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