“Because I was only a poor pilgrim of Love--a lonely woman, heart hungry for the tidings of the girl whom you have brought back to me!” The young officer gazed out of the window, and in his heart, he already pardoned her. “To those who love much, much shall be forgiven!” he reflected, with a compassion growing momentarily, for he saw the shadow of tears in the beautiful dark brown eyes. And he forbore to question her as he gazed at her glowing face. With a sudden lifting of her stately head, the woman sitting there, her heart throbbing in a strange unrest, laid her hand lightly upon his arm. “Listen to the strange story of a woman’s life!” she said slowly. “I promised His Excellency, the Viceroy, that you should know why I left the defensive lines of my sex at Geneva! For he has trusted to me, and I wish you to know--to know that--” and the sentence was never finished, for Captain Anstruther bent over her trembling hands. “I know that you are what I would have you ever be!” he simply said. And, with softly shining eyes, she told the soldier of her strange life path. It was strange that they had neared London before the whole story was concluded, and their voices had sunk into softened whispers. “You may rely upon me to the death! You may depend upon me whenever you may wish to call upon me!” he said, as the train rolled into Charing Cross station. “Major Hardwicke, of the Engineers, will be my chosen ally, and I alone am to trace out this mystery of the vanished jewels. You shall conquer! I will aid you! Amor omnia vincit! You are the only heart in the world now throbbing for that sweet girl.” But when they drove to Morley’s Hotel, far away on the sea, Harry Hardwicke’s heart was beating fondly in all a lover’s expectancy for the same friendless Rose of Delhi, and the debonnair Alan Hawke, in sight of Brindisi, mused in his deck-pacings: “I will placate Euphrosyne Delande. Justine, too, shall do my bidding, and my employer shall give me the key to this girl’s heart. For I will marry Nadme Johnstone! I am a devil for luck.” CHAPTER XII. ON THE CLIFFS OF JERSEY. Captain Anson Anstruther, A. D. C., was the very happiest of men three days later, when he watched Madame Alixe Delavigne gracefully presiding over a pretty tea table, a la russe, in the quaint old mansion, bowered in a garden sloping down to the Thames, where Miss Mildred Anstruther, a venerable maiden aunt, had her “local habitation and, a name!” A lonely woman of colossal wealth and blue blood, high in rank, and decidedly of riper years.