“By God!” he cried, forgetting himself. “That’s just his little game! It must never be! See here, Justine! I have reason to think that you are right. He may try to spirit her away and separate her forever from you and Euphrosyne. He would cut off the only two friends who could connect her with this strange past. Yes, that’s his little game! And--” he slowly concluded, controlling himself, “I have reason to think he may go about it at once. He is afraid of me, also, about some old official business. Now, I will watch over your interests. The least this old miser can do is to give you a neat little home in Geneva, as a final recompense.” Justine Delande’s eyes sparkled in gratitude. The acute Major had easily learned from the garrulous Francois that the “Institut Pour les Jeunes Dames” was an intellectual property only; the fine old mansion belonging to a rich Genevese banker. Major Alan Hawke was now busied in writing upon a few leaves torn from his betting book. “Listen to me!” he gravely said. “Promise me that you will never let these papers leave you a moment.” “I will carry them in my passport case, around my neck,” murmured Justine. “My money in notes, and a few articles.” “Good!” energetically cried Hawke. “I will write the same to Euphrosyne, and send it by ‘registered post’ to-day.” “Here!” he suddenly cried, “Just pencil a few words to her to say that you are with me, and that we understand each other; that our interests are to be one; and that she must keep the faith and help us both, for both our sakes. I will mail it so that old Johnstone will be powerless to injure any of us three.” He gave her another leaflet from his book, and detached a golden pencil from his watch chain. There was a crimson flush upon her cheek, as she vainly essayed to write. Her hand trembled, and then with a sob, her head fell upon her breast; with an infinite art, the triumphant renegade soothed the excited woman, and, it was only through her happy tears that she saw him, before her there, duplicating the secret addresses.