A Fascinating Traitor Part 8

"I'll go over to the club now and get a room! Send all my things over!"

said the Major. "I wish to let Hugh know that I am here. I will give you the directions about the house to-morrow. Make no mistake with this message now!" Whereat Alan Hawke repeated a few words which would awake the slumbering curiosity in the woman-heart of the lonely Justine Delande!

"Now, I will return and await your success," concluded Hawke as he read over a dozen times Madame Berthe Louison's long dispatch, ordering him to prepare her pied de terre in Delhi. "Gad! Milady means to do the thing in style," he murmured. "She is a deep one, and she must have a pot of money!" He lit a cheroot and sauntered away to show up officially at the club. Major Hawke soon became aware that nothing succeeds like success. Not only did all the flaneurs of the Chandnee Chouk seize upon him, but, from pa.s.sing carriages, bright, roguish eyes merrily challenged him as the hot-hearted English Mem-Sahibs whirled by.

Rumor had magnified the importance of Major Alan Hawke's secret service appointment, and the wanderer was astounded when the highest official of the Delhi College gravely saluted him.

"By Gad! I believe that I am really becoming respectable!" laughed the delighted major. His uncertain past seemed to be fast fading away in the glow of the skillfully hinted official promotion. "I wonder now if old Ram Lal has a hold on my canny friend, Hugh Fraser Johnstone--Sir Hugh to be! Perhaps they are like all the rest of us--rascals of the same grade, but only in different ways. The old jewel matters! I must look to this and watch Ram Lal!" The returned Anglo-Indian carelessly nodded to the group of men gathered in the club's lounging-room as he entered.

Designedly, he loudly demanded to know if his traps had arrived. "Left all my odds and ends in store," he murmured to a friend, as he called for a brandy p.a.w.nee. "Beastly bore! Must wait orders here for some time!"

Skilled at tossing the ball of conversation to and fro, Major Alan Hawke, while at luncheon, artfully planted seeds here and there, to be neatly dished up later for that incipient baronet, Hugh Johnstone. And yet a graceful shade of dignified reserve lent color to his rumored advancement, and the schemer leaned over the writing table with quite a foreign-office air as he indited his diplomatic note of arrival to his destined prey.

With a grave air he selected his rooms and accommodations to suit his swelling port, and even the club stewards nodded in recognition of the tidal wave of Alan Hawke's mended fortunes.

With due official gravity the man "who had dropped into a good thing,"

disappeared, to allow the gilded youth of Delhi to carry the gossip to mess and bungalow. It was a welcome morsel to these merry crows!

It was late when the handsome Major returned to find a small pyramid of notes on his table and many letters in his box. He was in the highest good humor, for the wary Ram Lal had most diplomatically acquitted his task of opening a secret communication.

"Just as I thought," laughed the Major, as he sipped his pale ale in Ram Lal's s.p.a.cious room of pleasaunce. "They all protest, woman-like, but they all come!"

The watchful Swiss exile's heart fluttered tenderly in the far-off Lotos land at the arrival of a secret friend of her sage sister. She longed for the morning to meet her new friend. Alan Hawke's irresistible attractions had pointed the praises which flowed smoothly over the double crossed letter which had preceded him! The oily Ram Lal, a veteran observer of many an intrigue, scented a budding rose of romance in the Major's adroit coup, and the arrival of the only lady whom Alan Hawke had ever socially fathered in Delhi.

"In three days I will be all ready! So you can telegraph to-night,"

reported the merchant, when the Major carefully went over all the details of the proposed temporary establishment of the disguised Alixe Delaviarne.

"Very good!" approvingly answered the dignified confidant and patron.

"See here, Ram Lal! You have only to serve me well in these little private matters, and you shall handle all the coming Mem-Sahib's money business here! She wants to be quiet. I am to direct all her private matters! Not a word, however, to old Hugh!" The two men separated, Hawke with the knowledge that one of Ram's men had already glided into the swarming household entourage of Hugh Johnstone's stately home, and the spy was on every movement of the strange interior, which defied the Delhi beaux.

"Not a bad day's work," mused Hawke, as he dined in solitary state. The hospitable bidding of the wealthiest civilian of Delhi to tiffin on the morrow brought him in touch with Alixe Delavigne's proposed victim once more. The delighted rascal mused: "I will surely have letters from her to-morrow, possibly even a telegram of her arrival. When the silly Swiss woman is the partner of an innocent secret, she is mine to control! Then the chase for a few lacs of rupees begins!"

Major Hawke was somewhat startled at the little avalanche of welcoming cards and notes. "Bravo! this will throw old Hugh off the track a bit also. The simple duty of piquing local curiosity shall open all hearts, hearths, and homes to me!" And then, Alan Hawke joyously realized how easily the light-headed world can be fooled to the top of its bent by the hollow trick of a bit of mystery play.

