“Can I be of any use to Monsieur?” demanded the chef d’orchestre in evening grand tenue, his baton still in his hand.
There was a glance of wondering astonishment as the Englishman faced the speaker. “Wieniawski—Casimir, you here?” The other dropped his voice as the physician ripped up the sleeve of the patient’s gown.
“Major Hawke, I thought you were still in Delhi? Your wife—” faltered the artist, as he listened to a low moan when the lancet blade entered the ivory arm of the sufferer. Then, with a backward step, he pressed his hands to his brows. “My God! It is Alixe Delavigne!” he brokenly said. But Hawke sprang to his side and quickly drew him from the room.
“Not a word! Not a single word to any one! Where are you stopping? I will come to you tonight!” the excited man sternly said, his firm hand still clutching the musician’s arm.
“Here, at the Casino! Come in after ten! I will await you! But where did you meet her?” the Polish violinist cried, speaking as if in a dream.
“You shall know all later! I must get her to the hotel!” He returned to the physician’s side, who authoritatively cried, “Now an easy carriage and to the Faucon, you said?” In half an hour, Berthe Louison was sleeping, a nurse at her side, while Alan Hawke counted the moments crawling on till ten o’clock.
CHAPTER III. AND AT DELHI WHAT AM I TO DO?
Major Alan Hawke was the “observed of all observers,” in the cosy salon of the Grand Hotel Faucon, when the sympathetic hotel manager interrupted a colloquy between the handsome Briton and the Doctor. “A mere syncope, my dear sir. Perhaps—even only the result of tight lacing, or inaction. Perhaps some sudden nerve crisis. These are the results of the easy luxury of an enervating high-life. All these social habits are weakening elements. Now, fortunately, your wife has a singularly strong vital nature. You may safely dismiss all your fears. Madame will be entirely herself in the morning.”