"I am the trustee of Madame Louison, in some important business matters, and not her husband," gravely remarked the Major. "I only came up here to confer with her upon some matters of moment." Both the listeners bowed in silence.

"Then, my dear sir, you can be perfectly rea.s.sured," the physician briskly concluded, tendering his card. "My professional conscience will not allow me to make even a single future visit, as doctor, to the charming Madame Louison. Should Madame awake in other than her normal health and spirits, I should be professionally at fault."

Major Hawke then led the doctor aside and pressed a five-pound note upon him. "Madame is of a wonderfully strong const.i.tution. An heiress of nature's choicest favors," the happy Galen floridly said, as he took his leave.

"So she is," grimly a.s.sented Hawke.

The gossipy boniface was already spreading such meager details of the sudden seizure as he had been able to pick up, and, the words "Polish n.o.blewoman," "Italian marchesa," "French countess," were tossed about freely in the light froth of the conversation in the ladies'

drawing-room.

Meanwhile, Alan Hawke was smoking a meditative cigar alone, while pacing the old Cantonal high road before the Faucon. "I think I will remain on picket here," he mused. "This fiddler fellow, Wieniawski, must not meet her. She must be led on to leave here at once. Const.i.tution, nerve, aplomb; she has them all. She should have been born a man. What a soldier! One of nature's mistakes--man's mental organization, woman's soft, flooding emotions, and beauty's fiery pa.s.sions."

"I must pump Casimir. He will be safely nailed to the platform by his duties, from eight to ten. I will not leave her a moment, however, till he has the baton in his hand. I will then watch him until ten--meet him down there, and, if he meets her after we separate for the night, he is a smarter Pole than I take him for. And now I must go and frighten her away from here."

Major Hawke was quick to note all the outer indications of man's varying fortunes. He had so long buffeted the waves of adversity himself that he was a past master of the art of measuring the depth of a hidden purse.

He recalled the brilliant Casimir Wieniawski of eight years past--the curled darling of the hot-hearted ladies of Calcutta, Madras, Bombay and Singapore. In a glance of cursory inspection Alan Hawke had noted the doubtful gloss of the dress suit; it was the polish of long wear, not the velvety glow of newness. There was a growing bald spot, scarcely hidden by the Hyperion Polish curls; there were crows'-feet around the bold, insolent eyes, and the man's smile was lean and wolfish when the glittering white teeth flashed through the professional smirk of the traveling artist. The old, easy a.s.surance was still there, but cognac had dulled the fires of genius; the tones of the violin trembled, even under the weakening but still magic fingers, and the splendid sapphire and diamond cl.u.s.ter ring of old was replaced by a too evident Palais Royal work of inferior art.

"Poor devil! It is the downward fluttering of the wearied eagle!" mused Alan Hawke. "Women, roulette, champagne, and high life--all these past riches fade away into the gloomy pleasures of restaurant cognac, dead-shot absinthe, and the vicarious smiles of a broken soubrette or so! And all the more you can be now dangerous to me, Monsieur Casimir Wieniawski, for the old maneater forgets none of his tricks, even when toothless."

Casimir, the handsome Pole, glib of tongue, the heir to a thousand minor graces, reckless in outpouring the wine of Life, had truly gone the downward way with all the abandon of his showy, insincere race. Hawke well knew the final level of misery awaiting the wandering, broken-down artist here in a land where really fine music was a mere drug; where the orchestra was only a cheap lure to enhance the cafe addition.

The "Professor" was but a minor staff officer of the grim Teutonic Oberkellner of the Bra.s.serie Concert.

"But how shall I muzzle this Robert Macaire of the bow?" cogitated Hawke, as he anxiously eyed the two windows of Madame Louison's rooms, and then sternly gazed at the open front doors of the Hotel Faucon.

A light broke in upon his brain. "There is the golden lure of the Misses Phenie and Genie Forbes, of Chicago, U. S. A. Those madcap girls will be easily gulled. They arrive to-morrow at nine. A few stage asides, as to the stock romance of every Polish upstart, will do the trick!"

"Russian brutality, fugitive Prince, Siberian wanderings, romantic escape, killed the Russian general who burned his chateau; all that sort of thing will enchant these. This may occupy Casimir and leave me free.

When the devil is idle he catches flies, and under the cover of this rosy glow of romance I will get away to India, but only after Madame Alixe Delavigne goes. I can afford to put in ten pounds on Casimir to loosen his lying tongue. In vino veritas may apply even to a gallant and distinguished Pole. If I can get the true story of Alixe Delavigne's life, then I have the key of the Johnstone mystery. Ah! There is now a duty signal for me!" The Major smartly approached the main entrance of that cosiest of Swiss family hotels, the Faucon, as the anxious face of a woman nurse appeared. "Madame veut bien voir Monsieur!" simply announced the servant. Major Hawke brushed by her with a nod and quickly mounted the stair. To his utter surprise, on entering Madame Berthe Louison's apartment, the signs of an approaching departure were but too evident. A stout Swiss maiden was busied stolidly packing several trunks in an indiscriminate haste, while the fair invalid herself sat at the center table poring over an opened Baedeker and the outspread maps brought on by her "business agent." Hawke's murmured astonishment was at once cut short by the decisive notes of Berthe Louison's flutelike voice.

