Courage and craft had not failed him, for
already Douglas Fraser was speeding on to Delhi from Calcutta, the
sole occupant of a special train. In the long vigil of the night,
Hugh Johnstone had evolved a plan to ward off the blow of the sword
of Fate! But watchfully silent he awaited his enemy's conversational
attack.
"Damn her! I will outwit her yet!" he silently swore.
"Before you give me your answer, Hugh Fraser," said the calm-voiced
woman, "I wish to tell you again what, in your mad jealousy, you
would not believe. I swear to you that Pierre Troubetskoi's letter,
written to my dead sister, was written in ignorance of her marriage
with you. The frightful scenes of the carnage of Paris had tossed
us to and fro, and the careless destruction of the envelope, addressed
to my sister under her maiden name, prevented me from proving her
innocence as a wife. Pierre Troubetskoi had long known my father,
who had been an attache in Russia. He was Valerie's knightly suitor.
And he fell into the estates which now burden me with wealth, while
absent upon the Czar's secret affairs. My gallant old father was
sacrificed to the frenzy of the time; his soldier's face betrayed
him, his rosette of the Legion doomed him, Troubetskoi's letter
to our father demanding Valerie's hand was returned to the writer,
through the Russian Legation, a year later, after the reorganization
of the Paris Post-office.
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