"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 you might have some—er—some fancy about it. If you ever should have, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"
"Ye-es." She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but she checked the impulse, if it was there, and Coquenil did not press his demand.
"There's one other thing," he went on reassuringly. "I'm asking this in the interest of M. Kittredge. Tell me if you know anything about this crime of which he is accused?"
"Why, no," she replied with evident sincerity. "I haven't even read the papers."
"But you know who was murdered?"
Alice shook her head blankly. "How could I? No one has told me."
"It was a man named Martinez."