Politely bowed out by the stern, lonely old man, Major Hardwicke departed, his conversational guns spiked with the deft compliments, as the mighty clatter of the returning General filled the courtyard of the Marble House.
In the soft, wooing stillness of the night, Simpson, at the young Major’s side, found time to whisper: “Never let the Guv’nor see us together! He’s a sly one! There’s a honey-baited trap in this! The girl’s been spirited off to Europe! I only know that—but, as yet, no more.”
“What do you mean? Is he lying to me?” gasped Hardwicke, with a sinking heart.
“Rightly said!” huskily whispered Simpson. “Seek for her—London ways—I’ll find it out soon where she is, and I’m just scholar enough to write! Give me your own safe London address! I heard ye would soon take yer long leave. Bless her sweet soul! I’ll tell ye now! She whispered to me: ‘Tell him—tell Major Hardwicke—he’ll hear from me himself, even if I was at the very end of the earth! and give him this!’” The frightened servant thrust a little packet into the officer’s hand. “It was the only chance she had.”
“That Swiss woman watched her every moment, and the man—the one the father sent from Calcutta. There was a telegram to her. I gave it to her myself! Major, my oath—they’re on the blue water, now! I’ll watch and come to you! Don’t leave Delhi till I post you!”
“You’re a brave fellow, Simpson. Keep this all quiet,” softly said Major Hardwicke. “I’ll follow your advice, and I’ll not leave here till I know more from you. I’ll follow her to Japan, but I’ll see her again.”
“That’s the talk, Major!” cried the happy old soldier, who felt something crisp in his hand now. “Distrust old Hugh! He’ll lie to ye and trap ye! Watch him! He’s capable of anything.” The carriage then stopped with a crash and Hardwicke sprang out lightly. “Make no sign! Trust to me! I’ll come to ye!” was Simpson’s last word.
Before Simpson had discovered in the marble house the pleasing figures on a ten-pound note, Harry Hardwicke, striding up and down his room, in all the ecstasy of a happy lover, had kissed a hundred times a little silver card case—a mere school girl’s poor treasure, but priceless now—for within it was a hastily severed tress of gold-brown hair, tied with a bit of blue ribbon. A scrap of paper in penciled words brought to him “Confirmation stronger than Holy Writ.” “I will write or telegraph when not watched. Do not forget. —Nadine.”
The words of the old servitor returned to the soldier in a grim warning. “He is capable of anything.”
“So am I,” cried Harry as his heart leaped up. “I will find her were she at the North Pole. He cannot hide her from me. Love laughs at locksmiths!”