A Fascinating Traitor. Richard Savage

woman whose glistening dark brown eyes were turned to him with a languid glance, as Alan Hawke leaned forward. To prolong the sight of that bewitching half profile, with the fair, low brows, the velvet cheeks, a Provencale flush tinting them, the parted lips a dainty challenge speaking, and the rich masses of dark brown hair nobly crowning her regal outlines, Anstruther yielded to the spell and babbled on. “The whole thing is a strange melange of official business and dying gossip!” dreamily said Anstruther with his eyes straying over the ivory throat, the superbly modeled bust and perfect figure of the young Venus Victrix.

      He was duly rewarded by a glance of secret intelligence when he leaned back, dreamily closing his eyes. “You see, they were going to make old Hugh Fraser or Hugh Johnstone, as he is now called, a baronet for some secret services to the Crown of an important nature, rendered about the time when mad Hodson piled up the whole princely succession to the House of Oude in a trophy of naked corpsess pistoling them with his own hand.” He ordered a third bottle of Pommery, with a wave of his hand, and proceeded: “Of course, you know, Her Majesty’s Government always closely investigate the social antecedents of the nominee in such cases. The change of name is all right; it is regularly entered at Herald’s College and all that sort of thing, but the Chief has heard of the sudden appearance of this beautiful daughter. Now, old Johnstone surely never looked the way of woman in India! It’s true that he went back about twenty years ago to England on a two years’ leave. He has lived the life of a splendid recluse in his magnificent old bungalow on the Chandnee Chouk.”

      Anstruther paused, fishing for another fugitive smile. He caught it behind the back of the wary adventurer.

      “I know the old house well,” said Hawke with an affected unconcern. “Men were always entertained royally there, but I never saw a woman of station in its vast saloons.”

      “Now there you are!” cried Anstruther, lightly resuming: “I was sent up to Delhi to delicately find out about this alleged daughter, for the Chief does not want to throw Johnstone’s baronetcy over. The fact is before they packed the toothless old King of Oude away to Rangoon to die with his favorite wife and their one wolf cub out there, Hugh Fraser skillfully extorted a surrender of a huge private treasure of jewels from these people while they were hidden away in Humayoon’s tomb. There’s one trust deposit yet to be divided between the Government and this sly old Indo-Scotch-man, and I fancy the empty honor of the baronetcy is a quid pro quo.” Alan Hawke laughed heartily. “It is really diamond cut diamond, then.”

      “Precisely,” said Anstruther, as he most calmly waved his hand to the steward, who silently refilled even the glass of the Venus Anonyma. A slight inclination of the head and parthian glance number three, encouraged Anstruther to hasten and conclude, for the moon was sailing grandly over the lake now.

      Love thrilled in the young man’s vacant heart, sounding the chords of the Harp of Life. He had been in a glittering Indian exile long enough to be very susceptible. “I spent two weeks up there with the expectant Sir Hugh Johnstone,” lightly rattled on the aid. “I verified the fact that the young woman is his acknowledged daughter. He has no other lineal heir to the title, for an old, dry-as-dust, retired Edinburgh professor, a brother, childless and eccentric, is living near St. Helier’s, in Jersey, in a beautiful Norman chateau farm mansion, where old Hugh proposed once to end his days. It seems to be all square enough. I was as delicate as I could be about it, and the matter is apparently all right. The papers have all gone on, and, in due time, Hugh Fraser will be Sir Hugh Johnstone!”

      Anstruther quaffed a beaker with guileful ideas of detaining his fair neighbor, now ruffling her plumage for departure, for only a sporadic knot of diners here and there lingered at the long table. “The girl herself?” asked Hawke, with a strange desire to know more.

      “Report has duly magnified her hidden charms,” replied Anstruther. “She is called “The Veiled Rose of Delhi,” and no manner of man may lift that mystic veil. I was treated en prince, but held at arm’s length.”