"We have no time to waste, Major!" she said, with an affected cheerfulness. "I am all right now. There is an eleven-thirty train for Constance. I will take that, reach Munich, and get right over to Venice by the Brenner Pa.s.s, and thence go down to Aricona, and Brindisi.

You can return to Geneva, and, by Mont Cenis and Turin you will reach Brindisi before me. So, I leave to-night; you can go up to Geneva to-morrow night. No one will possibly suspect our business connection in this way. I will have time to see you depart for Bombay, before I take the steamer for Calcutta. I have marked off the sailings. This little occurrence here to-night has brought us both too much under the eyes of other people."

"Bah!" said the astounded Major. "No one knows anything of us here. We are of no importance."

"You think so?" mused the woman, as if careless of his presence. "And yet I have seen a face here, rising out of a past that is long dead and buried. Now, are you ready to meet me at Brindisi?"

Alan Hawke blushed even through the sun-browned complexion of the Nepaul days, as the clear-eyed woman, faintly smiling, discerned his "hedging"

policy.

"You will not be put to the slightest inconvenience." She opened a handsome traveling bag. The falcon-eyed Major Hawke observed the gleam of a pearl handled and silver chased revolver of serviceable make, and there was also a very wicked-looking Venetian dagger lying on the table, even then within the lady's reach! "Here is the sum of five hundred pounds in English notes," said Berthe. "That will neatly take you to Delhi, and there is fifty more to liquidate my bill, and pay the medical expenses. I am not desirous that the landlord should know of my departure. You may bring all my trunks on. I will be waiting for you at the 'Vittorio Emmanuele' at Brindisi. Please do telegraph to me from Turin of your arrival."

Cool globe-trotter as he was, Alan Hawke was speechless. "Shall I not see you safely on board the Constance train?" he muttered.

"The nurse will attend to all that; money will do a great deal," the lady said. "I will send her back from Constance. Please do ring the bell." The Major was obedient, and he listened in dumb astonishment, as Madame Louison ordered a very dainty supper for two, with a bottle of Burgundy and a well-iced flask of Veuve Cliquot. When the door had closed upon the gaping servant, the lady merrily laughed:

"Pray take up your sinews of war, Major. I shall consider you as retained in my service, if I am obeyed."

Alan Hawke turned and faced the puzzling "employer" with a half defiant question: "And when shall I know the real nature of my duties?" as he carefully folded up the welcome bundle of notes, without even looking at them.

"Major, you are not an homme d'affaires. Do me the favor to count your money," laughed the mocking convalescent. "Thank you," continued the lady as he obeyed her. "Now I will only detain you here till ten o'clock. Then you must disappear and not know me again until we meet at the Hotel Vittorio Emmanuele at Brindisi. Should any accident occur, you are to take the Sepoy for Bombay direct and go on to Delhi. Leave me a letter at Suez and also one at Aden, care P. and O. Company. I will ask at each of these places. I will go direct to Calcutta, and will then meet you at Delhi. Arriving at Delhi, you may telegraph to me care Grindlay & Co., Calcutta."

"I wonder if she bled Anstruther," inwardly growled Hawke, as he recognized the name of that social b.u.t.terfly's bankers. But the lady only sweetly continued: "I have some business in Calcutta. You can write to me at the general postoffice at Allahabad, and leave your Delhi address there. I shall probably telegraph for you to come down and meet me there."

Major Hawke, neatly entering the lady's directions in a silver-clasped betting book, murmured lazily without lifting his eyes: "You seem to know a great deal about Hindostan."

"I have made a careful study of it for years--long years," said the woman with a telltale flush of color, as the servants entered with the impromptu feast.

They were left alone, at an imperious signal, and Madame Louison bade Hawke regale himself en garcon. The Major paused with suspended pencil, as he quietly approached the decisive question: "And at Delhi, what am I to do?"

"You are to take up your old friendship with Hugh Fraser--this budding baronet," replied Berthe calmly. She was pouring out a gla.s.s of the wine beloved of women, but her hand trembled as she hastily drank off the inspiring fluid. "All this is bravo--mere bravo! She's a very smart woman, and a cool customer!" decided the schemer, who had filled himself up a long drink. He took up at once the object-lesson. They were simply to be comrades--and nothing more.

"I will obey you to the very letter," he said simply, for he was well aware the woman was keenly watching him.

"Then that is all. There is nothing more," soberly concluded his companion. "The letters at Suez and Aden are, of course, to be mere billets de voyage. The correspondence at Allahabad may cover all of moment. Can you not give me a safe letter and telegraph address at Delhi?"

"Give me your notebook," said Alan Hawke, as he carefully wrote down the needed information: "Ram Lal Singh, Jewel Merchant, 16 Chandnee Chouk, Delhi."

"There's the address of my native banker; and as trusty a Hindu as ever sold a two-shilling stra.s.s imitation for a hundred-pound star sapphire.

