e hand in my collection; it is
the hand of a man who lived nearly two hundred years ago. He was one of the
greatest criminals the world has ever known."

"Really?" cried Alice, her eyes wide with sudden fright. "I--I must have
been mistaken."

But now the detective's curiosity was aroused. "Would you mind telling me
the name of the person--of course it's a man--who has this hand?"

"Yes," said Alice, "it's a man, but I should not like to give his name
after what you have told me."

"He is a good man?"

"Oh, yes."

"A kind man?"

"Yes."

"A man that you like?"

"Why--er--why, yes, I like him," she replied, but the detective noticed a
strange, anxious look in her eyes. And immediately he changed the subject.

"You'll have a cup of tea with me, won't you? I've asked Melanie to bring
it in. Then we can talk comfortably. By the way, you haven't told me your
name."

"My name is Alice Groener," she answered simply.

"Groener," he reflected. "That isn't a French name?"

"No, my family lived in Belgium, but I have only a cousin left. He is a
wood carver, in Brussels. He has been very kind to me and would pay my
board with the Bonnetons, but I don't want to be a burden, so I work at the
church."

"I see," he said approvingly.

The girl was seated in the full light, and as they talked, Coquenil
observed her attentively, noting the pleasant tones of her voice and the
charming lights in her eyes, studying her with a personal as well as a
professional interest; for was not this the young woman who had so suddenly
and so unaccountably influenced his life? Who was she, what was she, this
dreaming candle seller? In spite of her shyness and modest ways, she was
brave and strong of will, that was evident, and, plain dress or not, she
looked the aristocrat every inch of her. Where did she get that unconscious
air of quiet poise, that trick of the lifted chin? And how did she learn to
use her hands like a great lady?

"Would you mind telling me something, mademoiselle?" he said suddenly.

Alice looked at him in surprise, and again he remarked, as he had at
Notre-Dame, the singular beauty of her wondering dark eyes.

"What is it?"

"Have you any idea how you happened to dream that dream about me?"

The girl shrank away trembling. "No one can explain dreams, can they?" she
asked anxiously, and it seemed to him that her emotion was out of all
proportion to its cause.

"I suppose not," he answered kindly. "I thought