There was nothing to distinguish Hawke from any other well-to-do European, as he stood gazing around the station, in his cool linens, his pith helmet and floating puggaree. The prudent air of judicious mystery lately adopted sat easily upon him as his eye roved over the familiar scenes of old with a silent gleam of recognition, he followed a confidential attendant who salaamed, murmuring “My master awaits the sahib whom he delights to love and honor.” “There is one card I must play at once,” murmured Hawke, as the carriage sped along. “Mademoiselle Justine Delande must be my secret friend! I wonder if Euphrosyne really swallowed the bait! If she has fallen into the trap and written to her sister, then--all is well!” His eyes roved over the familiar scene of the broad Chandnee Chouk, sweeping magnificently away from the Lahore gate to the superb palace. The sun beat down with its old ferocious glare on shop and bazaar. Grave merchants lolled over their priceless treasures of gold and silver work, heaped up jewels and bullion-threaded shawls for princely wear. Under the awnings lingered the familiar polyglot groups, while beggary and opulence jostled each other on every hand. “It’s the same old road in life!” murmured Alan Hawke, “whether called Inderput, Shahjehanabad, or Delhi--the same old game goes on here forever, here by the sacred Jumna!” He was dreaming of the artful part which he had to play in the fierce modern race for wealth. “They used to fight for it like men in the old days,” he bitterly murmured. “Now, the only gold that I see before me is to be had by gentlemanly blackmail! Right here--between old Hugh Johnstone and this flinty-hearted woman avenger--lies my fortune. And I swear that nothing shall stop me! I will be the prompter of the little play now ready for a first rehearsal!” His eyes lighted up viciously as he was swept along past the great marble house, gleaming out in the shady compound, where the Rosebud of Delhi was hidden. “Cursed old curmudgeon! To lock the girl up!” muttered the handsome young rascal. “Old Ram Lal must do a bit of spying for me!” Hawke could see on the raised plateau of marble steps all the evidences of the sumptuous luxury of the haughty Briton, “who toils not, neither does he spin.” But, the dozen pointed arches on each face of the vast palace house of the budding baronet showed no sign of life. The clustered marble columns stretched out in a splendid lonely perspective, and the square inner castellated keep rose up in the glaring sun, but with closed and shaded windows. Dusky shapes flitted about, busied in the infinitesimal occupations of Indian servitors, but no graceful woman form could be seen in the witching gardens where a Rajah might have fitly held a durbar.