in front with a carriage, and the key
of the apartment lay in a sealed envelope on Alan Hawke's table, which
proves that a few francs are just as potent in Switzerland as the same
number of shillings in London, or dollars in New York. It was a clear
case of "stole away."

When Major Alan Hawke leaned over the supper table at the Casino,
pledging Madame Frangipanni's bright eyes in very fair cafe champagne,
he nervously started as he heard the wailing whistle and clanging bells
of the through train for Constance. He forgot the faded complexion,
the worn face, the chemically tinted hair and haggard eyes of the
broken-down Austrian blonde concert singer, in the exhilaration of
Berthe Louison's departure.

For he had not lost Professor Casimir Wieniawski from sight a moment
since the hour of ten, and that "distinguished noble refugee" was now
in a maudlin way, murmuring perfunctory endearments in the ear of the
ex-prima donna, who tenderly gazed upon him in a proprietary manner.
Alan Hawke had judged it well to ply the champagne, and, at the witching
hour of midnight, he critically inspected Casimir's condition. "He
is probably about tipsy enough now to tell all he knows, and, with an
acquired truthfulness. I will, therefore, bring this festive occasion
to a close." Whereat the watchful Lucullus of the feast artfully drew
Madame Frangipanni aside.

"I have to go on to London, Chere Comtesse," he flatteringly said, "you
must give me Casimir for a couple of hours to-night, to talk over the
old times."

He lingered a moment, hat in hand, as he chivalrously sent Madame
Frangipanni home in a carriage. The poor old singer's bosom was thrilled
with a sunset glow of departing greatness, as she lingered tearfully
that night over the memories of the halcyon days when the officers of
Francis Joseph's bodyguard had fought for the honors of the carriage
courtesies of the Diva. Eheu fugaces!

Closeted together, the minor guests having been artfully dispersed,
Major Alan Hawke and his friend recalled the olden glories of
Wieniawski's Indian tour. It was with a jealous hand that Hawke doled
out the cognac, until Casimir abruptly said: "And now, mon ami, tell me
what has linked you to Alixe Delavigne?" Alan Hawke had keenly studied
his man, and found that the limit of the artist's drinking capacity
seemed to be infinity, and so he leaned back and coldly scrutinized the
musician's shabby exterior. "I think that I can risk it now," he