o be Alixe Delavigne to one bright, loving human soul only, in
this land of arid solitudes, of peopled wastes. The land of the worn,
scarred human nature, which, blind, creedless, and hopeless, staggers
along under the burden of misery under the menace of the British
bayonet."

"When do you leave it?" quietly asked the cautious Major.

"When my work is done!" the resolute woman replied. "I am here for peace
or war! We have only crossed swords! I do not trust this man a moment!
He is capable of any foul deed! Now, you must keenly watch the clubs,
the social life. Find out all you can! Come to me here every night at
ten. If I suddenly need you, then I will send Ram Lal!"

"By day or night I am ready!" gravely said Major Hawke. "I do not like
to intrude upon you," he hesitatingly said.

"You will win your spurs yet in my service!" said Alixe. "The real
struggle is to come yet. I am only knocking at the door of Nadine's
heart. And the old nabob is but half conquered."

Major Hawke, with a bow, retired and wended his way to the Club, where
he spent an hour in preparing a careful letter to Euphrosyne Delande.
It was a careful document, intended to prudently open communication with
Justine through the Halls of Learning on the Rue du Rhone, Geneva, but
a little sealed inclosure to Justine was the grain of gold in all the
complimentary chaff. "Her own heart, poor girl, will tell her what to
do," said Hawke, as he departed and registered the letter himself.

The passing cortege of General Abercromby, returning the visit of the
local chief, excited Hawke's attention. He caught a glimpse of the
silver-haired millionaire whom two widely different natures had
denounced that day as "being capable of anything."

"And so old Ram Lal has it 'in for him,' too! What can he mean?"

With a sudden impulse Major Hawke drove back and made a formal call upon
the ladies at the Marble House. He was astounded when old Simpson, with
a grudging welcome, openly announced that the ladies were permanently
not at home. "Gone to the hills for a month or two," curtly replied
the veteran servant, and then, on a silver tray, the butler decorously
handed to Major Alan Hawke a sealed letter. "I was to seek you out at
the Club, sir, as this letter is important. I take the liberty to give
it to you now. It was the master's orders: 'That I give it into your own
hands!'"

Major Alan Hawke's face darkened as he read the curt lines penned by
Hugh Johnstone