of the honest old boy, mentally deciding to play off Miss Genie against Mad-ame Berthe Louison.
“I will give these strange girls ‘a day out.’ It may reduce the nez retroussee my mysterious employer.” And so he dreamed that night that he was an assistant presiding genius of the great pig Golgotha, where Phineas Forbes was the monarch of the meat ax. “Right smart girls, and you bet they can take care of themselves,” was the last encomium of their self-denying parent which rang in Alan Hawke’s ears as he wandered away into the Land of Nod.
“They are a queer lot,” laughed the happy schemer, as he woke next day to his closing labors at Geneva. “Now, for my check cashing, then, Monsieur Francois, a farewell visit to Miss Euphrosyne, and a secret council with the fair Genie,” He merrily breakfasted, and was more than rewarded for his Mephistophelian entertainment of Francois. The sly Figaro “parted freely,” and when he slunk back to the “Institute” he was the richer by fifty francs. Major Hawke was the happy possessor of the coveted photographs, and a private address of Francois, artfully informing that person that he was going to London, and on his return, in a few months, desired a cicerone in the hypocritically placid town. Francois’s eyes gleamed in a happy anticipation of more Cognac and many easily earned francs. “Now, Madame Berthe, I think I have the key of the enigma! I see a year’s assured comfort before me, for I can play the part of the Saxon troops at Leipzig,” the schemer joyously ruminated.
His farewell to Miss Delande impressed that thrifty dame with the golden fortunes which had descended upon her sister. “Should you return to India, Major,” she sibillated, “I will give you a confidential letter to Justine, for I know there is no one more fitted to remain in charge of sweet Nadine than my dear sister!” The Major blushingly accepted the honor, and directed the letter to be sent at once to Morley’s Hotel, for, as he mysteriously whispered,
“The Foreign office may send me back to India—in fact, I may be telegraphed for at any moment, and your sister will surely find a fast friend in me.”
“Easily gulled!” laughed Alan Hawke. “I will sweeten’ upon Miss Justine; those thin lips indicate the auri sacra fames. These miserly Swiss sisters may aid me to approach the veiled Rose Bird.” His delight at fingering the crisp proceeds of Anstruther’s check sent him to the Ouchy steamer in the very happiest of moods, and, his cup was running over when the birdlike Miss Genie Forbes descended upon him to announce a meeting on the morrow at Montreux.
“We can do the castle, and essay the airy railroad at Territet Glion, have a jolly dinner on the hill, and come home on the last boat! You be sure to meet Phenie and me.” The astounded Major murmured his delight and surprise. “Oh! Popper will let us go up there. He likes you—he says that you are a thoroughbred. So, we’ll cut the other fellows and come alone. Say, can’t you scare up another fellow like yourself for Phenie?” Whereat Alan Hawke laughed, and promised to secure an eligible “fellow” among the migratory Englishmen hovering around Lausanne-Ouchy, and he pledged a future friendship with the patient Phineas Forbes, who lingered in the cafe, engulfing cocktails, while “Mother and Phenie were out shopping.” The vivacious Genie had confided to her callous swain that she had watched him as he lingered on Rousseau’s Island.
“I rather thought that you were sick and distressed, you looked so peaked like, and I was mighty near speaking to you. I was just bound to meet you.” And upon this frank declaration, Alan Hawke kissed her firm white hand, agreeing to her plans, and the glow of prosperity shone out upon his impassive face, as he glided away to meet the strange woman whom he distrusted. “I hold the trump cards now, my lady!” he cried, as he watched Miss Genie’s handkerchief fluttering on the quay. Major Alan Hawke wasted no time in his three hours’ voyage to Lausanne-Ouchy in carefully preparing for his interview with Madame Berthe Louison. He abandoned the idea of trying the “whip hand,” remembering how suddenly he had descended from the “high horse.” “Bah! She is about as sentimental as a rat-tail file. However, she is good for my passage to India, at any rate, and, the nearer I am to old Johnstone and this pretty heiress to be, the better my all-round chances are.” So, he contented himself with watching the pictured shores of Lake Leman glide by, and wondering if he might not turn aside safely to the chase of the bright-eyed, sharp-featured, Miss Genie Forbes. He had profited by Phineas Forbes’s frank disclosures, and yet the Madame Sans Gene manners of the heiresses rather frightened him. He was aware from the amatory failure in the dim old cathedral that Miss Genie was armed cap-a-pie. “Those American girls, apparently so approachable, are all ready to stand to arms at a moment’s notice.” And so, he drifted back in his day dreams toward the Land of the Pagoda Tree, with Ouchy and Chillon. He studied the beautiful face of the lonely child from the school-girl photograph, and decided, in spite of hideous frocks and a lack of conventional war paint, that she was a rare beauty.
“Yes! She will do—with the money. All she needs is the art to show off her points, and that is easily gained. The recruits in Vanity Fair easily pick up the tricks of society, and old Hugh’s money and prospective elevation will surely draw suitors around like flies swarming near the honey.” The boat gracefully glided in to the port of Ouchy before Major Hawke’s day dream faded away.
A flattering dream which led him on to a future gilded by Sir Hugh Johnstone’s money. He longed to ruffle it bravely with the best. To hold up his head once more in official circles, and to smother the ugly floating memories ef a renegade who had served those English guns under the fierce Sikkim hill tribes against his one-time fellow soldiers. “I must have that money, with or without the girl! There must be a way to it! I will cut through the barriers to get it!” There was a steely glitter in his blue eyes as he murmured: “Now for the fox’s hide! She shall have her way—for a time! My play comes on later, when the deal is with me!”
He sprang lightly ashore, and was chatting with the gold-banded porter of the Hotel Faucon, when a lovely face, thrilling in its awakened emotion, met his glance at the window of a carriage. He dispatched his luggage to the Faucon, and sprang lightly in the carriage when the omnibuses had departed for the Lausanne plateau. Alan Hawke was carefully deferential in his greeting and he meekly answered all the rapid queries of his mysterious employer.
“You have closed up your own private affairs?” she briskly queried.
“All is ready for the road in one day more. I have a private social engagement for to-morrow,” he replied. “But I brought you all the sailing dates and the detailed information you requested.”
“You obtained the pictures safely, then, and with a prudent caution,” anxiously demanded Madame Louison.
“You shall know all soon. I hope that I have satisfied you!” he said, handing her a packet, failing to tell her that he had kept two pictures of the far-away girl for his own private use. They were now near the plateau where the Hotel Faucon shows its semi-circular front to the splendid panorama unrolled before its windows.
An afternoon concert was in progress at the Casino, near the local museum. “We will stop here for a few moments,” said the excited woman. “You can go on alone, and walk over to the hotel and secure your own rooms. Then send your card up to me in the usual manner. To-night we will go out separately and meet for a conference. We can arrange all our business.” The Major bowed submissively, and assisted the lady to alight.
Madame Louison dismissed her carriage, and the confederates-to-be entered the afternoon concert room. A superb orchestra was playing the finishing bars of the last number on the program, and the audience had dwindled away to a few knots of demure residents. Following his passive policy, the adventurer sat silently, stealing oblique glances at his companion as she nervously unfolded the wrappings of the coveted pictures. There was a gasp, a low moan, as the woman’s head fell back. Alan Hawke’s strong arms were clasped round her, as she leaned back helplessly in her fauteuil. But a smile of secret triumph was on his face as he quickly bore the helpless
