But, on his knees beside the dying man, Eric Murray bent down his head to listen to the final adieu of the dying wanderer, whose luck had turned at last. “Justine Delande is to have all! The drafts, and my money, at Granville. Murray, I’ll tell you everything now. Ram Lal Singh murdered old Hugh Johnstone to get the jewels that Johnstone stole. The same ones that this old scoundrel, Fraser, here, is hiding.” The red foam gathered thickly on Hawke’s trembling lips. “Tell Major Hardwicke all! He’s a good fellow! The knife that Ram Lal killed old Fraser with is in my own trunk at Granville, stored in Railroad Bureau. He got in through the window. I was in the garden, and caught him coming out. I was watching old Johnstone, for fear he would give me the slip. I didn’t tell--I wanted to come over here and get the jewels myself. Hang old Ram Lal! He’s a cowardly murderer! Telegraph to the Viceroy to arrest the jewel seller; he will break down and confess at once. Make him pay poor Justine Delande all my drafts--Johnstone gave him that money for me to keep me silent about the stolen crown jewels. Now--now, all grows dark! Lift me up high--higher!” he gasped. “I played a hard game, but the luck turned--turned at last! That woman, Berthe Louison was too much--too much for me! Poor Justine! Tell her--tell her--” His voice grew fainter and fainter. “Do you know this man, Hawke?” whispered Hardwicke, forcing Jack Blunt’s face down to the dying renegade’s glance. “Never--saw him--before!” gasped Alan Hawke. “Poor Justine, tell her--” and with a sighing gasp, his jaw dropped, and at their feet, the fool of fortune lay dead, with a last lie on his lips. “By God! He was dead game!” muttered Jack Blunt, kneeling there, by the stiffening form of the wreck of a once brilliant Queen’s officer. He dared not lift his craven eyes! “He had the making of a gallant soldier in him!” cried Hardwicke, as he turned to the American, and motioned to the rope ladder. “We must not let Miss Johnstone see the body. Some of you run and get a ladder or some other means to aid her descent. And rouse up the nearest farm people. Get a carriage and bring the old Professor and maid here!” While a dozen volunteers darted away to bring a conveyance, the rest hastily covered Hawke’s body with their coats. The gun-room was now lit up, and in five minutes the waylaid carriage was drawn by hand to the door of the lonely tower. Within it lay the bruised and exhausted old scholar, bareheaded and ghastly, in the light of the flickering lanterns, while pretty Mattie Jones, with a shriek of terror, ran to the side of her sweetheart, his arms still bound with Prince Djiddin’s sash. Jack Blunt’s “swell mob” assurance stood him in good stead.