Institut Pour les Jeunes
Dames" was an intellectual property only; the fine old mansion belonging
to a rich Genevese banker. Major Alan Hawke was now busied in writing
upon a few leaves torn from his betting book.

"Listen to me!" he gravely said. "Promise me that you will never let
these papers leave you a moment."

"I will carry them in my passport case, around my neck," murmured
Justine. "My money in notes, and a few articles."

"Good!" energetically cried Hawke. "I will write the same to Euphrosyne,
and send it by 'registered post' to-day."

"Here!" he suddenly cried, "Just pencil a few words to her to say that
you are with me, and that we understand each other; that our interests
are to be one; and that she must keep the faith and help us both, for
both our sakes. I will mail it so that old Johnstone will be powerless
to injure any of us three." He gave her another leaflet from his book,
and detached a golden pencil from his watch chain.

There was a crimson flush upon her cheek, as she vainly essayed to
write. Her hand trembled, and then with a sob, her head fell upon
her breast; with an infinite art, the triumphant renegade soothed the
excited woman, and, it was only through her happy tears that she saw
him, before her there, duplicating the secret addresses.

"Now, Justine; my Justine!" softly said Alan Hawke. "Here is a secret
address in Allahabad, and a secret address in London. If this man
decides to send Nadine away, he will do it secretly in some way. There
are several seaports open to leave India. You will be, of course, sent
out of Hindostan with her. It would be just his little game, however,
to separate you at the first foreign port, to pay you off royally, and
then--neither you nor Euphrosyne would ever see Nadine again. There is
something hanging over him that he would hide from her. He fears me,
also, for my official power. Remember, now! No matter whatever happens
you can always find a way to telegraph to me. If I am in India, here
to Allahabad; if in Europe, to London. Now, Euphrosyne will know always
where I am. Telegraph me the whereabouts of Nadine Johnstone, or, where
you are forced to leave her, telegraph the vessel you are on, and her
destination, and, I swear to you, by the God who made me, I will track
her down, and we three shall find a way to reach her later. He would
like to lock her up in a living tomb, if he found it to be to his
interest. A cheap private asylum in Germany, or so