Alan Hawke had already abandoned the idea of any sentimental
advances upon Alixe Delavigne. "Strange, strange," he murmured; "a
woman can sometimes easily be flattered into a second conjugation
of the verb 'To Love,' but an internal previous evidence of man's
unreliability can do that which no personal sorrow can effect.
The key to this woman's behavior is in the story of her sister's
shadowed life.

"The hiatus from Hugh Fraser to Pierre Troubetskoi covers the tragedy
of Valerie Delavigae's life, the death blow was then struck, and
the central figure is the child. So, with the strangely acquired
fortune at her beck and call, Alixe Delavigne has consecrated
herself to that most illogical of human careers--a woman's silent
vengeance! That achieved, will the furnace fires of her stormy
heart be lit by the hand of passion?"

He ruminated sagely over these matters as he sped on over the Great
Indian Peninsula Railway. The western Ghauts were now far behind
him and their dark basalt crags. Bombay, Hyderabad, Berar, the
Central Provinces, Central India, and the southern prong of Oude
was reached. He was, however, no whit the wiser when he reached
the Ganges and hastily sought the telegraph station at Allahabad.
But he felt like a prince in the direct line of succession with his
net eight hundred pounds still to the good. His first care was to
telegraph to Madame Berthe Louison, to the care of Grindley, at
Calcutta: "Waiting at Allahabad for your letters, and news of your
safe arrival." While rushing past the Vindhia Mountains he had
encountered several of his old Indian acquaintances. The mere hint
of a secret governmental employ of gravity satisfied the languid