Her life is a sealed book to all, and a mere business interest has
drawn us together." The Englishman went callously on: "There are
a couple of mountainously rich American girls coming down here
to-morrow at nine o'clock to spend the day at Chillon with me. I
need a running mate. Will you then meet me at the Montreux Landing?
You can have a day off, and these young fools are fat pigeons,
ardent, and enthusiastic." Hawke saw the hesitation on the man's
face.

"You can say to Madame Frangipanni that you are with me and that
I will explain later at the dinner." With a glance at his watch,
Alan Hawke rang for the Oberkellner. He was extending his hand in
goodnight, when the refugee cried imploringly, "I must see her once
more! Tell me of her journey!" and Major Hawke deliberately lied
to the poor vaurien artist, the wreck of his better self. "The
through train to Paris is her only address. I presume that Madame
Delavigne will spend some time in a sanitarium after this heart
attack, and she has my banker's address. It is only through them
that we meet to arrange some affairs of business. Whether maid, wife,
or widow, I know not, for you know what women are--sealed books to
their enemies, and to their husbands and lovers--only enigmas!

"But fail not to meet me. I'll give you a pleasant day. You will
find the two Americans both gushing and susceptible." Then as
Major Alan Hawke stepped lightly away to the sedately closed Hotel
Faucon, Casimir Wieniawski staggered back into the cafe.

His fit of passionate sorrow was brief, for in a half hour he was
the king of a mad revel, where his meaner sycophants divided Alan
Hawke's bounty. The cool Major strode along happy hearted to his