s all!" glowered Ram Lal, as he straightened up from his low
salaam. "I'll have those stolen jewels yet. Now is the time to gain his
confidence. He is an old man, and weak, and, cowardly."

When Major Hawke entered the great doors of the marble house, he was
gravely received by Mademoiselle Justine Delande. "He has been asking
every ten minutes for you," she said. "I am to show you at once to his
rooms."

"Now, what's this? what's all this?" cheerfully cried the Major as he
entered the vast sleeping-room of the Anglo-Indian. Old Johnstone feebly
pointed to the door, and motioned to his attendants to leave the room.
He was worn and gaunt, and his ashen cheeks and sunken eyes told of some
great inward convulsion. He had aged ten years since the pompous tiffin.
"I'm not well, Hawke! Come here! Near to me!" he huskily cried. And
then, the hunter and the hunted gazed mutely into each other's eyes.

"What's gone wrong?" frankly demanded the Major. The old man scowled in
silence for a moment.

"I have no one I dare trust but you," he unwillingly said. "You know
something of my position, my future. I want to know if you have ever met
this woman who has taken the Silver Bungalow--a kind of a French woman.
There's her card." Old Johnstone's haggard eyes followed Hawke, as he
silently studied the bit of pasteboard.

"Madams Berthe Louison," he gravely read. And, then, with a magnificent
audacity, he lied successfully. "Never even heard the name," he
murmured.

"Fellows at the Club speaking of some such woman today. Pretty woman, I
supppose a declasste." Hawke, lifted his eyebrows.

"No, a she-devil!" almost shouted old Hugh. "Now, I want you to watch
her and find out who her backers are. She is trying to annoy me. Be
prudent, and I'll make it a year's pay to you." Hawke's greedy eyes
lightened as he bowed. "But never mention my name. Come here as often
as you will. Go now and look up what you can. I'll see you to-morrow, in
the afternoon. Don't scrape acquaintance with her. Just watch her. I'm
going there to-morrow morning myself."

"You?" said Hawke.

"Yes," half groaned the old man, turning his face to the wall. "Come
to-morrow afternoon. Spare no money. I'll make it right. Don't linger a
minute now."

Major Alan Hawke was gayly buoyant as the horses trotted back to Ram Lal
Singh's, where he proposed to await the hour of ten o'clock. "I fancy,
my lady, that you, too, will pay toll, as well as Hugh Johnstone,"
he mur