He now felt that he lived but only in the past. At night,
he labored alone till the wee sma' hours, depositing his precious
manuscript in a secret hiding-place, where he now scarcely glanced
at the "insured packet," which had been such a dangerous legacy
of his dead brother. He had forgotten all his daily life and even
his fears for the future in the fierce exultation of concealing
his strangely gotten Thibetan lore from his rival, Alaric Hobbs.
"A remarkable mind," growled old Fraser, "but a Yankee--and so
untrustworthy." At last, unwillingly, with a quaking heart, lest
Prince Djiddin should decamp in his absence, he obeyed an imperative
legal summons and proceeded to London with Nadine Johnstone, leaving
his house under the charge of that sphinx-eyed Scottish spinster,
Janet Fairbarn.
To the "Moonshee," and to the rubicund veteran Simpson, the
departing Andrew Fraser said solemnly, "The Prince is to be the
master here until my return." With a joyous heart the London sewing
girl embarked as Miss Johnstone's one personal attendant, forgetful
of her devoted lover, Joseph Smith, who had temporarily disappeared,
gone over to France "on business." For she was herself going back
to the dear delights of her beloved London, and her liberal lover
had already given her his address at the Cor d'Abondance.
"You must telegraph to me, Mattie, where you are staying, and when
you leave London to return.
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