away, for it was a mysterious malady—when a sudden alarm brought me to my senses. My secret society work was done, and yet I lingered there, at the very steps of the scaffold. Alixe Delavigne burst into my room at midnight.
“ ‘Hasten!’ she cried. ‘Even now the Cossacks are surrounding the house!’ She let me out through the secret passage of the old Chateau. A cloak was thrown over me by the Intendant. He was a Pole—and one true to the old blood. Alixe pressed a purse upon me. An address in Paris was whispered. ‘I will write! Go! For Valerie’s sake, go!’
“Forty-eight hours later I crossed the Galician frontier at Lemberg disguised as a Polish peasant. My guardian, the Intendant, turned me over to our friends in the valley of the Styr. After six months of wandering, I finally reached Paris in safety. There were sorrowful letters awaiting me. Valerie was hidden forever in the yawning tombs of the gloomy old chapel of Jitomir, and Alixe herself wrote of Pierre Troubetlskoi’s generous blinding of the pursuit. I was, however, prosecuted and hunted. I fled to America, for all our plans of revolt were miserably wrecked—and by Polish traitors!
“Two years later, I learned from a fellow refugee that Pierre Troubetskoi had been killed by accident in a great forest battle. And to Alixe Delavigne, all the wealth which would have been Valerie’s was left by the lion-hearted man who awoke too late to the early doom of his beloved.
“I knew naught of the family history save that the sisters were the daughters of Colonel Delavigne, a gallant French officer, who was murdered by the Communists in seventy-one.” Alan Hawke was now sternly eyeing the musician, who abruptly concluded: “I have never met Alixe Delavigne since. I dare not return to Poland. My own course has been steadily downward, and, beyond knowing that she still possesses the splendid domains of Jitomir, we are strangers to each other. Polish refugees have told me that she has always administered the vast estate with liberal kindness to all. And now you will tell me of her?” The tremulous hand of Wieniawski raised a brimming glass of brandy to his lips. He stared about vacantly when Hawke said:
“Madame Delavigne left Lausanne this evening on a special mission. Her life is a sealed book to all, and a mere business interest has drawn us together.” The Englishman went callously on: “There are a couple of mountainously rich American girls coming down here to-morrow at nine o’clock to spend the day at Chillon with me. I need a running mate. Will you then meet me at the Montreux Landing? You can have a day off, and these young fools are fat pigeons, ardent, and enthusiastic.” Hawke saw the hesitation on the man’s face.
“You can say to Madame Frangipanni that you are with me and that I will explain later at the dinner.” With a glance at his watch, Alan Hawke rang for the Oberkellner. He was extending his hand in goodnight, when the refugee cried imploringly, “I must see her once more! Tell me of her journey!” and Major Hawke deliberately lied to the poor vaurien artist, the wreck of his better self. “The through train to Paris is her only address. I presume that Madame Delavigne will spend some time in a sanitarium after this heart attack, and she has my banker’s address. It is only through them that we meet to arrange some affairs of business. Whether maid, wife, or widow, I know not, for you know what women are—sealed books to their enemies, and to their husbands and lovers—only enigmas!
“But fail not to meet me. I’ll give you a pleasant day. You will find the two Americans both gushing and susceptible.” Then as Major Alan Hawke stepped lightly away to the sedately closed Hotel Faucon, Casimir Wieniawski staggered back into the cafe.
His fit of passionate sorrow was brief, for in a half hour he was the king of a mad revel, where his meaner sycophants divided Alan Hawke’s bounty. The cool Major strode along happy hearted to his rest, quietly revolving the plan of campaign.
“There was then a sealed chapter in Valerie Troubetskoi’s life. And the key of that is in Berthe Louison’s keeping. Now, my fair employer, it is diamond cut diamond. I think that I have done a fair day’s work.” And he thanked his lucky stars for the precipitate flight of his mysterious employer. “She evidently feared the noble Casimir following upon the trail. Strange—strange pathways! Strange footprints on the sands of Time! It is a devilish funny world, but, after all, the best that we have any authentic account of.” And so he slept the sleep of the just, for he was making the woes of others the cornerstones of his newer fortunes.
