an of the iron heart--shall conduct me to his house
in honor." There was that shining on her transfigured face which made
Alan Hawke murmur:

"There is a great love here--greater than the hate which demands an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth."

He waited, abashed and silent, for his strange employer's orders of the
day.

"Is there anything I can do for you to-morrow?" said Alan Hawke. "Do
you find your arrangements convenient for you here in every way?" The
respectful tone of his manner touched Berthe Louison's heart. He was
beginning to win his way to her regard by judiciously effacing himself.

"I am entirely at home, thanks to your thoughtful provision," she
smiled. "There is nothing to-night. Have you seen Johnstone?" Her dark
eyes were steadfastly fixed upon him now.

"Yes; he sent for me. He is very much agitated and, I should say, he is
almost at your mercy. But beware of an apparent surrender on his part.
He is--capable of anything!"

"I know it. I am on my guard," slowly replied Berthe Louison. She saw
that Alan Hawke had spoken the truth to her--even with some mental
reservations. "To-morrow morning will determine my public relations with
Hugh Johnstone. Come to me to-morrow night, and do not be surprised if
we meet as guests at Hugh Johnstone's table. You must only meet me as a
stranger. I may leave here for a few days, and then I will place you in
charge of my interests in my absence."

The Major gravely replied:

"You may depend upon me wherever you may wish to call upon me."

"Strange mutability of womanhood," he mused a half hour later as he
left the lady's side. "There is a woman whom I should not care to
face tomorrow morning if I were in Hugh Johnstone's shoes." It was the
renegade's last verdict as he slept the sleep of the prosperous. The
Willoughby dinner and his own feast now occupied his attention, for his
mysterious employer had bade him to eat, drink, and be merry.

At ten o'clock the next day the "gilded youth" of the Delhi Club all
knew that Hugh Johnstone had betaken himself to the Silver Bungalow, in
the carriage of the woman whose beauty was now an accepted fact. Hugely
delighted, these ungodly youth winked in merry surmises as to the
relationship between the budding Baronet and the hidden Venus. Even bets
as to discreetly "distant relationship," or a forthcoming crop of late
orange blossoms were the order of the day. But silent among the merry
throng, the handsome Major,