"This falls out rightly," he mused. "I will take up all the threads of my old society life and Madame Berthe Louison may deign to confide a bit in me the first half of the story forced from her, then I will guess out all the missing links of the chain. Once domiciled here, she is helpless in my hands, for I can either gain her inner secrets, or boldly checkmate her. And the veiled Rose of Delhi?"

Alan Hawke dreamed not of the sorrows of the restless heart beating in that virginal bosom. He paced the veranda of the Club gravely preoccupied till the midnight hour. Long before that, Justine Delande had sought her rooms in a feeble flutter of excitement over the harmless a.s.signation of the morrow. There was a stern old man pacing his splendid hall alone, with an unhappy heart, that night, for Hugh Johnstone saw again in the sweet uplifted eyes of his beautiful child the old unanswered question!

He stood long gazing out upon the unpitying stars, while above him, lonely and lovely, Nadine recked not the queenly splendor of her magnificent apartment. Glittering wealth, splendid train of servants, the golden future stretching out before her, all this she noted not, for, even in the gray, colorless life of the pension school at Geneva, soft-eyed Hope whispered to her of a gentle and gracious mother!

Loved--gone before, but not lost--and, here in the land of gaudy Asiatic splendors, a strange land of wonderment and fairy riches, she sobbed alone in her heart anguish:

"He will not speak! He tells me nothing! A marble palace this, but never a home!" The timid girl had seen no beloved woman's face upon the fretwork of the walls of this Aladdin's castle. And, in 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, a.s.sured 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 pa.s.s 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, the face which had called back to her the dead past, and then the "beautiful statue" tore aside her gown. She gazed upon a folded paper which had long lain upon her throbbing heart.

"This shall speak for me--at the last! His pride shall bend! He shall not break the child's heart! For the mother's sake, I swear it! She shall love and be loved!" and as she spoke, in far away Delhi sweet Nadine stirred in her sleep, and smiled, with opening arms, for the phantom mother she fondly sought seemed to clasp her now to a loving breast!

In the Delhi Club there was high wa.s.sail below him, while Major Alan Hawke restlessly paced his s.p.a.cious rooms above, watching the lonely white moon sail through the clearest skies on earth. The quid mines had all observed the patiently haughty air of the returned Major, and even the chattering club stewards marveled at the sudden efflorescence of Hawke Sahib's fortunes.

"Devilish neat-handed fellow, Hawke," growled old Major Bingo Morris, over his whist cards. "Close-mouthed fellow! Always wonder why he left the service! Neat rider! Good hand with gun and spear! He ought to be in our Staff Corps! He knows every inch of the northern frontier!" The old Major glared around, inviting further comment.

"Fellow in Bombay tells me he went a cropper about some woman or other, ten years ago," lisped a rosy young lieutenant who was spreading the golden revenues of a home brewery over the pitfall-dotted path of a rich Indian sub.

"Right you are!" sententiously remarked Verner of the Horse Artillery.

"He went a stunning pace for a while, and at last had to get out. Big flirtation--wife of commanding officer! Hawke acted very nicely. Said nothing--sacrificed himself. That's why the women all like him. Very safe man. But, he's a shy bird now." They dissected his past, guessed at his present, but could not read his future!

And then and there, the man who knew it all, told of the mysterious governmental quest confided to Major Alan Hawke. "You see, he has a sort of roving commission in mufti, to counteract the ceaseless undermining of the Russian agents in Persia, Afghanistan and in the Pamirs. We always bear the service brand too openly. It gives away our own military agents. Now, Hawke's a fellow like Alikhanoff, that smart Russian duffer! He can do the Persian, Afghan, or Thibetan to perfection! He has been on to London. Some morning he will clear out. You'll hear of him next at Kashgar, or in Bhootan, or perhaps he will work down into China and report to the Minister there. He is a Secret Intelligence Department of One, that's all!"

"That's all very irregular for Her Majesty's Service," growled an envious agnostic.

"Bah! Secret Service has no rules, you know," said the man who knew it all, thrusting his lips deeply into a brandy p.a.w.nee.

And so it was noted that Alan Hawke was a devilish pleasant fellow, a rising man, and one who had certainly dropped into an extremely good thing. The tide of Fortune was setting directly in favor of the man who, pacing the floor upstairs, unavailingly tormented himself with the subject of the missing jewels.

"If I could only get a hold on Hugh Johnstone!" mused the adventurer.

"Berthe Louison knows nothing of these old matters. She only seeks to approach the child. And she will be here to watch me in a day or so.

Ram Lal, the old scoundrel! Does he know? If he did, he would bleed the would-be Baronet on his own account. But he may not know of the golden opportunity, and the old wretch always has many irons himself in the fire. Hugh Fraser was a canny Scot in his youth. Sir Hugh Johnstone is a horse of another color. If old Johnstone has the jewels, why does he not yield them up? Perhaps he wants the Baronetcy first, and then his memory may be strangely refreshed."

