"Has your wife ever had a previous heart attack?" he
gravely asked, as he opened his lancet case. Major Hawke shook his
head, and gazed pityingly upon the beautiful pallid face before
him.
"Can I be of any use to Monsieur?" demanded the chef d'orchestre
in evening grand tenue, his baton still in his hand.
There was a glance of wondering astonishment as the Englishman faced
the speaker. "Wieniawski--Casimir, you here?" The other dropped his
voice as the physician ripped up the sleeve of the patient's gown.
"Major Hawke, I thought you were still in Delhi? Your wife--"
faltered the artist, as he listened to a low moan when the lancet
blade entered the ivory arm of the sufferer. Then, with a backward
step, he pressed his hands to his brows. "My God! It is Alixe
Delavigne!" he brokenly said. But Hawke sprang to his side and
quickly drew him from the room.
"Not a word! Not a single word to any one! Where are you stopping?
I will come to you tonight!" the excited man sternly said, his firm
hand still clutching the musician's arm.
"Here, at the Casino! Come in after ten! I will await you! But
where did you meet her?" the Polish violinist cried, speaking as
if in a dream.
"You shall know all later! I must get her to the hotel!" He returned
to the physician's side, who authoritatively cried, "Now an easy
carriage and to the Faucon, you said?" In half an hour, Berthe
Louison was sleeping, a nurse at her side, while Alan Hawke counted
the moments crawling on till ten o'clock.
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