But, in his way he is honest--as we all are." And then Alan Hawke boldly said: "How shall I address you at Allahabad?"

The flashing brown eyes gleamed a moment with a brighter l.u.s.ter than pleasure's glow. "You have my visiting card, Major," the woman coldly said. "I travel with a French pa.s.sport, always en regie."

"By G.o.d! she has the nerve!" mused Alan Hawke, as he hastily said: "And now, as we have settled all our little preliminaries, when am I to know whether you trust me or not?"

He was pressing his advantage, for her precipitate departure would rob him of the expected effect of Casimir Wieniawski's disclosures. "If I find you en ami defamille, at Delhi, so that you can confidentially approach Sir Hugh Johnstone, the ci-devant Hugh Fraser, your task will be soon set for you, and your reward easily earned; but under no circ.u.mstances are you to make the slightest attempt to a confidential acquaintance with this wonderful Nadine. That is my affair." The tone was almost trifling in its lightness, but Alan Hawke recognized the hand of iron in the velvet glove.

"And now, Sir," coquettishly said Madame Berthe Louison, "you have been a squire of dames in your day. Tell me of social India, for, while I shall get a good maid out at Calcutta, I must depend upon Munich, Venice, and Brindisi for my personal outfit. I know the whole United Kingdom thoroughly. The Englishman and his cold-pulsed blonde mate at home are well-learned lessons. The Continent, yes, even Russia, I know, too," she gayly chattered; "but the Orient is as yet a sealed book to me, and I would be helpless in Father India, without the womanly gear appropriate to the social habits of your countrywomen."

"You have lived in England?" briefly demanded Alan Hawke, in some surprise at her frank admissions.

"Yes, too long!" sternly answered Madame Louison, who was enjoying a cigarette, as she signed to the maid to leave them alone. "I detest the foggy climate," she added, a little late to temper the bitterness of the remark.

"I will lull this watchful feminine tiger," the Major secretly decided, as he began a brilliant sketch of the social life of the strange land of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva. "I presume, of course, that you do not care to appear with a fifty-pound Marshall & Snell grove outfit, as if you were the wife of an Ensign in a marching regiment. I will give you the real life our women lead out there. You could have secured a splendid London outfit by a little time spent in making the detour."

"I wish to appear en Francaise, my true character," smiled Berthe. "I never could sacrifice my Gaelic taste to the hideous color mixtures and utilitarian ugliness of the English machine-made toilette. An Englishwoman can only be trusted with a blue serge, a plain gray traveling dress, or in the easy safety of black or white. They are not the 'gla.s.s of fashion and the mold of form.' Now, Sir, let me see how you have profited by your wandering in Beauty's gardens on the Indus and Ganges?"

Alan Hawke knew very well at heart what the quickwitted woman would know. He sketched with grace, the natural features, the climatic conditions, the bizarre scenery of the million and a half square miles where the venerable Kaisar-i-Hind rules nearly two hundred millions of subjugated people. He portrayed all the light splendors of Mohammedan elegance, the wonders of Delhi and Agra, he sketched the gloomy temple mysteries of Hinduism, and holy Benares rose up before her eyes beneath the inspiration of his brilliant fancy.

The ardent woman listened with glowing eyes, as Hawke proudly referred to the wonderful sweep of the sword of Clive, which conquered an unrifled treasure vault of ages, annexed a giant Empire, and set with Golconda's diamonds the scepter of distant England. The year 1756 was hailed by the renegade as the epoch when England's rule of the sea became her one vitalizing policy--her first and last national necessity--for the Empire of the waves followed the pitiful beginning in Madras.

Temples, groves, and mosques peopled with the alien and warring races were conjured up, the splendid viceregal circle, the pompous headquarter military, the fast set, staid luxury-loving civilians, and all the fierce eddies and undercurrents of the graded social life, in which the cold English heart learns to burn as madly under "dew of the lawn"

muslin as ever Lesbian coryphe'e or Tzigane pleasure lover.

The burning noons, the sweltering Zones of Death, the cool hills, the Vanity Fair of Simla, the shaded luxury of bungalow life, and the mad undercurrent of intrigue, the tragedy element of the Race for Wealth, the Struggle for Place, and the Chase for Fame. Major Alan Hawke was gracefully reminiscent, and in describing the social functions, the habits of those in the swim, the inner core of Indian life under its canting social and official husk, he brought an amused smile to the mobile face of his beautiful listener. He did not note the pa.s.sage of time. He could now hear the music floating up from the Casino below.

He had answered all her many questions. He described pithily the voyage out, the social pitfalls, the essence of "good Anglo-Indian form," and he was astonished at the keenness of the questions with which he was plied by his employer.

"You have surely traveled in India," he murmured, when his relation flagged.

"So I have, by proxy, and, in imagination," laughed Madame Berthe Louison, as she demurely held up her jeweled watch. "Ten minutes more, and then, Sir, I shall give you your ordre de route. For, I must go quietly. I trust to your experience and good judgment. There is nothing to say here. There will be no letters. My bankers have their orders. You must simply pay our bill, and depart quietly via Geneva. May I ask if you wish any more money? Some personal needs?"