The two wary
strangers strolled along until they found a retired corner. Madame
Louison seated herself, waving her lace parasol with the impatient
gesture of one accustomed to command.
Alan Hawke was in no gentle humor, and his cheeks reddened as he
felt the calm scrutiny of the woman's searching glances. He was
now determined to take the whip hand, and to keep it. His accents
were staccato as he said, "Tell me now who you are, and what
you wish of me!" A clock, hung high over them on the dreary, drab
walls, ticked away brusquely, as the angered woman gazed steadily
into his face.
"And so your little windfall of last night has already made you
impudent? If you cannot find another tone at once, I will find
another agent! The man whom you plucked has told me the story of
your wonderful skill at cards!" The sneer cut the renegade like a
whip lash, and Alan Hawke sprang up in anger. Madame Berthe Louison
coolly settled herself down into the red cushions.
"The way to India is before you, but five hundred pounds is not
a fortune for Major Alan Hawke! Listen! I watched you carefully
yesterday, in your vigil upon Rousseau's Island. Your telltale face
betrayed you. You were left stranded here in Geneva. An accident
has brought us together. You cannot divine my motives. I can fathom
yours easily. Tell me now, of yourself, of your past in India--of
your present standing there.
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