Emmanuele, at Brindisi. Money," she said, almost bitterly, "would
be telegraphed; and so, I say"--he listened breathlessly--"au
revoir--at Brindisi!" she concluded, giving him her hand, with a
frank smile.

As Alan Hawke descended the stair, he growled. "A woman without a
heart, and--not without a head!" As he calmly answered the manager's
polite inquiry for Madame's health, the "heartless woman" whom he
had left was lying sobbing in the dark room above--crying, in her
anguish, "Valerie! My poor, dead Valerie! I go to your child!"

But, none suspected her departure, when the trimly-clad woman
glided out of the entrance of the Hotel Faucon, at eleven o'clock.
The maid was in waiting on the circular place in front with
a carriage, and the key of the apartment lay in a sealed envelope
on Alan Hawke's table, which proves that a few francs are just as
potent in Switzerland as the same number of shillings in London,
or dollars in New York. It was a clear case of "stole away."

When Major Alan Hawke leaned over the supper table at the Casino,
pledging Madame Frangipanni's bright eyes in very fair cafe champagne,
he nervously started as he heard the wailing whistle and clanging
bells of the through train for Constance. He forgot the faded
complexion, the worn face, the chemically tinted hair and haggard
eyes of the broken-down Austrian blonde concert singer, in the
exhilaration of Berthe Louison's departure.

For he had not lost Professor Casimir Wieniawski from sight a moment
since the hour of ten, and that "distinguished noble refugee" was
now in a maudlin way, murmuring perfunctory endearments in the ear