Cor d'Abondance."

A loving letter from Justine Delande inclosed a notice of a registered
letter waiting at the Agence du Credit Lyonnais, Geneva. It is marked
"Tres Important," she wrote, and then added: "I have received a
letter from Nadine, who says that her guardian is now half crazy with
excitement over the finishing of his 'History of Thibet, and Memoir Upon
the Lost Ten Tribes,' for he has an Indian visitor of princely rank, and
he even proposes to take this Prince Djiddin and his 'Moonshee' into the
house, so as to shut the world out from the wonderful disclosures of the
only visitor of rank who ever left Thibet."

Alan Hawke's brow was gloomy when he read the last letter, which was
a brief note from Captain Anstruther, informing him that his final
instructions would be forwarded "in a week." The ominous silence of
"Madame Berthe Louison," the living lie of her pretended visit to
Russia, the trick of the letters sent on from Jitomir to his Parisian
address, now only confirmed his jealous rage.

"They are living in a fool's paradise together, this dapper aide and the
wily woman, hiding in England! One has betrayed me, and the other will
now coldly abandon me! I'll soon raise a hornets' nest about their
ears!" So, with a simple telegraphed word "coming," dispatched to
"Joseph Smith," he sped on to Geneva from his "Leipsic defeat" at
Berlin, but only to meet a ghastly "Waterloo" at the Grand Hotel
National. He had ordered the letters from the Hotel Faucon to be sent on
there to Miss Justine, and when he had freed himself from her clasping
arms he read a curt official note from the Viceroy's aid-de-camp which
left him livid in a paroxysm of fury. On his way from the station he had
only stopped long enough at the Agence du Credit Lyonnais to receive an
official-looking document. "My accounts, I presume," he had muttered,
thrusting them in his pocket. But, when he had read Captain Anstruther's
formal note, he tore open the letter of the great French Banking
Company. The two letters curtly illustrated the old saw, that "it never
rains, but it pours!" With a fluttering heart poor Justine Delande
watched her undeclared lover's blackening face.

"Hell and furies!" he cried, "the whole world is leagued against me.
I've got to go back to India now, Justine, and go alone. Luck is dead
against me now." And the whitening face of the woman who hung on his
every glance made the infuriated man even more reckless. "Damn them,