In an agony of lonely sorrow she threw herself, dressed, upon her bed and sobbed herself into forgetfulness, her last cry for help mingling the names of Berthe Louison and Harry Hardwicke. “Will Justine be true to her oath?” she faltered, as she drifted into the blessed release of dreamland.
As the night wore on, Justine Delande, tossing on her bed in the Royal Victoria Hotel, waited for the dawn, to sail for Granville. She had telegraphed in curt words her dismissal, and she burned to reach Geneva, for to her the sight of Alan Hawke’s face was the one oasis in her desert of sorrow.
Long after Nadine Johnstone had closed her tired eyelids, stern old Andrew Fraser cowered below, glowering over his library fire, clad in a huge plaid dressing gown. His greedy eyes watched the dancing flames, and he rubbed the thin palms in triumph, while he sipped his nightly glass of Highland whisky grog. It had been a famous secret campaign for the surviving brother.
“If all goes on well; all goes well!” he crooned. “There’s Douglas, gone for good! The boy is young and soft-like. He might fall into this pert minx’s hands as young Douglas with Queen Mary of old. And, thank God, he knows nothing of the packet of jewels! Not a soul knows in the wide world! Why should I not save them for myself and turn them into gold? Yes, save them for myself. For the boy? But he never must know! Ah! I must hide them well! This stubborn girl knows nothing! That is right! Janet Fairbarn will be here in two days, and I’ll have another man to keep watch; yes, and a good dog, too! For the gallants must never cross my wall!”
“He! He! She’ll no fule with Janet Fairbarn,” he gloated, “and the will gives me every power. I must find a place of safety for the jewels,” he mused. “I’m glad that I burned Hughie’s letter, as he told me. There’s nothing now to show for them. The bank would not be safe. Never must they go out of my hands. And, I can write a sealed letter for Douglas, to be opened by him alone, if I should be called away. I can put it in the bank, and take a receipt and send the boy the receipt. But, no human being must know that I have them.” He tottered away to his sleep murmuring, “But safer still, to turn them into yellow gold. There’s a deal of them. I must find out in time how to dispose of them, but never till the lass above is gone and my accounts all discharged.” And the old miser, who had already robbed his dead brother, slept softly in love with his own exceeding cunning.
Of all the loungers on the wind-swept wharf at Granville-sur-Mer next day, decidedly the most natty was Jules Victor, who was now awaiting the return of the little St. Helier’s packet, to engage a special cabin for himself, with all a Gaul’s horror of the stormy passage. He sprang forward, in a genuine surprise, as Mademoiselle Justine Delande, aided by the stout Swiss maid, tottered over the gangplank. “Madame is ill, a la bonne heure! Let me conduct you to the Hotel Croix d’Or, where Madame Louison is even now awaiting the Paris train.” The ex-zouave was a miracle of politeness and, he proudly conducted Justine to a waiting fiacre, having deftly reserved himself the choice of staterooms. With the skill of his artful kind, Jules hastened upstairs at the Hotel Croix d’Or, to announce to his mistress the lucky find of a windy afternoon on Granville quay.
That night, when Justine Delande reached Paris, she was assured in her heart that her own future fortunes were safe, and that her sister would surely be the recipient of Nadine Johnstone’s future bounty. For Madame Berthe Louison, ever armed against possible treachery, announced her own instant departure for Poland. “But, I leave Jules in charge in Paris, and he will find the way to deliver your letters to your young friend.”
When Justine Delande was safely escorted to the train by the smiling Madame Berthe Louison, she proceeded to register a packet for London, addressed to “Major Harry Hardwicke.”
That young officer’s heart was light, three days later, when he received the letter of Nadine which Madame Louison had cajoled easily from the Swiss woman. And the happy Major’s heart was no lighter than Nadine’s for the watchful Janet Fairbarn, now on duty, with her selected subordinates, wondered to see the pale-faced girl laugh merrily as she chatted over the garden wall with a strolling French peddler. “I may trade at the gate, may I not, Miss Janet,” said Nadine, “or is that one of the crimes?” But Jules Victor had brought her a new life. She whispered, “He will come!”