“By God! Johnstone! I’m your man! Count on me in life and death!” warmly cried Hawke. The two men clasped hands. There was a clatter and a jingle. The old warrior was on his return. “Here he comes now! Fall in with his humor, and success to you at Calcutta,” whispered Johnstone. There was the very jolliest breakfast imaginable at the marble house that day, and that same afternoon Major. Alan Hawke rode all over Delhi as volunteer aide to General Abercromby. Two nights later General Abercromby whispered to Hugh Johnstone, at a Grand Ball at Willoughby’s Headquarters: “I’ve just had a telegram from the Viceroy to return at once. Your matter is now all right. I leave the property with Willoughby here. I’ll go down in the morning, if you’ll fix me up.” And then, Johnstone signing to Major Alan Hawke, who had been the cynosure of all eyes, as he gracefully led Madame la Generale Willoughby through a lanciers, took the favorite of fortune aside. “Make your adieux! Get out of here! Settle all your little affairs! Send all your traps over to my house! General Abercromby wants to slip away quietly in the morning! No one is to know! And you go with him, at his urgent request.” And that very evening at Calcutta, Alixe Delavigne would have laughed in triumph to know of Hugh Johnstone’s strange eagerness to dispatch his amorous guest. For the lady--in the safe haven of the great banker’s home--had just returned from a captivated Viceroy, who had instantly recalled Abercromby by a dispatch to be “obeyed forthwith.” “You, Madame, have laid me under an obligation which I can never forget,” said the graceful statesman. The list of Ram Lal was in his hands now! And so Hugh Johnstone was highly pleased, and Madame Berthe Louison, still in her masquerade, was happy, and the watchful Commanding-General Willoughby was more than pleased; and the now doubly hopeful Major Alan Hawke rejoiced, while General Abercromby knew that the “little party” was waiting him in Calcutta. But most of all pleased was Ram Lal Singh, clutching in his dreams at the dagger of Mirzah Shah, lying there by his bedside. “He will be left alone, and he knows my signal--his own device--THREE TAPS AT HIS WINDOW! In Delhi there only lingered, sad and lonely, Major Harry Hardwicke, whose sighs were echoed back from afar by a starry-eyed girl watching the sandy shores of the Suez Canal. “I dare not telegraph to him till we reach Brindisi,” mused the loving girl. “After that our path will be plain, and Justine MUST help me! Then he can follow me--if he loves me!” She faltered, hiding her blushing face. The only comforter of the lonely Hardwicke was “Rattler Murray.” Red Eric, of the Eighth Lancers, had just fallen into a pot of money. “Take your long leave, my boy!” he cried. “I’ve been nine long years a Lieutenant! I’ll have my troop before my leave is out! And there’s a loving lass awaiting me! One I love--one who loves me--one you must know, for you must be the ‘best man’!”