A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must enter, and passing 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 glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a shiver 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.
No sooner had the guard heard that she came with a note from M. Paul Coquenil (that was a name to conjure with) than he showed her politely to a small waiting room, assuring her that the note would be given at once to the director of the prison. And a few moments later another door opened and a hard-faced, low-browed man of heavy build bowed to her with a crooked, sinister smile and motioned her into his private office. It was M. Dedet, the chief jailer.
"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.
"Don't you know you did?" he demanded.
"I—I wasn't thinking," she pleaded in fright.
He stared at her for a moment, then he went to his desk, picked up a printed form, filled it out quickly and handed it to her.
"There," he said, and his voice was almost gentle, "I guess I don't quite understand about this thing."
Alice looked at the paper blankly. "But—what is it?" she asked.
The jailer closed one eye very slowly with a wise nod. "It's what you asked for, a permit to see this American prisoner, by special order."
Chapter XIII.
Lloyd and Alice
Kittredge was fortunate in having a sense of humor, it helped him through the horrors of his first night at the depot, which he passed with the scum of Paris streets, thieves, beggars, vagrants, the miserable crop of Saturday-night police takings, all herded into one foul room on filthy bunks so close together that a turn either way brought a man into direct contact with his neighbor.
Lloyd lay between an old pickpocket and a drunkard. He did not sleep, but passed the hours thinking. And when he could think no longer, he listened to the pickpocket who was also wakeful, and who told wonderful yarns of his conquests among the fair sex in the time of the Commune, when he was a strapping artilleryman.
"You're a pretty poor pickpocket, old chap," reflected Kittredge, "but you're an awful good liar!"
In spite of little sleep, he was serene and good-natured when they took him, handcuffed, before Judge Hauteville the next morning for his preliminary examination—a mere formality to establish the prisoner's identity. Kittredge gave the desired facts about himself with perfect willingness; his age, nationality, occupation, and present address. He realized that there was no use hiding these. When asked if he had money to employ a lawyer, he said "no"; and when told that the court would assign Maître Pleindeaux for his defense, he thanked the judge and went off smiling at the thought that his interests were now in the hands of Mr. Full-of-Water. "I'll ask him to have a drink," chuckled Kittredge.
And he submitted uncomplainingly when they took him to the Bertillon measuring department and stood him up against the wall, bare as a babe, arms extended, and noted down his dimensions one by one, every limb and feature being precisely described in length and breadth, every physical peculiarity recorded, down to the impression of his thumb lines and the precise location of a small mole on his left arm.
All this happened Sunday morning, and in the afternoon other experiences awaited him—his first ride in a prison van, known as a panier à salade, and his initiation into real prison life at the Santé. The cell he took calmly, as well as the prison dress and food and the hard bed, for he had known rough camping in the Maine woods and was used to plain fare, but he winced a little at the regulation once a week prison shave, and the regulation bath once a month! And what disturbed him chiefly was the thought that now he would have absolutely nothing to do but sit in his cell and wait wearily for the hours to pass. Prisoners under sentence may be put to work, but one au secret is shut up not only from the rest of the world, but even from his fellow-prisoners. He is utterly alone.
"Can't I have a pack of cards?" asked Lloyd with a happy inspiration.
"Against the rule," said the guard.
"But I know some games of solitaire. I never could see what they were invented for until now. Let me have part of a pack, just enough to play old-maid solitaire. Ever heard of that?"
The