ll, 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