It would be just like
this old brute to spirit the girl away to baffle Madame Berthe
Louison. That is, if he dare not kill or intimidate her. And that
I must look to. I think that I see my way to that girl's side now.
God, what a pot of money she will have!"
When Alan Hawke had finished his boldly warm letter to Euphrosyne,
he sealed it and sent it to the post by Ram Lal's footman. The
world looked very bright to him as, enjoying a capital cheroot, he
studied for a half hour a wall map of India. "There's a half dozen
ways to spirit her out of the Land of the Pagoda Tree. I must watch
and trust to Justine. To-night I may or may not know what this
devil of a Berthe Louison is up to. Will she try to take the girl
away? That would be fatal."
"Hardly--hardly," he decided, as he mixed a brandy pawnee. He
gazed around at Ram Lal's sanctum, in which the old usurer received
the Europeans whom he fleeced in his nipoy-lending operations. "A
pretty snug joint. Many a hundred pounds have I dropped here." It
was neatly furnished forth with service magazines, London papers,
army lists, and all the accessories of a London money-lender's
den. When the receipt for his registered letter was laid away
in his pocket-book, Alan Hawke calmly ordered his carriage. "I'll
take a brush around town and show them that I am out of all these
intrigues," he decided. It was six hours later when he drew up at
the Club, having passed Madame Berthe Louison's splendid turnout
swinging down the Chandnee Chouk.
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