garments and showed them the way to the upper world, to the
blessed sunshine.
Then it was a matter of temporary relief at the nearest pharmacy, of
waiting until Pougeot, summoned by telephone, could arrive with all haste
in an automobile.
An hour later M. Paul and Alice were in clean, cool beds at a private
hospital near the commissary's house, with nurses and doctors bending over
them. And on a chair beside the girl, battered and blackened, sat
Esmeralda, while under the detective's pillow was the scorched but unharmed
diary of De Heidelmann-Bruck!
"Both cases serious," was the head doctor's grave judgment. "The man is
frightfully burned. The girl's injuries are not so bad, but she is
suffering from shock. We'll know more in twenty-four hours." Then, turning
to Pougeot: "Oh, he insists on seeing you alone. Only a minute mind!"
With a thrill of emotion the commissary entered the silent, darkened room
where his friend lay, swathed in bandages and supported on a water bed to
lessen the pain.
"It's all right Paul," said M. Pougeot, "I've just talked with the doctor."
"Thanks, Lucien," answered a weak voice in the white bundle. "I'm going to
pull through--I've got to, but--if anything should go wrong, I want you to
have the main points. Come nearer."
The commissary motioned to the nurse, who withdrew. Then he bent close to
the injured man and listened intently while Coquenil, speaking with an
effort and with frequent pauses, related briefly what had happened.
"God in heaven!" muttered Pougeot. "He'll pay for this!"
"Yes, I--I think he'll pay for it, but--Lucien, do nothing until I am able
to decide things with you. Say nothing to anyone, not even to the doctor.
And don't give our names."
"No, no, I'll see to that."
"The girl mustn't talk, tell her she--_mustn't talk_. And--Lucien?"
"Yes?"
"She may be delirious--_I_ may be delirious, I feel queer--now. You
must--make sure of these--nurses."
"Yes, Paul, I will."
"And--watch the girl! Something has happened to--her mind. She's forgotten
or--_remembered!_ Get the best specialist in Paris and--get Duprat. Do
whatever they advise--no matter what it costs. Everything depends on--her."
"I'll do exactly as you say, old friend," whispered the other. Then, at a
warning signal from the nurse: "Don't worry now. Just rest and get well."
He rose to go. "Until to-morrow, Paul."
The sick man's reply was only a faint murmur, and Pougeot stole softly out
of the room, turning at the door for an anxious glance toward the white
bed.
This was the first of many visits to the hospital by the devoted commissary
and of many anxious hours at that distressed bedside. Before midnight
Coquenil was in raging delirium with a temperature of one hundred and five,
and the next morning, when Pougeot called, the doctor looked grave. They
were in for a siege of brain fever with erysipelas to be fought off, if
possible.
Poor Coquenil! His body was in torture and his mind in greater torture.
Over and over again, those days, he lived through his struggle with the
fire, he rescued Alice, he played with the fairies, he went back after the
doll. Over and over again!
And when the fever fell and his mind grew calm, there followed a period of
nervous exhaustion when his stomach refused to do its work, when his heart,
for nothing at all, would leap into fits of violent beating. Pougeot could
not even see him now, and the doctor would make no promise as to how soon
it would be safe to mention the case to him. Perhaps not for weeks!
For weeks! And, meantime, Lloyd Kittredge had been placed on trial for the
murder of Martinez and the evidence seemed overwhelmingly against him; in
fact, the general opinion was that the young American would be found
guilty.
What should the commissary do?
For a week the trial dragged slowly with various delays and adjournments,
during which time, to Pougeot's delight, Coquenil began to mend rapidly.
The doctor assured the commissary that in a few days he should have a
serious talk with the patient. A few days! Unfortunately, the trial began
to march along during these days--they dispose of murder cases
expeditiously in France--and, to make matters worse, Coquenil suffered a
relapse, so that the doctor was forced to retract his promise.
What should the commissary do?
In this emergency Coquenil himself came unexpectedly to Pougeot's relief;
instead of the apathy or indifference he had shown for days, he suddenly
developed his old keen interest in the case, and one morning insisted on
knowing how things were going and what the prospects were. In vain doctor
and nurse objected and reasoned; the patient only insisted the more
strongly, he wished to have a talk with M. Pougeot at once. And, as the
danger of opposing him was felt to be greater than that of yielding, it
resulted that M. Paul had his way, Pougeot came to his bedside and stayed
an hour--two hours, until the doctor absolutely ordered him away; but,
after luncheon, the detective took the bit in his teeth and told the doctor
plainly that, with or without permission, he was going to do his work. He
had learned things that he should have known long ago and there was not an
hour to lose. A man's life was at stake, and--his stomach, his nerves, his
heart, and his other organs might do what they pleased, he proposed to save
that life.
