uison's cozy private compartment. "To-morrow at Delhi, if Douglas
Fraser is true to his trust, there will be the message which tells of a
'bark upon the sea,' which bears away forever all the brightness of
your life--away from you, yes, forever! And Hawke, this smart cad, is
powerless now, and both of them are outwitted. The Baronetcy is safe the
very moment that Abercromby's work is done. I've paid Hawke now, and
he has been very naturally brought down here, out of the way. Madame!
Madame! Now to settle accounts with you the very moment that Abercromby
has reported back from Calcutta. I think I will just have a good
old-fashioned talk with Ram Lal Singh. I need his evidence to hoodwink
this old cask of grog, Abercromby. I must blow off' his vanity in great
style."

While Berthe Louison slept, while old Hugh Johnstone plotted, while Ram
Lal Singh fumed at Delhi, and Harry Hardwicke "mourned the hopes that
left him," Major Alan Hawke retired to the Nirvana of a long afternoon
siesta. There was a little departing detachment on this golden afternoon
at Madras--two frightened women, now gladly seeking the shelter of their
cabins, as the fleet steamer Coomassie Castle turned her prow toward
Palk Strait. The terrible ordeal of "passing the surf" had appalled
them, and the exhausted Nadine Johnstone at last fell asleep with her
arms clasped around her sad-hearted governess. A hundred times had they
read over together the old nabob's telegram: "Going home from Calcutta
to settle the Baronetcy appointment. Will meet you in Europe." Nadine's
letter from her stern father bade her implicitly trust to her new-found
kinsman, Douglas Fraser. The old nabob's judiciously private letter had
filled Justine Delande's sad heart with one twilight glow of happiness.
A comforting cheque for one thousand pounds was contained therein.

The words: "Your salary and expenses will be paid by me in Europe. This
is only a little present. Another may await you and your sister, if
you fulfill your trust, that no man, not even Douglas Fraser, meets my
daughter alone until you give her back to me. He is but my traveling
agent. Nadine is in your hands alone. I have so written to her." With
a breaking heart Justine Delande kissed her beloved gage d'amour, the
diamond bracelet, murmuring: "Alan! Alan! To part without even a word!"
She lay with tear-stained eyes, watching the low shores of Madras fade
away, and listened to the sleeping girl's murmur: "Harry!