If the Viceroy returns to England,
my promotion will probably carry me with his Embassy to Paris as
Major and Military Attache." And then they parted as mere casual
acquaintances.
"Damn his cool impertinence," mused Alan Hawke, as he caught a
passing cab, after telegraphing his greetings and intended departure
to Justine Delande.
"Write one letter to Hotel Binda, Paris, then all to the P. & O.
Agency, Brindisi; after that, to Delhi," were the lying words which
reached the Swiss woman, whose loving breast was now given over to
a tumult of sighs.
Major Hawke was not free from secret apprehensions until he landed
at Calais, upon the next morning. "Now for a last 'throw off' at
Paris!" he exclaimed. "Damn England! I hope I shall never see it
again!" he growled, unmindful of the pitiless Fates ever spinning
the mysterious web of Destiny. "I'll first show up at Berthe
Louison's, at No. 9 Rue Berlioz. They shall have my next address
given to them as Delhi. The real Major Hawke dives under the troubled
sea of Life at Paris, only to emerge at Calcutta! Ram Lal is like
all his kind, a coward at heart! He has not denounced me, for, if
he had, Captain Anstruther would have nabbed me in England. He
acts by the Viceroy's private cabled orders. No! The coast is all
clear for my dash at the enemy's works!"
Before the morning dawned on the sea-girt coast of La Manche, Marie
Victor had duly telegraphed Major Hawke's impending departure for
India to the beautiful recluse who now cheered the lonely bride of
"the Moonshee," at the old Norman chateau, embowered in its splendid
gardens, within a league of the Banker's Folly.
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