Before this uncompromising attitude the doctor could only bow gracefully,
and when he was told by Pougeot (in strictest confidence) that this gaunt
and irascible patient, whom he had known as M. Martin, was none other than
the celebrated Paul Coquenil, he comforted himself with the thought that,
after all, a resolute mind can often do wonders with a weak body.
It was a delightful September afternoon, with a brisk snap in the air and
floods of sunshine. Since early morning the streets about the Palais de
Justice had been, blocked with carriages and automobiles, and the courtyard
with clamorous crowds eager to witness the final scene in this celebrated
murder trial. The case would certainly go to the jury before night. The
last pleas would be made, the judge's grave words would be spoken, and
twelve solemn citizens would march out with the fate of this cheerful young
American in their hands. It was well worth seeing, and all Paris that could
get tickets, especially the American Colony, was there to see it. Pussy
Wilmott, in a most fetching gown, with her hair done ravishingly, sat near
the front and never took her eyes off the prisoner.
In spite of all that he had been through and all that he was facing,
Kittredge looked surprisingly well. A little pale, perhaps, but game to the
end, and ready always with his good-natured smile. All the ladies liked
him. He had such nice teeth and such well-kept hands! A murderer with those
kind, jolly eyes? Never in the world! they vowed, and smiled and stared
their encouragement.
A close observer would have noticed, however, that Lloyd's eyes were
anxious as they swept the spread of faces before him; they were searching,
searching for one face that they could not find. Where was Alice? Why had
she sent him no word? Was she ill? Had any harm befallen her? _Where was
Alice?_
So absorbed was Kittredge in these reflections that he scarcely heard the
thundering denunciations hurled at him by the public prosecutor in his
fierce and final demand that blood be the price of blood and that the
extreme penalty of the law be meted out to this young monster of wickedness
and dissimulation.
Nor did Lloyd notice the stir when one of the court attendants made way
through the crush for a distinguished-looking man, evidently a person of
particular importance, who was given a chair on the platform occupied by
the three black-robed judges.
"The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck!" whispered eager tongues, and straightway
the awe-inspiring name was passed from mouth to mouth. The Baron de
Heidelmann-Bruck! He had dropped in in a dilettante spirit to hear the
spirited debate, and the judges were greatly honored.
Alas for the baron! It was surely some sinister prompting that brought him
here to-day, so coldly complacent as he nodded to the presiding judge, so
quietly indifferent as he glanced at the prisoner through his single
eyeglass. The gods had given Coquenil a spectacular setting for his
triumph!
And now, suddenly, the blow fell. As the prosecuting officer soared along
in his oratorial flight, a note was passed unobtrusively to the presiding
judge, a modest little note folded on itself without even an envelope to
hold it. For several minutes the note lay unnoticed; then the judge, with
careless eye, glanced over it; then he started, frowned, and his quick
rereading showed that a spark of something had flashed from that scrap of
paper.
The presiding judge leaned quickly toward his associate on the right and
whispered earnestly, then toward his associate on the left, and, one after
another, the three magistrates studied this startling communication,
nodding learned heads and lowering judicial eyebrows. The public prosecutor
blazed through his peroration to an inattentive bench.
No sooner had the speaker finished than the clerk of the court announced a
brief recess, during which the judges withdrew for deliberation and the
audience buzzed their wonder. During this interval the Baron de
Heidelmann-Bruck looked frankly bored.
On the return of the three, an announcement was made by the presiding judge
that important new evidence in the case had been received, evidence of so
unusual a character that the judges had unanimously decided to interrupt
proceedings for a public hearing of the evidence in question. It was
further ordered that no one be allowed to leave the courtroom under any
circumstances.
"Call the first witness!" ordered the judge, and amidst the excitement
caused by these ominous words a small door opened and a woman entered
leaning on a guard. She was dressed simply in black and heavily veiled,
but her girlish figure showed that she was young. As she appeared,
Kittredge started violently.