      Hawke smiled softly, and said in a low voice, “I hardly see how all this brings you over here. The Rose blooms by the far-away Jumna.”

      “Then know, my friend,” laughed Anstruther, “such a rose as the peerless Nadine Johnstone must have a duenna.” He deftly caught an impassioned glance from the softly shining brown eyes, and hastily went on. “She was educated right here in this emporium of watches, musical boxes, correct principles, and scientific research. Mesdames Justine and Euphrosyne Delande, No. 122 Rue du Rhone, conduct an institute (justly renowned) where calisthenics, a view of the lake, a little music, a great deal of bad French, and the Conversations Lexicon, with some surface womanly graces, may all be had for some two hundred pounds a year. Miss Justine Delande, a sedately gray-tinted spinster, has been tempted to remain on guard for a year out in India, having safely conducted this Pearl of Jeunes Personnes Bien Elevees out to the old Qui Hai. I have been charged with some few necessary explanations and negotiations, the delivery of some presents, and, when I have visited this first-class institute, enjoying all the attractions of the Jardin Anglais and the Promenade du Lac, I shall flee these tranquil slopes of the Pennine Alps. Incidentally, the records of Mademoiselle Euphrosyne will confirm the very natural story of the would-be Sir Hugh, whose vanished wife no Anglo-Indian has ever seen. She is supposably dead. A last official note after I have run on to Paris will close up the whole awkward matter. I will call there tomorrow and then take the early train, as I am on for a lot of family visits and sporting events before I can settle down to have my bit of a fling.”

      “It’s a very strange story,” murmured Alan Hawke. “No man ever suspected Hugh Fraser of family honors.”

      “And ‘the Rose of Delhi!’ will probably marry some lucky fellow out there, as old Johnstone has lacs and lacs of rupees,” said Anstruther, “for he cannot keep her in his great gardens forever, guarded by the stony-eyed Swiss spinster, or let her run around as the Turks do their priceless pet sheep with a silver bell around her neck. There was some old marital unhappiness, I suppose, for the girl is evidently born in wedlock, and the story is straight enough.”

      “Have you seen her?” eagerly inquired Hawke.

      “Just a few stolen glimpses,” hastily replied Anstruther, politely rising and bowing as the fair unknown suddenly left her seat, in evident confusion.

      The two men strolled out of the salle a manger together, Major Alan Hawke critically observing the heightened color and evident elan of his aristocratic friend.

      “Oh! I say, Hawke,” cried Anstruther, “they’ll show you up to my rooms in a few moments. I’ll go and see the maitre d’hotel here! The service is beastly—beastly!” and the youth fled quickly away.

      Major Alan Hawke nodded affably, and slowly mounted the staircase to his room, wondering if the aid-de-camp was destined by the gods to furnish forth his purse for the return to India. “He’s pretty well set up now, and he evidently has his eye upon this brown-eyed nixie. Dare I rush my luck? The boy’s a bit stupid at cards.” With downcast eyes the anxious adventurer wandered along the corridor in the dimly-lighted second story. It was the turning point of his career.

      There was the rapid rustle of silk, the patter of gliding feet, a warm, trembling hand seized his own, and in the darkness of a window recess he was aware that he was suddenly made the prize of the fair corsair ci la Houbigant. “Quick, quick, tell me! Do you go with him?” the strange enchantress said, in excited tones, using the English tongue as if to the manner born.

      “Madame! I hardly understand,” cautiously said the astounded Major.

      “I want you to help me! You must help me! I must see him! I must find out all.” The sound of a servant’s steps arrested her incoherent remarks. “Wait here!” the excited woman whispered, as she walked back down the hall. There was a whispered colloquy, and Alan Hawke caught the gleam of the silver neck chain of the maitre d’hotel. The sound of an opening door was heard, and, in a few moments the flying Camilla returned to her hidden prey.

      “Tell me truly,” she panted, “what will you do with him? He wishes me to ride with him; my answer depends on you. You are in trouble; I can see it