They shall have my next address given to them as Delhi.

The real Major Hawke dives under the troubled sea of Life at Paris, only to emerge at Calcutta! Ram Lal is like all his kind, a coward at heart! He has not denounced me, for, if he had, Captain Anstruther would have nabbed me in England.

He acts by the Viceroy's private cabled orders.
No! The coast is all clear for my dash at the enemy's works!" Before the morning dawned on the sea-girt coast of La Manche, Marie Victor had duly telegraphed Major Hawke's impending departure for India to the beautiful recluse who now cheered the lonely bride of "the Moonshee," at the old Norman chateau, embowered in its splendid gardens, within a league of the Banker's Folly.
Alan Hawke, closely shaven, and masquerading in a French commis-voyageur's modest garb, was seated at ease in Etienne Garcin's death-trap at the Cor d'Abundance, in foggy Granville.

His darkened locks and nondescript garb thoroughly effaced the "officer and gentleman." One of the old French villain's wickedest and prettiest woman decoys was coquettishly serving Hawke's breakfast as he read the burning words of Justine Delande's message from the heart.

The last greeting, tear-blotted, and promptly sent to the Hotel Binda.
"It's a wild day, a wild-looking place, and a wild enough sea," grumbled Major Hawke, gazing out of the grimy window at the rolling green surges breaking, white-capped, far out beyond the new pier, where the black cannon were drenched and crusted with the salty flying scud.