He
is but my traveling agent. Nadine is in your hands alone. I have
so written to her." With a breaking heart Justine Delande kissed
her beloved gage d'amour, the diamond bracelet, murmuring: "Alan!
Alan! To part without even a word!" She lay with tear-stained eyes,
watching the low shores of Madras fade away, and listened to the
sleeping girl's murmur: "Harry! Harry! I owe you my life!" Even the
maid mourned a dashing Sergeant-Major! With a desperate courage,
trying to fan the spark of love, which had slowly crept into her
lonely heart, Justine Delande had timidly bribed a stewardess,
going on shore for some last commissions, to telegraph to the secret
address at Allahabad the words: "Madras steamer Coomassie Castle,
Brindisi."
The signature, "Your Justine," brought a grim smile to Alan Hawke's
face, the next night, when on the arrival of General Abercromby, he
stationed Hugh Johnstone's secret spies on duty with the redoubtable
Calcutta warrior. "By God! She is both game and true!" cried Hawke.
"Here is my fortune, and Justine shall share my spoils yet!" As the
special train rolled out into the starlit night the old nabob, in
a paroxysm of delight, read in the marble house words telegraphed
by the happy-hearted Douglas Fraser, now taking up his endless deck
tramp on the Brindisi bound steamer. The young Scotsman, ignorant
of all intrigue, was relieved to know that he had laid the firm
foundation of his future fortunes.
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