"Hell and furies!" he cried, "the whole world is leagued against
me. I've got to go back to India now, Justine, and go alone. Luck
is dead against me now." And the whitening face of the woman who
hung on his every glance made the infuriated man even more reckless.
"Damn them, I'll grind them all to powder!" he growled. For the
tide was on the turn, and it was dead water again at Geneva, the
tide fast receding, and the man who was "a devil for luck" was soon
left on the rocks of a silent despair.
Alan Hawke's eyes gleamed out with a murderous sheen as he scanned
both letters carefully. "It is his work--the low dog--and he shall
die. Wait till Jack Blunt and I get a hack at him," he mused,
with a sudden conviction that he dared not now show himself at St.
Heliers, nor openly approach the Banker's Folly. "I stand to lose
all and win nothing. I must work in the dark. I cannot dare to
brave this Anstruther. They would simply drive me from India. But,
Simpson and Ram Lal shall pay! And, Berthe Louison--Ah! By God! I
will strike her to the heart now! I see the way!"
The official words of Captain Anstruther were few but crushing in
there stern brevity. And Alan Hawke's heart sank as he read them over
again. "By the orders of His Excellency, the Viceroy, I have the
honor to inform you that he has withdrawn your temporary rank, and
all powers heretofore delegated to you will cease on the receipt
of this letter, which please acknowledge.
Pages:
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397