Alixe Delavigne bowed her head in a mute assent. Day by day the proud self-reliant woman was yielding to the imperious will of the young soldier. It was a soft, self-deception that reassured her on the very evening when he left her.
But there was one now weaving his webs at Lausanne whose fertile brain was busied with sly schemes of his own. Alan Hawke always first considered “his duty to himself” and so the acute Major decided to spy out the land before he precipitately appeared at London, or dared to risk himself at St. Agnes Road, St. Heliers.
“It is just as well to know all that Justine can tell me before I see this young dandy Anstruther, and to find out what Euphrosyne knows before I interrogate her sister,” he murmured; “I must make no mistake with the Viceroy’s kinsman!”
With much prevision he had telegraphed the date of his probable arrival in London to Captain Anstruther from Munich, adding that convenient fairy tale, “Delayed by illness” and he had also left this telegram behind, so as to be sent on to allow him four days leeway near Geneva.
The signature bore also an injunction to answer to Hotel Binda, Paris. “This is no little card game,” muttered Hawke. “It is for rank, wealth, and the hand of Miss Million, the rose of Delhi.”
Alan Hawke was practically received with open arms by the fluttering-hearted Euphrosyne, who nobly resigned herself to Justine’s victory over Alan Hawke’s heart. For the younger sister’s letters had filled the elder’s mind with rosy dreams of enhanced family prosperity.
“Only this telegram. That is all!” murmured the preceptress, as she handed the Major a dispatch dated at St. Heliers, stating, “Arrived, well, news of Mr. Johnstone’s assassination just received. Will write!”
“This is all I know of this strange homecoming, as yet!” summed up the child of Minerva.
Hawke softly delved into Mademoiselle Euphrosyne’s inner consciousness until he knew all the corners of the simple woman’s heart.
“I am quite sure that she speaks the simple truth!” he decided, after he had informed the Swiss woman of his address, “Hotel Binda, Paris.” “I must go on there by the night train,” he at once resolved. “Here is a juncture where all our various interests are deeply involved. You and Justine may lose the well-earned reward of years. I must be near Justine, now, to protect you both. I fear this old mummy Fraser! If he controls the fortune, then he and his hopeful son will probably steal half of it. Thats a fair allowance for an ordinary executor! It is all for one, and, one for all, now! Write under seal to Justine that I am near—only do not mention names!” With an affected tenderness, Hawke kissed the pallid lips of the daughter of Minerva, and slipped away to Lausanne, whence he took the midnight train for Paris.