Major Hawke arose with the lark, by a previous arrangement with the Hotel Bureau. His face was eminently businesslike in its gravity, as he summoned the porter and dispatched all his luggage to the care of the Chef du Gare, Geneva. “Business of extreme importance awaiting upon Madame’s complete recovery had caused her to depart to consult an eminent specialist. Thank you, there will be no letters,” said the Major, as he pocketed both receipted bills. He amused himself while watching for the morning boat, as the mountain mists, lifting, revealed the glittering lake, in sending a very carefully sketched letter to Mademoiselle Euphrosyne Delande, No. 123 Rue du Rhone, Geneva. This letter was of such moment that it went on to London, to be posted back duly stamped with good Queen Victoria’s likeness. A very careful Major!
The lofty semi-official tone, in which the writer spoke of a possible return to India “under the auspices of the Foreign Office,” was well calculated to fill the spinster’s bosom with the flattering unction that a mighty protector had been raised up for the adventurous Justine, now supposed to be environed with all the glittering snares of society, as well as enveloped in the mystic jungle.
A week later, when Euphrosyne Delande laid down the pen and abandoned her unfinished “Lecture Upon the Influence of the Allobroges, Romans, Provencal Franks, Burgundians, and Germans Upon the Intellectual Development of Geneva,” she read Alan Hawke’s letter with a thrill of secret pride.
The smooth adventurer had written: “If I have the future pleasure of meeting Mademoiselle Justine Delande I only hope to find a resemblance to her charming and distinguished sister. As my movements are necessarily secret, pray write only in the utmost confidence to Mademoiselle Justine. I hope to soon return and enjoy once more the hospitalities of your intellectual circle.” The address given for India was “Bombay Club.” Miss Euphrosyne gazed up at the stony lineaments of Professor Delande, her marble-browed and flinty-hearted sire, locked in the cold chill of a steel engraving. He was as neutral as the busts of Buffon, Cuvier, Laplace, Humboldt, and Pestalozzi, which coldly furnished forth her sanctum. She thought of the eloquent eyed young Major and sadly sighed. She proceeded to enshrine him in her withered heart, and then wrote a crossed letter of many tender underlinings to her distant sister. And thus the pathway was made very smooth for the artful wanderer, who had already stepped upon the decks of the Sepoy.
Major Hawke had dispatched an excellent breakfast before he stepped into the carriage to be whirled away to Montreux. His bridges were burned behind him. There was not a vestige of Madame Berthe Louison left to give the needy Pole a clue. “They are separated, and Anstruther and the Swiss schoolmistress are harmless. I have only my play to make upon the lovely Justine, and to retake up my old friendship with Hugh Fraser. Then I am ready to bit by bit unravel the story of Valerie Delavigne’s child—the Veiled Rose of Delhi.”
“Between a father with a secret to keep, and this strange woman with a purpose, there is a pretty girl and a vast fortune at issue, besides the prospective pickings of Madame Berthe Louison.” These musings of the Major led him up to the question of his employer’s false name, as he swept down to the nearby Montreux station. “She evidently had traced the child to Switzerland, and was upon a still hunt to find out the home of the growing heiress, and—for what purpose? Ah! One day after another,” he pleasantly exclaimed, as he saw the artist awaiting him. “Peu apeu I’oiseau fait son nid.” He had already evolved a scheme to permanently separate Casimir Wieniawski from his own beautiful employer, who was now dashing along well on her way toward Munich. Alan Hawke was startled at the distinguished appearance of the musician. An aristocratic pallor refined his face, he was neatly booted and gloved, the elegant lines of the Pole’s supple figure were displayed in a morning frock coat, and his chapeau de soie was virginal in its gloss.
“Some of my own twenty pounds,” mused Alan Hawke, as he gayly sprang out and saluted his dupe. “Ah! There you are. You look to-day the old Casimir. Let us have a few