There was a great crowd gathered around the garden walls of the Marble House, as an officer of the guard galloped up with a platoon of cavalry. “The General will be here himself, soon! What’s all this terrible happening?” said the young officer, as he took post beside Simpson. “You have done well!” the soldier said, on a brief report. “Let nothing be touched. My guard will prevent any one leaving the grounds!” There was a sullen apathy as regarded the unloved old egoist. Major Alan Hawke sprang to his feet, hastily, as the excited Club Steward, forgetting all his decorum, banged loudly upon the staff officer’s bedroom door. The young man was still in the dress of night, as the Steward excitedly exclaimed: “Here’s a fearful deed! Hugh Johnstone has been murdered in his bed, and--they’ve sent for you!” Alan Hawke was staggered. “Get me a horse, at once! I must report to the General! When, where, how? Tell me all! Send off a man for the horse!” And, as Hawke hastily donned his uniform, he heard the Hindu servant’s story. “Be off! Tell Simpson I go first to the General, and, then, I will come over to the house!” As Major Hawke strode through the clubroom, a half-dozen half-dressed clubmen seized upon him. He waved off their inquiries, as an orderly dashed up to the door. “General Willoughby’s compliments, Sir. You are to report to him instantly at the Marble House! You can take my horse, Major! I’ll bring yours on.” And so, lightly leaping into the saddle, the Major galloped away, with an approving nod. “There’ll be a devil of a racket over this thing!” he reflected, as he dashed along. And he chuckled with glee at his prudence in hiding away the dagger which he had picked up in the garden. For, a moonlight-eyed Eurasian girl, hidden in a little cottage, was the only human being in Delhi who knew of the hasty visit her secret lover had made in the night. The jeweled dagger of Mirzah Shah was now securely locked in a little chest where Alan Hawke kept a few articles hidden away in the humble home of the passive plaything of his idle hours. As he caught sight of the Marble House, with its gathered crowds, he saw the gleam of musket barrels, as a company of foot were picketing the vast garden inclosure, and forcing back the excited crowd. A non-commissioned officer swung open the heavy gates which would only turn on their hinges once more for Hugh Johnstone going out on his last journey. “The General awaits you, Major,” said the sergeant, touching his cap. “He has already asked for you.” And as Hawke rode up to the front door he was suddenly reminded of his imperiled interests. “The drafts! They may be stopped now! By God! I must see Ram Lal! I need him now and he needs me.” With an unruffled professional calm, however, Major Hawke reported to the visibly disturbed General commanding.