“All right. Let us join the Madame,” said Hawke, with an uneasy feeling of a coming tropical storm, “I’m glad to be out of it,” mused Hawke. “If Abercromby stays a week, both parties will defer hostilities until he goes. If that soft-hearted Swiss fool only telegraphs! By God, I would have liked to have had one final tete-a-tete. She can make my fortune yet.” The flying minutes glided easily away, with Hugh Johnstone’s old-time gallantry artfully separating the two secret conspirators against his peace. Alan Hawke lunched gayly, with but one lurking regret--a futile sorrow that he had not bent Justine Delande to his will. There was no dark pledge between them, no secret bond of a man’s perfidious victory, no soft surrender, the seal of a woman’s dishonor. “Will she telegraph?” the adventurer asked himself with a beating heart and a burning brain. “If so, then I hold them both in my hands, and the game is mine.” When the train drew out, the Major watched the disappearing forms of the mortal enemies in a secret wonder. “Have they made it up? Will they marry after all?” he growled, and yet he laughed the idea to scorn. “And yet fear, as well as love, has tied the nuptial knot before,” he mused. A new proof of Johnstone’s craft was afforded him after he had, in a leisurely way, verified the regularity of his windfall in good London exchange, signed by the millionaire upon his home bankers, and duly stamped. A mental flash of lightning showed him how he was “sewed up,” for Johnstone’s all too polite servants shadowed him, alternately, in his every movement. He even dared not visit the secret telegraph address. “Old scoundrel!” raged Alan Hawke. “I will only get the first news after the fair and probably in a storm from Berthe. The denouement may occur with me languishing here in Capua. Suppose that this she-devil would bolt? Where would I land then?” He was most sadly rattled. In the Delhi train, Hugh Johnstone busied with his late London papers, slyly smiled as he studied a route map and railway time table. He had received a single telegraphed word, dated Madras, and wisely left unsigned, but that one word was the keynote of his coveted victory--“Arrived.”