When the receipt for his registered letter was laid away in his pocket-book, Alan Hawke calmly ordered his carriage.

"I'll take a brush around town and show them that I am out of all these intrigues," he decided.

It was six hours later when he drew up at the Club, having passed Madame Berthe Louison's splendid turnout swinging down the Chandnee Chouk.

On the box the alert Jules, in a yager's uniform, sat beside the dusky driver, and, even in the dusk, he could see the neat French maid seated, facing her mistress.
"By God! She has the nerve of a Field Marshal! She will never hide her light under a bushel!" he had gasped when Madame Louison, at ten feet distant, gazed at him impassively through her longue vue, and then calmly cut him.

He was soon besieged by a crowd of gay gossips at the Club upon dismounting from his trap.
"Tell us, Hawke, who is the wonderful beauty who has taken the Silver Bungalow," was the excited chorus.
"How the devil should I know, when you fellows do not," good-humoredly cried Alan Hawke, as the Club steward edged his way through the throng.
"There's a message for you, Major," said the functionary.