unction that a mighty protector had been raised up for the adventurous
Justine, now supposed to be environed with all the glittering snares
of society, as well as enveloped in the mystic jungle.

A week later, when Euphrosyne Delande laid down the pen and abandoned
her unfinished "Lecture Upon the Influence of the Allobroges, Romans,
Provencal Franks, Burgundians, and Germans Upon the Intellectual
Development of Geneva," she read Alan Hawke's letter with a thrill
of secret pride.

The smooth adventurer had written: "If I have the future pleasure
of meeting Mademoiselle Justine Delande I only hope to find a
resemblance to her charming and distinguished sister. As my movements
are necessarily secret, pray write only in the utmost confidence
to Mademoiselle Justine. I hope to soon return and enjoy once more
the hospitalities of your intellectual circle." The address given
for India was "Bombay Club." Miss Euphrosyne gazed up at the stony
lineaments of Professor Delande, her marble-browed and flinty-hearted
sire, locked in the cold chill of a steel engraving. He was
as neutral as the busts of Buffon, Cuvier, Laplace, Humboldt, and
Pestalozzi, which coldly furnished forth her sanctum. She thought
of the eloquent eyed young Major and sadly sighed. She proceeded
to enshrine him in her withered heart, and then wrote a crossed
letter of many tender underlinings to her distant sister. And thus
the pathway was made very smooth for the artful wanderer, who had
already stepped upon the decks of the Sepoy.

Major Hawke had dispatched an excellent breakfast before he stepped
into the carriage to be whirled away to Montreux. His bridges
were burned behind him. There was not a vestige of Madame Berthe