The clerk of the court cleared his throat and called out something in
incomprehensible singsong.
The woman came forward to the witness stand and lifted her veil. As she did
so, three distinct things happened: the audience murmured its admiration at
a vision of strange beauty, Kittredge stared in a daze of joy, and De
Heidelmann-Bruck felt the cold hand of death clutching at his heart.
It was Alice come to her lover's need! Alice risen from the flames! Alice
here for chastening and justice!
"What is your name?" questioned the judge.
"Mary Coogan," was the clear answer.
"Your nationality?"
"I am an American."
"You have lived a long time in France?"
"Yes. I came to France as a little girl."
"How did that happen?"
"My father died and--my mother married a second time."
Her voice broke, but she shot a swift glance at the prisoner and seemed to
gain strength.
"Your mother married a Frenchman?"
"Yes."
"What is the name of the Frenchman whom your mother married?"
The girl hesitated, and then looking straight at the baron, she said: "The
Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck."
There was something in the girl's tone, in her manner, in the fearless
poise of her head, that sent a shiver of apprehension through the audience.
Every man and woman waited breathless for the next question. In their
absorbed interest in the girl they scarcely looked at the aristocratic
visitor.
"Is your mother living?"
"No."
"How did she die?"
Again the witness turned to Kittredge and his eyes made her brave.
"My mother was burned to death--in the Charity Bazaar fire," she answered
in a low voice.
"Were you present at the fire?"
"Yes."
"Were you in danger?"
"Yes."
"State what you remember about the fire."
The girl looked down and answered rapidly: "My mother and I went to the
Charity Bazaar with the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck. When the fire broke out,
there was a panic and we were held by the crush. There was a window near us
through which some people were climbing. My mother and I got to this window
and would have been able to escape through it, but the Baron de
Heidelmann-Bruck pushed us back and climbed through himself."
"It's a lie!" cried the baron hoarsely, while a murmur of dismay arose from
the courtroom.
"Silence!" warned the clerk.
"And after that?"
The girl shook her head and there came into her face a look of terrible
sadness.
"I don't know what happened after that for a long time. I was very ill
and--for years I did not remember these things."
"You mean that for years you did not remember what you have just
testified?"
"Yes, that is what I mean."
The room was so hushed in expectation that the tension was like physical
pain.
"You did not remember your mother during these years?"
"No."
"Not even her name?"
She shook her head. "I did not remember my own name."
"But now you remember everything?"
"Yes, everything."
"When did you recover your memory?"
"It began to come back a few weeks ago."
"Under what circumstances?"
"Under circumstances like those when--when I lost it."
"How do you mean?"
"I--I--" She turned slowly, as if drawn by some horrible fascination, and
looked at De Heidelmann-Bruck. The baron's face was ghastly white, but by a
supreme effort he kept an outward show of composure.
"Yes?" encouraged the judge.
"I was in another fire," she murmured, still staring at the baron. "I--I
nearly lost my life there."
The witness had reached the end of her strength; she was twisting and
untwisting her white fingers piteously, while the pupils of her eyes
widened and contracted in terror. She staggered as if she would faint or
fall, and the guard was starting toward her when, through the anguished
silence, a clear, confident voice rang out:
"_Alice!_"
It was the prisoner who had spoken, it was the lover who had come to the
rescue and whose loyal cry broke the spell of horror. Instantly the girl
turned to Lloyd with a look of infinite love and gratitude, and before the
outraged clerk of the court had finished his warning to the young American,
Alice had conquered her distress and was ready once more for the ordeal.
"Tell us in your own words," said the judge kindly, "how it was that you
nearly lost your life a second time in a fire."
In a low voice, but steadily, Alice began her story. She spoke briefly of
her humble life with the Bonnetons, of her work at Notre-Dame, of the
occasional visits of her supposed cousin, the wood carver; then she came to
the recent tragic happenings, to her flight from Groener, to the kindness
of M. Pougeot, to the trick of the ring that lured her from the
commissary's home, and finally to the moment when, half dead with fright,
she was thrust into that cruel chamber and left there with M. Coquenil--to
perish.
As she described their desperate struggle for life in that living furnace
and their final miraculous escape, the effect on the audience was
indescribable. Women screamed and fainted, men broke down and wept, even
the judges wiped pitying eyes as Alice told how Paul Coquenil built the
last barricade with fire roaring all about him, and then how he dashed
among leaping flames and, barehanded, all but naked, cleared a way to
safety.
