Alan Hawke, closely shaven, and masquerading in a French commis-voyageur's
modest garb, was seated at ease in Etienne Garcin's death-trap at
the Cor d'Abundance, in foggy Granville. His darkened locks and
nondescript garb thoroughly effaced the "officer and gentleman."
One of the old French villain's wickedest and prettiest woman decoys
was coquettishly serving Hawke's breakfast as he read the burning
words of Justine Delande's message from the heart. The last greeting,
tear-blotted, and promptly sent to the Hotel Binda.
"It's a wild day, a wild-looking place, and a wild enough sea,"
grumbled Major Hawke, gazing out of the grimy window at the rolling
green surges breaking, white-capped, far out beyond the new pier,
where the black cannon were drenched and crusted with the salty
flying scud. Far away, a little side-wheel steamer was laboring
along over the strait from the blue island of Jersey, rising and
dipping half out of sight, with a trail of intermittent puffs of
dense black smoke.
"There is the enemy's stronghold, and now for Jack Blunt's plan
of campaign! I wonder if he'll come over to-day, or to-morrow? He
must have had my telegram last night!" Alan Hawke amused himself
with the bold, black-eyed French girl's vicious stories of olden
deeds done there in Etienne Garcin's gloomy spider's den. He even
laughed when the red-bodiced she-devil laughingly pointed down at
the loosened floor-planks in the back room, underneath which mantrap
the swish of the throbbing waves could be heard.
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