come the
richest son-in-law in India." But the handsome Alan Hawke, each morning
lingering with Justine Delande in the grounds of the marble house,
never saw the face of Nadine Johnstone. The beautiful girl breathlessly
awaited her new-made friend's return. But stern old Hugh Johnstone, at
Calcutta, laughed as he thought of his own secret coup de main.

"Wait! Wait till I return!" he gloated. "She is powerless now!"

CHAPTER VIII. HARRY HARDWICKE TAKES THE GATE NEATLY.

In the few days succeeding Hugh Johnstone's still unsuspected departure,
the dull fires of a growing jealousy burned and smouldered in Captain
Harry Hardwicke's agitated heart. The old nabob had neatly slipped away
in the night, on a special engine, and the Captain heard all the growing
tattle of Delhi, as to the social activity at the marble house. The
open hospitable board of General Willoughby rang with the very wildest
rumors. Alan Hawke seemed to be the "Prince Charming" of the hidden
festivities.

Hardwicke, on the eve of his Majority, now darkly moped in his rooms,
undecided to apply for a long home leave, unwilling to leave Delhi, and
even afraid to ask his general for any positive favor as to a future
station. Club and mess bandied the freest tattle as to old Hugh
Johnstone's lovely "importation." Men eyed the prosperous Major Alan
Hawke on his rising pathway with a growing envy. There was a smart
coterie who now firmly believed that the Major's only "secret business"
was to marry the Rose of Delhi, and then, departing on an extended
honeymoon, leave the "Diamond Nabob," as the ci-devant Hugh Fraser was
called, free to proclaim Madame Berthe Louison, queen of the marble
house, and sharer of his expected dignity, the crown of his life, the
long-coveted Baronetcy. When old Major Verner growled:

"That's the scheme, Hardwicke! My Lady of France makes the condition
that the young heiress shall be settled first. Gad! What a lucky dog
Hawke is!" Then, Harry Hardwicke suddenly discovered that he loved the
moonlight beauty of his dreams--the fair veiled Rose of Delhi. Hawke
rose up as a darkly menacing cloud on his future.

His morning rides were now but keen inspections of the Commissioner's
garden, and, lingering on the Chandnee Chouk, he knew, by experiments,
conducted with a beating heart, just where Justine Delande was wont
to wander in the lonely labyrinth, with her lovely young charge. A low
double gate, a break in the high stone