“Wait for my return, and only watch the marble house,” said the Madame. “Do not be foolish enough to attempt to call on Miss Nadine. I heard Johnstone tell the Swiss woman not to allow you to follow up any social acquaintance with his daughter. ‘I want Nadine to remain a girl as yet,’ growled the old brute. Now, the Swiss woman may be able to give you some information.” “I’ll do what I can,” carelessly replied Alan Hawke, but his eyes gleamed when she said: “Do not sulk in your tent. On my return I shall have need of you. You can prepare to go into action then.” “Where shall I address you at Calcutta?” demanded Hawke. “Something might happen.” “Ah,” smiled Berthe Louison. “Nothing will happen. Not a line, not a telegram; send nothing, come what will! I return here soon, and, besides, Old Johnstone might watch and intercept it. Remember, we do not know each other. It would be a fatal mistake to write.” And so she went quietly on her way. The house was locked, the Indian servants having the Madame’s orders to admit no one, on any pretense. “Damn her!” growled Alan Hawke, when the door was shut in his face. “She feared I would give her away to Johnstone. No address! Not a line or a telegram! Only wait--only wait!” Ram Lal infuriated him later with the news that nothing could be learned from the baffled spies of the household in the Silver Bungalow as to the first or second interwiew of Johnstone and the resolute Alixe Delavigne. “Money will not do it! Not a lac of rupees. The Frenchman and woman never leave her day or night. He is on guard with weapons and a night light at her door, and the maid sleeps in the room. “And she has other secret helpers!” groaned the baffled Ram Lal. “She is writing and receiving letters all the time. And yet none of these come or go by the post. She does not trust you, Major,” said the jewel merchant, with a cruel gleam of his dark eyes. “I believe that she is some old love of Sahib Johnstone. They have deep dealings. She has bought a great store of jewels and trinkets from me.” “Hell and fury! I’ve been duped!” cried Hawke. “I see it. That damned Frenchman takes and brings the letters! But who is her local go-between? Perhaps the French Consul at Calcutta, or some banker here! I can’t buy them all. She only needs me in case of a violent rupture with Johnstone. Damn her stony-hearted impertinence!” And he mentally resolved to sell her out and out to the liberal old nabob. “He might then give his daughter to me for peace and safety. But I’ve got to do the trick before he finds out the falsity of Anstruther’s so-called telegram. And, first, I must have something to sell. She is the devil’s own for sly nerve, is my lady.”