Through the tense silence that followed her recital came the judge's voice:
"And you accuse a certain person of committing this crime?"
"I do," she answered firmly.
"You make this accusation deliberately, realizing the gravity of what you
say?"
"I do."
"Whom do you accuse?"
The audience literally held its breath as the girl paused before replying.
Her hands shut hard at her sides, her body seemed to stiffen and rise, then
she turned formidably with the fires of slumbering vengeance burning in her
wonderful eyes--vengeance for her mother, for her lover, for her rescuer,
for herself--she turned slowly toward the cowering nobleman and said
distinctly: "I accuse the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck."
So monstrous, so unthinkable was the charge, that the audience sat stupidly
staring at the witness as if they doubted their own ears, and some
whispered that the thing had never happened, the girl was mad.
Then all eyes turned to the accused. He struggled to speak but the words
choked in his throat. If ever a great man was guilty in appearance, the
Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck was that guilty great man!
"I insist on saying--" he burst out finally, but the judge cut him short.
"You will be heard presently, sir. Call the next witness."
The girl withdrew, casting a last fond look at her lover, and the clerk's
voice was heard summoning M. Pougeot.
The commissary appeared forthwith and, with all the authority of his
office, testified in confirmation of Alice's story. There was no possible
doubt that the girl would have perished in the flames but for the heroism
of Paul Coquenil.
Pougeot was followed by Dr. Duprat, who gave evidence as to the return of
Alice's memory. He regarded her case as one of the most remarkable
psychological phenomena that had come under his observation, and he
declared, as an expert, that the girl's statements were absolutely worthy
of belief.
"Call the next witness," directed the judge, and the clerk of the court
sang out:
"_Paul Coquenil!_"
A murmur of sympathy and surprise ran through the room as the small door
opened, just under the painting of justice, and a gaunt, pallid figure
appeared, a tall man, wasted and weakened. He came forward leaning on a
cane and his right hand was bandaged.
"I would like to add, your Honor," said Dr. Duprat, "that M. Coquenil has
risen from a sick bed to come here; in fact, he has come against medical
advice to testify in favor of this young prisoner."
The audience was like a powder mine waiting for a spark. Only a word was
needed to set off their quivering, pent-up enthusiasm.
"What is your name?" asked the judge as the witness took the stand.
"Paul Coquenil," was the quiet answer.
It was the needed word, the spark to fire the train. Paul Coquenil! Never
in modern times had a Paris courtroom witnessed a scene like that which
followed. Pussy Wilmott, who spent her life looking for new sensations, had
one now. And Kittredge manacled in the dock, yet wildly happy! And Alice
outside, almost fainting between hope and fear! And De Heidelmann-Bruck
with his brave eyeglass and groveling soul! They _all_ had new sensations!
As Coquenil spoke, there went up a great cry from the audience, an
irresistible tribute to his splendid bravery. It was spontaneous, it was
hysterical, it was tremendous. Men and women sprang to their feet, shouting
and waving and weeping. The crowd, crushed in the corridor, caught the cry
and passed it along.
"Coquenil! Coquenil!"
The down in the courtyard it sounded, and out into the street, where a
group of students started the old snappy refrain:
"Oh, oh! Il nous faut-o!
Beau, beau! Beau Cocono-o!"
In vain the judge thundered admonitions and the clerk shouted for order.
That white-faced, silent witness leaning on his cane, stood for the moment
to these frantic people as the symbol of what they most admired in a
man--resourcefulness before danger and physical courage and the readiness
to die for a friend. For these three they seldom had a chance to shout and
weep, so they wept and shouted now!
"Coquenil! Coquenil!"
There had been bitter moments in the great detective's life, but this made
up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpassed
them. Coquenil, too, had a new sensation!
When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had
settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the
disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.
"Please state what you know about this case," he said, and again the
audience waited in deathlike stillness.
"There is no need of many words," answered M. Paul; then pointing an
accusing arm at De Heidelmann-Bruck, "I know that this man shot Enrico
Martinez on the night of July 4th, at the Ansonia Hotel."
The audience gave a long-troubled sigh, the nobleman sat rigid on his
chair, the judge went on with his questions.
"You say you _know_ this?" he demanded sharply.
