th, and the
tender-hearted one whose heart was glowing at Lausanne in all the fervor
of her unrequited devotion. Over Alan Hawke, sleeping there, as he
was swiftly borne away, hovered, in sad regret, his good angel, with
sorrowing eyes, for the stern, self-accusing man had not sought, in the
last hours of this sorrow, even the poor consolation that his life had
been wrecked to feed the fires of vanity burning in the jaded heart
of the beautiful Faustine, whose cold desertion had sold his youth to
shame!

Twenty-four hours later Major Alan Hawke was again a stormy petrel on
Life's trackless ocean. The cold politeness of Captain Anson Anstruther
at the brief interview at the Junior United Service Club in London at
once decided the wanderer to make for India as soon as his "pressing
engagements" would allow. There was no seeming menace, however, in
Anstruther's wearied air of perfunctory courtesy.

"The whole affair being officially dropped, Major Hawke," said
Anstruther, "I only ask for your personal receipt for my individual
check. You will observe that this eleven hundred pounds is not in any
way government funds. And, on behalf of the Viceroy himself, I thank
you for your energy shown in the inquiry, which is now permanently
abandoned." To Major Hawke's murmured request, Anstruther replied:

"Certainly! Drive around to Grindlay's in Parliament Street with me and
they will at once give you notes or their own circular check for this
money." In ten minutes, when Hawke had lightly announced his intention
to return to India, the Captain observed: "I may not meet you for some
years. If the Viceroy returns to England, my promotion will probably
carry me with his Embassy to Paris as Major and Military Attache." And
then they parted as mere casual acquaintances.

"Damn his cool impertinence," mused Alan Hawke, as he caught a passing
cab, after telegraphing his greetings and intended departure to Justine
Delande.

"Write one letter to Hotel Binda, Paris, then all to the P. & O. Agency,
Brindisi; after that, to Delhi," were the lying words which reached
the Swiss woman, whose loving breast was now given over to a tumult of
sighs.

Major Hawke was not free from secret apprehensions until he landed at
Calais, upon the next morning. "Now for a last 'throw off' at Paris!"
he exclaimed. "Damn England! I hope I shall never see it again!" he
growled, unmindful of the pitiless Fates ever spinning the mysterious
web of Destiny. "I