Delhi soon forgot the man whom the great stone now covered in the English cemetery, and only General Willoughby and the easy-going civil authorities knew of the cablegram: “Coming on with full power from Senior Executor.--Douglas Fraser, Junior Executor.” The cablegram was dated from Milan, for two keen Scottish brains were now busied with plans to save and care for the worldly gear so suddenly abandoned to their care by Hugh Johnstone. Though Delhi was swept as with a besom, no trace of the cowardly assassins was ever found, and only old Simpson, waiting, in final charge as household major domo for Douglas Fraser’s arrival, could enlighten the perturbed commanding General with certain vague suspicions. But Ram Lal slept now in a growing security. “It is clear that the master was watched in his secret preparations for the voyage home,” said Simpson, “and some outsiders, with the help of some traitor among the blacks, paid off an old score. I could tell of many an old enemy which he gained in these twenty years.” sadly said Simpson. “I feel they only mussed up the room to give an appearance of robbery. The mahogany boxes were merely part of master’s old wedding outfit in London, and I know that they were only filled with toilet articles and little medical stores. They only lugged them off to make a show.” And General Willoughby, following up Simpson’s clues, easily discovered a shady side of Johnstone’s past life, not compatible with the pompous panegyrics of the Indian press, the resolutions of a dozen clubs and societies, the minutes of the Bank of Bengal, and other mortuary literature of a complimentary nature. It was some old curse come down upon the defenseless man in his old age! And so no one ever sought for the solution of the mystery in the deep dejection of Ram Lal Singh, who vainly mourned for his lost jewels and money. Fear tied his hands, and his tongue was palsied by guilt. He vindictively, however, raised his customary “rate of usance,” and swore in his own hardened heart that the needy borrowers of Delhi should recoup him fully before a year. The one Star gleaming in the dark night of financial blackness was the vengeance upon the man who had tricked and despoiled a fellow-robber thirty years before. Major Hawke on his homeward way counted up a goodly store of twelve thousand pounds in money, jewels of nearly the same value, and the skillfully raised and properly indorsed drafts on London for twenty thousand more. “If I can only get these passed by the executors I am a made man for life,” mused the Major as the Ramchunder sped over the blue Arabian sea. “If I discover the secret of the stolen jewels, they must yield, to save both family honor and money; if I don’t, then, Ram Lal must save his life and protect the drafts. I will negotiate them with the Credit Lyonnais, in Paris, and force Berthe to help me. No one shall rob me now,” somewhat illogically mused the brilliant adventurer, proud of his life-work.