A Fascinating Traitor. Richard Savage

whispered to her of a gentle and gracious mother! Loved—gone before, but not lost—and, here in the land of gaudy Asiatic splendors, a strange land of wonderment and fairy riches, she sobbed alone in her heart anguish:

      “He will not speak! He tells me nothing! A marble palace this, but never a home!” The timid girl had seen no beloved woman’s face upon the fretwork of the walls of this Aladdin’s castle. And, in her own frightened heart, she remembered the ashen pallor of her father’s face when she had faltered out the burning question of her yearning heart—the question of long years! The past was still a blank to her, while on this same night, crafty Alan Hawke in Delhi, and, in far Calcutta, a woman, pacing her boudoir in sad unrest, were both busied with the story of the vanished mother whom the Rose of Delhi had never seen!

      Alixe Delavigne, lonely and resolute, was thinking of her departure on the morrow, to face the man who had locked his dead past in his own marble heart, in his grand marble palace. Her busy days at Calcutta had astounded the senior manager of Grindlay & Co. The old banker marveled at the strange commissions and imperative orders of his beautiful business client, but many years had taught him much of the incomprehensibility of womanhood! Whereupon he marveled in silence, and bowing with his hand upon his heart, assured the lady of his absolute discretion, and the unbroken honor of the house. “Some very queer little life histories go on out here in India!” mused the old banker, as he handed the lady her special letter to the Delhi agents of the great house which house which he directed. “As beautiful as a statue, as firm as a flint! Where have I seen a face like hers?” mused the old man, as he sought his rest.

      The “beautiful statue” was steadfastly gazing at the picture of the young Rose of Delhi, in her lonely boudoir. “She shall learn to love her! To love her—through me! And this man of iron shall yield! He shall hear my prayer! For, if he does not, then, he shall be struck to the heart—blow for blow! And Fate shall pass her over! I swear it by that lonely grave in far away Jitomir!” There were kisses rained upon the pictured face smiling up at her, the face which had called back to her the dead past, and then the “beautiful statue” tore aside her gown. She gazed upon a folded paper which had long lain upon her throbbing heart. “This shall speak for me—at the last! His pride shall bend! He shall not break the child’s heart! For the mother’s sake, I swear it! She shall love and be loved!” and as she spoke, in far away Delhi sweet Nadine stirred in her sleep, and smiled, with opening arms, for the phantom mother she fondly sought seemed to clasp her now to a loving breast!

      In the Delhi Club there was high wassail below him, while Major Alan Hawke restlessly paced his spacious rooms above, watching the lonely white moon sail through the clearest skies on earth. The quid mines had all observed the patiently haughty air of the returned Major, and even the chattering club stewards marveled at the sudden efflorescence of Hawke Sahib’s fortunes.

      “Devilish neat-handed fellow, Hawke,” growled old Major Bingo Morris, over his whist cards. “Close-mouthed fellow! Always wonder why he left the service! Neat rider! Good hand with gun and spear! He ought to be in our Staff Corps! He knows every inch of the northern frontier!” The old Major glared around, inviting further comment.

      “Fellow in Bombay tells me he went a cropper about some woman or other, ten years ago,” lisped a rosy young lieutenant who was spreading the golden revenues of a home brewery over the pitfall-dotted path of a rich Indian sub.

      “Right you are!” sententiously remarked Verner of the Horse Artillery. “He went a stunning pace for a while, and at last had to get out. Big flirtation—wife of commanding officer! Hawke acted very nicely. Said nothing—sacrificed himself. That’s why the women all like him. Very safe man. But, he’s a shy bird now.” They dissected his past, guessed at his present, but could not read his future!

      And then and there, the man who knew it all, told of the mysterious governmental quest confided to Major Alan Hawke. “You see, he has a sort of roving commission in mufti, to counteract the ceaseless undermining of the Russian agents in Persia, Afghanistan and in the Pamirs. We always bear the service brand too openly. It gives away our own military agents. Now, Hawke’s a fellow like Alikhanoff, that smart Russian duffer! He can do the Persian, Afghan, or Thibetan to perfection! He has been on to London. Some morning he will clear out. You’ll hear of him next at Kashgar, or in Bhootan, or perhaps he will work down into China and report to the Minister there. He is a Secret Intelligence Department of One, that’s all!”

      “That’s all very irregular for Her Majesty’s Service,” growled an envious agnostic.

      “Bah! Secret Service has no rules, you know,” said the man who knew it all, thrusting his lips deeply into a brandy pawnee.

      And so it was noted that Alan Hawke was a devilish pleasant fellow, a rising man, and one who had certainly dropped into an extremely good thing. The tide of Fortune was setting directly in favor of the man who, pacing the floor upstairs, unavailingly tormented himself with the subject of the missing jewels.

      “If I could only get a hold on Hugh Johnstone!” mused the adventurer. “Berthe Louison knows nothing of these old matters. She only seeks to approach the child. And she will be here to watch me in a day or so. Ram Lal, the old scoundrel! Does he know? If he did, he would bleed the would-be Baronet on his own account. But he may not know of the golden opportunity, and the old wretch always has many irons himself in the fire. Hugh Fraser was a canny Scot in his youth. Sir Hugh Johnstone is a horse of another color. If old Johnstone has the jewels, why does he not yield them up? Perhaps he wants the Baronetcy first, and then his memory may be strangely refreshed.”