'll first show up at Berthe Louison's, at No. 9 Rue
Berlioz. They shall have my next address given to them as Delhi. The
real Major Hawke dives under the troubled sea of Life at Paris, only to
emerge at Calcutta! Ram Lal is like all his kind, a coward at heart!
He has not denounced me, for, if he had, Captain Anstruther would have
nabbed me in England. He acts by the Viceroy's private cabled orders.
No! The coast is all clear for my dash at the enemy's works!"

Before the morning dawned on the sea-girt coast of La Manche, Marie
Victor had duly telegraphed Major Hawke's impending departure for
India to the beautiful recluse who now cheered the lonely bride of "the
Moonshee," at the old Norman chateau, embowered in its splendid gardens,
within a league of the Banker's Folly.

Alan Hawke, closely shaven, and masquerading in a French
commis-voyageur's modest garb, was seated at ease in Etienne Garcin's
death-trap at the Cor d'Abundance, in foggy Granville. His darkened
locks and nondescript garb thoroughly effaced the "officer and
gentleman." One of the old French villain's wickedest and prettiest
woman decoys was coquettishly serving Hawke's breakfast as he read the
burning words of Justine Delande's message from the heart. The last
greeting, tear-blotted, and promptly sent to the Hotel Binda.

"It's a wild day, a wild-looking place, and a wild enough sea," grumbled
Major Hawke, gazing out of the grimy window at the rolling green surges
breaking, white-capped, far out beyond the new pier, where the black
cannon were drenched and crusted with the salty flying scud. Far away,
a little side-wheel steamer was laboring along over the strait from
the blue island of Jersey, rising and dipping half out of sight, with a
trail of intermittent puffs of dense black smoke.

"There is the enemy's stronghold, and now for Jack Blunt's plan of
campaign! I wonder if he'll come over to-day, or to-morrow? He must have
had my telegram last night!" Alan Hawke amused himself with the bold,
black-eyed French girl's vicious stories of olden deeds done there
in Etienne Garcin's gloomy spider's den. He even laughed when
the red-bodiced she-devil laughingly pointed down at the loosened
floor-planks in the back room, underneath which mantrap the swish of the
throbbing waves could be heard.

Then the sheeted, cold driving rain hid the promontory, with its
heavy, lumpy-looking fort, the old gray granite parish church, and the
clustered ships of the