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, 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 wassail below him, while Major Alan Hawke restlessly paced his spacious 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.