erchant, who had noted the swiftly
passing carriage. Her womanly conscience was as tender as her heart.

"Lock the door, Ram Lal!" cried Alan Hawke, "We will be in the pagoda
in the garden. Let no one pass this door, on your life!" When they were
alone, Major Alan Hawke led the trembling woman away to to the hidden
bower, where Ram Lal had hospitably spread a feast of India's choicest
cakes and dainties.

Only there, in that haven of safety, dared the excited Justine to
falter. "If you knew what I have suffered! He drove almost over me as I
crossed the Chandnee Chouk, and I had a struggle to leave Nadine. There
is the curse of an old family sorrow there. The father and daughter are
arrayed against each other."

"Forget it all, my dear Justine," murmured Alan Hawke. "Here you are
hidden now and perfectly safe with me. Never mind those people now. Let
us only think of each other. You were simply matchless in your behavior
at the house."

"Oh, I fear him so! I fear that hard old man!" whispered the timid
woman, as she dropped her eyes before Alan Hawke's ardent glances. He
had noted the growing touch of coquetry in her dress; he measured the
tell-tale quiver of her voice, and he smiled tenderly when she shyly
showed him the diamond bracelet, securely hidden upon her left arm.

"I put this on to show you that I do trust you," she murmured. "And
I wear it every night. It seems to give me courage." The happy Major
pressed her hand warmly.

"Let it be a secret sign between us, an omen of brighter days for all
of us. Stand by me and I will stand by you to the last. We will all meet
happily yet by the beautiful shores of Lake Leman!"

In half an hour, Justine Delande was completely at her ease, for well
the artful renegade knew how to circle around the dangerous subject
nearest his heart--the secret history of Nadine Johnstone's mother.
He had dropped easily into the wooing and confidential intimacy which
lulled Justine Delande into a fool's paradise of happy content.

She was sinking away and now losing her will and identity in his own,
without one warning qualm of conscience. For Alan Hawke's dearly bought
knowledge of womankind now stood him in great stead.

"One single familiarity, one questionable liberty, and this cold-pulsed
Heloise would fly forever. She must be left to her day dreams and to
the work of a sweet self-deception," he artfully mused. They were
interrupted but a moment, when Ram Lal Singh glided to