her fingers still clutching the photograph.

"There is a physician near by," hazarded a sympathetic woman who
had crowded into the room. The music had stopped with a crash.

"Summon him at once!" energetically ordered Hawke. "Some brandy--quick!"
he cried, listening to her agonized words, "Valerie! My God! It
is Valerie herself! My poor sister!" In a few moments an elderly
man parted the assembling loiterers. His bustling air of command
soon dispelled the loiterers. A woman attendant was bending over
the still senseless woman as the spectacled medico seized Alan
Hawke's arm. "Has your wife ever had a previous heart attack?" he
gravely asked, as he opened his lancet case. Major Hawke shook his
head, and gazed pityingly upon the beautiful pallid face before
him.

"Can I be of any use to Monsieur?" demanded the chef d'orchestre
in evening grand tenue, his baton still in his hand.

There was a glance of wondering astonishment as the Englishman faced
the speaker. "Wieniawski--Casimir, you here?" The other dropped his
voice as the physician ripped up the sleeve of the patient's gown.

"Major Hawke, I thought you were still in Delhi? Your wife--"
faltered the artist, as he listened to a low moan when the lancet
blade entered the ivory arm of the sufferer. Then, with a backward
step, he pressed his hands to his brows. "My God! It is Alixe
Delavigne!" he brokenly said. But Hawke sprang to his side and
quickly drew him from the room.