Ram Lal Singh was the last watcher in Delhi who coveted a glimpse
that night into the dim future. The old schemer sat alone in his
favorite den in rear of the shop. His round, black eyes surveyed
complacently his faithful domestics, sleeping on the floor at the
threshold of the doors of the four rooms opening into the central
hall of his shop. A single clap of his hands, and these faithful
retainers were ready to rise, tulwar in hand, and cut down any
intruder.

The old jewel merchant's eye roved over the medley of priceless
bric-a-brac in the main hall. The spoils of temple and olden palace
cast grotesque, soft, dark shadows on the floor, under the glimmer
of the swinging cresset lamp filled with perfumed nut oil. Seated
cross-legged, and nursing the mouth-piece of his narghileh, Ram
Lal pondered long over the sudden appearance of the rehabilitated
Major Hawke, and the coming of the rich Mem-Sahib who was to be a
hidden bird in the luxurious nest already awaiting its inmate.

Ram Lal was vaguely uneasy, as he glanced at the pretty pavilion
in his own compound, where languid loveliness awaited his approach.
He resigned himself with a sigh to his lonely schemes. He rose and
with his own hand, poured out a draught of the forbidden strong
waters of the Feringhee.

Dropping down upon the cushions, he reviewed the whole day's doings.
"It is not for him, for Hawke Sahib, this bungalow of delight is
made ready! And the old Sahib is to know nothing. Can it be a trap
for him? I am to watch the old man for Hawke Sahib. This woman
who comes. They say here he will go soon away, over the sea to the
court of the Kaisar-I-Hind. He is rich, why does he linger? And