d 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.

[Illustration: "'Did you write this?'"]

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 Com