making his due call of ceremony upon General
Willoughby, denied all knowledge of the designs of either of the high
contracting parties.

In due state, escorted by the alert Jules Victor, Hugh Johnstone entered
the Silver Bungalow, to find his Cassandra silently awaiting him. There
was no memory of the happenings of the day before in her unconstrained
greeting. The door of the strategic cabinet was ajar, but the tottering
visitor had no fears of an ambush. For Madame Alixe Delavigne calmly
said: "Jules, you may remain within call, in the hall."

The old nabob's heart leaped up in a welcome relief at this command. His
wrinkled face was of the hue of yellowed ivory, and his cold blue eyes
were weak and watery, as he heavily lurched into a chair facing his
hostess. Courage and craft had not failed him, for already Douglas
Fraser was speeding on to Delhi from Calcutta, the sole occupant of
a special train. In the long vigil of the night, Hugh Johnstone had
evolved a plan to ward off the blow of the sword of Fate! But watchfully
silent he awaited his enemy's conversational attack.

"Damn her! I will outwit her yet!" he silently swore.

"Before you give me your answer, Hugh Fraser," said the calm-voiced
woman, "I wish to tell you again what, in your mad jealousy, you would
not believe. I swear to you that Pierre Troubetskoi's letter, written to
my dead sister, was written in ignorance of her marriage with you. The
frightful scenes of the carnage of Paris had tossed us to and fro, and
the careless destruction of the envelope, addressed to my sister under
her maiden name, prevented me from proving her innocence as a wife.
Pierre Troubetskoi had long known my father, who had been an attache in
Russia. He was Valerie's knightly suitor. And he fell into the estates
which now burden me with wealth, while absent upon the Czar's secret
affairs. My gallant old father was sacrificed to the frenzy of the time;
his soldier's face betrayed him, his rosette of the Legion doomed him,
Troubetskoi's letter to our father demanding Valerie's hand was returned
to the writer, through the Russian Legation, a year later, after the
reorganization of the Paris Post-office. I do not ask you to believe
this, but by the God of Heaven, it is my warrant for forcing myself to
the side of my dead sister's child. She shall yet have every acre and
every rouble that Pierre Troubetskoi would have given to this child
whom you hide. My sister died with her emp