As the wanderer strode up and down the room like a restless wolf, he returned in his memories to the strange intimacy of Hugh Fraser and Ram Lal. "I have it!" he cried. "I will kill two birds with one stone. My pretty 'employer' shall furnish the golden means to loosen old Ram Lal's tongue. This Swiss woman is fond of gewgaws, he tells me. I will let Ram Lal 'squeeze' the Madame's household accounts to his heart's content. If the Swiss woman is susceptible, she can be delicately bribed with jewels paid for by my haughty employer's money, and my feeding this 'bucksheesh' out to Ram Lal liberally may bring him to talk of the old days. I must give Hugh Johnstone the idea that I am inside the official secrets as to the affair of the Baronetcy. Fear will make him bend, if he is guilty, and I will alarm Ram Lal at the right time. If they have any old bond of union, the ex-Commissioner may turn to me for help, and all this will bring me nearer to the still heart-whole woman who is hidden in that marble prison. I will make my strongest running on the Swiss woman. Once the bond of friendly secrecy established between us, she can be fed, bit by bit, for then she dare not break away."

Ram Lal Singh was the last watcher in Delhi who coveted a glimpse that night into the dim future. The old schemer sat alone in his favorite den in rear of the shop. His round, black eyes surveyed complacently his faithful domestics, sleeping on the floor at the threshold of the doors of the four rooms opening into the central hall of his shop. A single clap of his hands, and these faithful retainers were ready to rise, tulwar in hand, and cut down any intruder.

The old jewel merchant's eye roved over the medley of priceless bric-a-brac in the main hall. The spoils of temple and olden palace cast grotesque, soft, dark shadows on the floor, under the glimmer of the swinging cresset lamp filled with perfumed nut oil. Seated cross-legged, and nursing the mouth-piece of his narghileh, Ram Lal pondered long over the sudden appearance of the rehabilitated Major Hawke, and the coming of the rich Mem-Sahib who was to be a hidden bird in the luxurious nest already awaiting its inmate.

Ram Lal was vaguely uneasy, as he glanced at the pretty pavilion in his own compound, where languid loveliness awaited his approach. He resigned himself with a sigh to his lonely schemes. He rose and with his own hand, poured out a draught of the forbidden strong waters of the Feringhee.

Dropping down upon the cus.h.i.+ons, he reviewed the whole day's doings. "It is not for him, for Hawke Sahib, this bungalow of delight is made ready!

And the old Sahib is to know nothing. Can it be a trap for him? I am to watch the old man for Hawke Sahib. This woman who comes. They say here he will go soon away, over the sea to the court of the Kaisar-I-Hind. He is rich, why does he linger? And perhaps not return.

"All these long years of my watch thrown away! For, never a single one of the sacred jewels has he shown me! They have never seen the light since the awful day in Humayoon's Tomb. Has he the jewels? Does he hide them? Has he buried them? Has he sent them away? If he has them, then he dies the death of a dog. The jewels of a king to be the spoil of a low tax-gatherer! The King of Kings.

"But why does he not go? I have watched him for years.

"There is some reason! Hawke Sahib shall tell me all! He must tell!

He needs my help!" The old man's slumbers were haunted with the olden memories of a day of doom, the day when the bodies of the sacred Princes of Oude lay naked in the glaring sun as they were despoiled after Hodson's pistol had done its b.l.o.o.d.y work. "They may have taken them all from him, these English are greedy spoilers," muttered the crafty old man, as his head fell upon the silken cus.h.i.+ons with a curse. He was a rebel still, as rank as Tantia Topee.

In the splendid marble palace of Hugh Johnstone, the startled Justine Delande was awake long before the dawn, thinking only of the meeting of the morning, her bosom heaving with its first questionable secret, but Major Alan Hawke smiled as he leisurely breakfasted later, reading a telegram just received. "On my way. Will come to private address. Send servants to Allahabad to join me. Silence and discretion.--Lausanne."

CHAPTER V. A DIPLOMATIC TIFFIN.

Major Alan Hawke had designedly breakfasted in the stately seclusion of his rooms, and as he came gravely sauntering into the Club ordinary, was at once beset by a friendly chorus, as he carelessly glanced over the morning letters which attested his progress toward the social zenith.

He, however, gazed impatiently at the club-house door, where a neat pair of ponies awaited him, with servants deftly purveyed by the subtle Ram Lal. His two body servants were also afrites of the same sly Aladdin.

His swelling port duly impressed his old friends.

The man "who had dropped into a good thing" gently put aside sundry hospitable proffers, politely laughed away several tempting bargains as to horses, carriages, furnished bungalows, and offers of racing engagements, hunting bouts, and "private" dinners. "Waiting orders, d'ye see!" he gently murmured. "Not worth while to set up anything!"