"I know it," declared Coquenil, "I have absolute proof of it--here." He
drew from his inner coat the baron's diary and handed it to the judge.
"What is this?" asked the latter.
"His own confession, written by himself and--Quick!" he cried, and sprang
toward the rich man, but Papa Tignol was there before him. With a bound the
old fox had leaped forward from the audience and reached the accused in
time to seize and stay his hand.
"Excuse me, your Honor," apologized the detective, "the man was going to
kill himself."
"It's false!" screamed the baron. "I was getting my handkerchief."
"Here's the handkerchief," said Tignol, holding up a pistol.
At this there was fresh tumult in the audience, with men cursing and women
shrieking.
The judge turned gravely to De Heidelmann-Bruck. "I have a painful duty to
perform, sir. Take this man out--_under arrest_, and--clear the room."
M. Paul sank weakly into a chair and watched idly while the attendants led
away the unresisting millionaire, watched keenly as the judge opened the
baron's diary and began to read. He noted the magistrate's start of
amazement, the eager turning of pages and the increasingly absorbed
attention.
"Astounding! Incredible!" muttered the judge. "A great achievement! I
congratulate you, M. Coquenil. It's the most brilliant coup I have ever
known. It will stir Paris to the depths and make you a--a hero."
"Thank you, thank you," murmured the sick man.
At this moment an awe-struck attendant came forward to say that the baron
wished a word with M. Paul.
"By all means," consented the judge.
Haltingly, on his cane, Coquenil made his way to an adjoining room where
De Heidelmann-Bruck was waiting under guard.
As he glanced at the baron, M. Paul saw that once more the man had
demonstrated his extraordinary self-control, he was cold and composed as
usual.
"We take our medicine, eh?" said the detective admiringly.
"Yes," answered the prisoner, "we take our medicine."
"But there's a difference," reflected Coquenil. "The other day you said you
were sorry when you left me in that hot cellar. Now you're in a fairly hot
place yourself, baron, and--I'm _not_ sorry."
De Heidelmann-Bruck shrugged his shoulders.
"Any objection to my smoking a cigar?" he asked coolly and reached toward
his coat pocket.
With a quick gesture Coquenil stopped the movement.
"_I don't like smoke_," he said with grim meaning. "If there is anything
you want to say, sir, you had better say it."
"I have only this to say, Coquenil," proceeded the baron, absolutely
unruffled; "we had had our little fight and--I have lost. We both did our
best with the weapons we had for the ends we hoped to achieve. I stood for
wickedness, you stood for virtue, and virtue has triumphed; but, between
ourselves"--he smiled and shrugged his shoulders--"they're both only words
and--it isn't important, anyhow."
He paused while a contemplative, elusive smile played about his mouth.
"The point is, I am going to pay the price that society exacts when this
sort of thing is--found out. I am perfectly willing to pay it, not in the
least afraid to pay it, and, above all, not in the least sorry for
anything. I want you to remember that and repeat it. I have no patience
with cowardly canting talk about remorse. I have never for one moment
regretted anything I have done, and I regret nothing now. Nothing! I have
had five years of the best this world can give--power, fortune, social
position, pleasure, _everything_, and whatever I pay, I'm ahead of the
game, way ahead. If I had it all to do over again and knew that this would
be the end, _I would change nothing_."
"Except that secret door under the stone shelf--you might change that," put
in Coquenil dryly.
"No wonder you feel bitter," mused the baron. "It was you or me, and--_I_
showed no pity. Why should you? I want you to believe, though, that I was
genuine when I said I liked you. I was ready to destroy you, but I liked
you. I like you now, Coquenil, and--this is perhaps our last talk, they
will take me off presently, and--you collect odd souvenirs--here is one--a
little good-by--from an adversary who was--game, anyway. You don't mind
accepting it?"
There was something in the man's voice that Coquenil had never heard there.
Was it a faint touch of sentiment? He took the ring that the baron handed
him, an uncut ruby, and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering if, after all,
there was room in this cold, cruel soul for a tiny spot of tenderness.
"It's a beautiful stone, but--I cannot accept it; we never take gifts from
prisoners and--thank you."
He handed back the ring.
The baron's face darkened; he made an angry gesture as if he would dash the
trinket to the floor. Then he checked himself, and studying the ring sadly,
twisted it about in his fingers.
