linens, his pith helmet and floating puggaree. The prudent air of
judicious mystery lately adopted sat easily upon him as his eye roved
over the familiar scenes of old with a silent gleam of recognition,
he followed a confidential attendant who salaamed, murmuring "My
master awaits the sahib whom he delights to love and honor."

"There is one card I must play at once," murmured Hawke, as the
carriage sped along. "Mademoiselle Justine Delande must be my secret
friend! I wonder if Euphrosyne really swallowed the bait! If she
has fallen into the trap and written to her sister, then--all is
well!"

His eyes roved over the familiar scene of the broad Chandnee Chouk,
sweeping magnificently away from the Lahore gate to the superb
palace. The sun beat down with its old ferocious glare on shop and
bazaar. Grave merchants lolled over their priceless treasures of
gold and silver work, heaped up jewels and bullion-threaded shawls
for princely wear. Under the awnings lingered the familiar polyglot
groups, while beggary and opulence jostled each other on every
hand.

"It's the same old road in life!" murmured Alan Hawke, "whether
called Inderput, Shahjehanabad, or Delhi--the same old game goes
on here forever, here by the sacred Jumna!"

He was dreaming of the artful part which he had to play in the fierce
modern race for wealth. "They used to fight for it like men in the
old days," he bitterly murmured. "Now, the only gold that I see
before me is to be had by gentlemanly blackmail! Right here--between
old Hugh Johnstone and this flinty-hearted woman avenger--lies