her own frightened heart, she remembered the ashen pallor of her
father's face when she had faltered out the burning question of
her yearning heart--the question of long years! The past was still
a blank to her, while on this same night, crafty Alan Hawke in
Delhi, and, in far Calcutta, a woman, pacing her boudoir in sad
unrest, were both busied with the story of the vanished mother whom
the Rose of Delhi had never seen!

Alixe Delavigne, lonely and resolute, was thinking of her departure
on the morrow, to face the man who had locked his dead past in
his own marble heart, in his grand marble palace. Her busy days at
Calcutta had astounded the senior manager of Grindlay & Co. The old
banker marveled at the strange commissions and imperative orders of
his beautiful business client, but many years had taught him much
of the incomprehensibility of womanhood! Whereupon he marveled in
silence, and bowing with his hand upon his heart, assured the lady
of his absolute discretion, and the unbroken honor of the house.
"Some very queer little life histories go on out here in India!"
mused the old banker, as he handed the lady her special letter to
the Delhi agents of the great house which house which he directed.
"As beautiful as a statue, as firm as a flint! Where have I seen
a face like hers?" mused the old man, as he sought his rest.

The "beautiful statue" was steadfastly gazing at the picture of
the young Rose of Delhi, in her lonely boudoir. "She shall learn
to love her! To love her--through me! And this man of iron shall
yield! He shall hear my prayer! For, if he does not, then, he
shall be struck to the heart--blow for blow! And Fate shall pass
her over! I swear it by that lonely grave in far away Jitomir!"
There were kisses rained upon the pictured face smiling up at her,