"Ah, that pride of yours! You've been brilliant, you've been brave, but
never unkind before. It's only a bauble, Coquenil, and----"
De Heidelmann-Bruck stopped suddenly and M. Paul caught a savage gleam in
his eyes; then, swiftly, the baron put the ring to his mouth, and sucking
in his breath, swallowed hard.
The detective sprang forward, but it was too late.
"A doctor--quick!" he called to the guard.
"No use!" murmured the rich man, sinking forward.
Coquenil tried to support him, but the body was too heavy for his bandaged
hand, and the prisoner sank to the floor.
"I--I won the last trick, anyhow," the baron whispered as M. Paul bent over
him.
Coquenil picked up the ring that had fallen from a nerveless hand. He put
it to his nose and sniffed it.
"Prussic acid!" he muttered, and turned away from the last horrors.
Two minutes later, when Dr. Duprat rushed in, the Baron de
Heidelmann-Bruck, unafraid and unrepentant, had gone to his last long
sleep. His face was calm, and even in death his lips seemed set in a
mocking smile of triumph.
* * * * *
And so it all ended, as the baron remarked, with virtue rewarded and right
triumphant over wrong. Only the doctors agreed that many a day must pass
before Coquenil could get back to his work, if, indeed, he ever went back
to it. There were reasons, independent of M. Paul's health, that made this
doubtful, reasons connected with the happiness of the lovers, for, after
all, it was to Coquenil that they owed everything; Kittredge owed him his
liberty and established innocence, Alice (we should say Mary) owed him her
memory, her lover, and her fortune; for, as the sole surviving heir of her
mother, the whole vast inheritance came to her. And, when a sweet young
girl finds herself in such serious debt to a man and at the same time one
of the richest heiresses in the world, she naturally wishes to give some
substantial form to her gratitude, even to the extent of a few odd millions
from her limitless store.
At any rate, Coquenil was henceforth far beyond any need of following his
profession; whatever use he might in the future make of his brilliant
talents would be for the sheer joy of conquest and strictly in the spirit
of art for its own sake.
On the other hand, if at any time he wished to undertake a case, it was
certain that the city of Paris or the government of France would tender him
their commissions on a silver salver, for now, of course, his justification
was complete and, by special arrangement, he was given a sort of roving
commission from headquarters with indefinite leave of absence. Best of all,
he was made chevalier of the Legion of Honor "_for conspicuous public
service_." What a day it was, to be sure, when Madam Coquenil first caught
sight of that precious red badge on her son's coat!
So we leave Paul Coquenil resting and recuperating in the Vosges Mountains,
taking long drives with his mother and planning the rebuilding of their
mountain home.
"You did your work, Paul, and I'm proud of you," the old lady said when she
heard the tragic tale, "but don't forget, my boy, it was the hand of God
that saved you."
"Yes, mother," he said fondly, and added with a mischievous smile, "don't
forget that you had a little to do with it, too."
As for the lovers, there is only this to be said: that they were
ridiculously, indescribably happy. The mystery of Alice's strange dreams
and clairvoyant glimpses (it should be Mary) was in great part accounted
for, so Dr. Duprat declared, by certain psychological abnormalities
connected with her loss of memory; these would quickly disappear, he
thought, with a little care and a certain electrical treatment that he
recommended. Lloyd was positive kisses would do the thing just as well; at
any rate, he proposed to give this theory a complete test.
The young American had one grievance.
"It's playing it low on a fellow," he said, "when he's just squared himself
to hustle for a poor candle seller to change her into a howling
millionaire. I'd like to know how the devil I'm going to be a hero now?"
"Silly boy," she laughed, her radiant eyes burning on him, at which he
threatened to begin the treatment forthwith.
"You darling!" he cried. "My little Alice! Hanged if I can _ever_ call you
anything but Alice!"
She looked up at him archly and nestled close.
"Lloyd, dear, I know a nicer name than Alice."
"Yes?"
"A nicer name than Mary."
"Yes?"
"A nicer name than _any_ name."
"What is it, you little beauty?" he murmured, drawing her closer still and
pressing his lips to hers.
"How can I--tell you--unless you--let me--speak?" she panted.
Then, with wonderful dancing lights in those deep, strange windows of her
soul, she whispered: "The nicest name in the world _for me_ is--_Mrs. Lloyd
Kittredge!_"
THE END