The maid was in waiting on the circular place in front with
a carriage, and the key of the apartment lay in a sealed envelope
on Alan Hawke's table, which proves that a few francs are just as
potent in Switzerland as the same number of shillings in London,
or dollars in New York. It was a clear case of "stole away."
When Major Alan Hawke leaned over the supper table at the Casino,
pledging Madame Frangipanni's bright eyes in very fair cafe champagne,
he nervously started as he heard the wailing whistle and clanging
bells of the through train for Constance. He forgot the faded
complexion, the worn face, the chemically tinted hair and haggard
eyes of the broken-down Austrian blonde concert singer, in the
exhilaration of Berthe Louison's departure.
For he had not lost Professor Casimir Wieniawski from sight a moment
since the hour of ten, and that "distinguished noble refugee" was
now in a maudlin way, murmuring perfunctory endearments in the ear
of the ex-prima donna, who tenderly gazed upon him in a proprietary
manner. Alan Hawke had judged it well to ply the champagne, and,
at the witching hour of midnight, he critically inspected Casimir's
condition. "He is probably about tipsy enough now to tell all he
knows, and, with an acquired truthfulness. I will, therefore, bring
this festive occasion to a close." Whereat the watchful Lucullus
of the feast artfully drew Madame Frangipanni aside.
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