"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.