Major Hawke on his homeward way counted up a goodly store of twelve thousand pounds in money, jewels of nearly the same value, and the skillfully raised and properly indorsed drafts on London for twenty thousand more. “If I can only get these passed by the executors I am a made man for life,” mused the Major as the Ramchunder sped over the blue Arabian sea. “If I discover the secret of the stolen jewels, they must yield, to save both family honor and money; if I don’t, then, Ram Lal must save his life and protect the drafts. I will negotiate them with the Credit Lyonnais, in Paris, and force Berthe to help me. No one shall rob me now,” somewhat illogically mused the brilliant adventurer, proud of his life-work.
At Calcutta, the noble Viceroy had already given to Major Harry Hardwicke and Capt. Eric Murray his orders for their performance of a delicate duty.
“You will find Captain Anstruther to be my personal as well as official representative in London, and Her Majesty’s service demands prudence in this grave affair. So but one set of confidential cipher dispatches have been sent on, and Captain Anstruther will have charge of the whole delicate affair. Should either of you meet Major Alan Hawke in London, or out of India, your commissions will depend on guarding an absolute silence as to the whole Johnstone affair. You are trusted, and not watched, gentlemen,” said the great noble, “and he is watched, and not trusted. Now, I have done all I can for you, as this duty takes you home and brings you back at the expense of her Majesty’s government. You will not fail to communicate with me from Aden, Suez, and Port Said, as well as Brindisi, and to report if Madame Louison has received at each place her telegrams and proceeded on her journey in safety. Her Majesty’s consuls will, in each place, aid you in every way. Should I decide to drop or quash the whole affair, my young kinsman, Anstruther, represents me, personally as well as officially.”
And so the gay young bridegroom-to-be sailed from Calcutta light-hearted, while Harry Hardwicke counted each day’s reckoning as bringing him, by leaps and bounds, nearer to the dark-eyed girl now left alone in the world. “There shall nothing come between us now, my darling one!” was the young Major’s fond vow confided to the evening star, glowing in its trembling silver radiance over the spicy Indian Ocean.
Alixe Delavigne was still “Madame Berthe Louison” to the glittering circle of passengers who envied her the state in which she traveled, the slavish obeisance of the ship’s officers, and the deft ministrations of those admirable servants, Jules Victor and Marie. “A great personage incognito,” was the general verdict, and so the luckless swains hovering around fell off one by one, as the beautiful woman seemed to be always wrapped in an unbroken reverie. There was an anxious gleam in the lady’s eyes, for she felt that she was going home to the sternest battle of her life, and she brooded now only upon the trials of the future. She never knew how near the dark angel’s wing had swooped over her own defenseless head.
For the gray head now lying low had been secretly busied with plans for a huge bribe to Ram Lal which should buy him to the doing of a dark deed without a name. Only Berthe’s determined attack on the granting of the baronetcy in London, and her own “lightning disappearance” had saved her from Ram Lal’s cupidity. Master of the secrets of a dozen Eastern poisons, the artful confederate of her dark retinue in the silver bungalow, Ram Lal would have gladly worked Hugh Johnstone’s will for his red gold. But the fierce quarrel and the precipitate flight of Berthe Louison had balked Johnstone, who fell by the very hand of the sly wretch whom he had designed to buy, as the murderer of another. The engineer hoist by his own petard. But, steadfastly looking to Valerie’s child alone, she knew not the dangers which she had escaped.
“I was afraid they would kill you, Madame. Thank God, we are now safe at sea!” said Jules Victor.
“Who?” cried the startled woman.
“Why, that old wretch; he had money, and his spies were all around you,” said Jules.
“Yes! Thank God! We are safe now!” mused Berthe Louison, and she bade a long adieu to the strange scenes of her pilgrimage. “I shall never see India again!” she reflected, when she passed, in a mental review, Calcutta, holy Benares, smoky Patna, brisk Allahabad, Cawnpore, where the white-winged angel broods over the innocent dead, heroic Lucknow, and crime-haunted Delhi—all these rose up in a weird panorama of the mind. Strange tales of wild adventure told by Alan Hawke returned to her now—the mysteries of Thibet, the weird ferocity of Bhotan, the quaint tales of the polyandrous Todas, and the strange story of Vijaynagar, the desecrated city whose streets are peopled but ten days in the year! A lotos land where crime broods, where the cobra hides under the painted blossoms of Death!