“They have been companions in the mixed line or Delhi since the mutiny,” earnestly replied Hawke, slowly concluding: “And Ram Lal has been Johnstone’s broker in selecting his almost unequaled Indian collection. Ram is a thief, like all Hindus, but he is square to me. I hold him in my hand. You can trust to him, but only through me!” Berthe Louison raised her eyes and then fixed a searching glance upon Alan Hawke, as if she would read his very soul. “And, can I trust you?” she said, almost solemnly. “You remember our strange compact, Madame,” coldly said Alan Hawke. “Here, face to face with the enemy, I expect to know what is required of me--and also what my future recompense will be.” “Ah, I forgot,” mused the strange lady of the bungalow. “You have the right to teach me a lesson, in both manners and business. I forgot how sharply I had drawn the line, myself. Well, Sir, I will trust to you without any assurance on your part.” She rang the silver bell at her side, once, and the silent Jules appeared, as attentive as Rastighello in the boudoir of the Duchess of Ferrara. “My traveling bag, Jules,” said the lady, in a careless tone. There was a silence punctuated only by Alan Hawke’s heavy breathing, until the silent servitor returned, bowing and departing without a word, as he placed the bag at Madame Louison’s side. With a businesslike air, the lady handed Alan Hawke a sealed letter, addressed simply: HUGH FRASER JOHNSTONE, ESQ., DELHI. Near at hand, in the opened bag, the watchful Major saw the revolver and dagger once more which he had noted, at Lausanne. “Let Ram Lal deliver that personally to the would-be Baronet, to-morrow morning at eight o’clock. He is to say nothing. There will be no reply,” measuredly remarked the strange woman whose life as Alixe Delavigne had brought to her the legacy of an undying hatred for the man whom she was about to face. “This will bring Hugh Johnstone to me at once!” “That is all?” stammered Alan Hawke, as he received the document, respectfully standing “at attention.” “No, not quite all!” laughed Berthe Louison. “Pray continue a career of judiciously liberal social splendor here, an external ‘swelling port’ just suited to a man whose feet are planted upon a financial rock. But do not overdo it! It might excite Hugh Johnstone’s alarm. Here is five hundred pounds in notes. There will be no accounts between us.” “And, I am to do nothing else?” cried Hawke, in surprise. “I fear to have you meet this man alone! He is rich, powerful, and crafty. The nature of your business, I fear, is that of deadly quarrel. Remember, this man is at bay. He is unscrupulous. I fear for you!” The renegade spoke only the truth. For dark memories of Hugh Fraser’s bitter deeds in days past now thronged upon his brain.