The presence of keen-eyed Marie Victor’s brass camp-bed in My Lady’s sleeping-room was a source of wonder to the velvet-eyed spy who was Ram Lal’s especial “Bureau of Intelligence.” “Strange ways has this Mem-Sahib,” murmured the Hindu when he craved to know if the Daughter of the Sun and Light of the World desired aught. “I will then have two to watch. The waiting woman has the eye of a tiger.” A personal verification of the fact that Jules Victor was encamped for the night, en zouave, on a divan drawn before the only door joining the boudoir and sleeping-room, caused the sly spy to greatly marvel, for the scarred face of the French social rebel was ominously truculent, and a pair of Lefacheux revolvers and a heavy knife lay within the ready reach of this strange “outside guard.” In the dim watches of the first night in Delhi, the same barefooted Hindu spy learned by a visit of furtive inspection, that a night light steadily burned in the boudoir where Jules was toujours pret. The sneaking rascal crept away, with a violently beating heart, fearing even the rustle of his bare feet upon the mosaic floor. And all this, and much more, did he deliver with abject humility to Ram Lal Singh, when that worthy appeared the next day to crave his mysterious patron’s orders. It seemed a tough nut to crack, this tripartite household arrangement. The dawn found Madame Berthe Louison as alertly awake as bird and beast stirring in the ruined splendors of old Shahjehanabad. Long before the anxious Justine Delande arose to deck herself furtively for her tryst with Alan Hawke, Berthe Louison knew that all her orders of the night before were executed. “You are sure that you can see perfectly, Jules?” said the anxious woman. “I command the whole side of the room where you will be seated,” replied the Frenchman, “and the ornaments and carved tracery cover the aperture. Marie has tested it and I have also done the same, reversing our positions. Nothing can be seen.” “Good! Remember! Nine o’clock sees you at your post! You are prepared?” The woman’s voice trembled. “Thoroughly!” cried the alert servitor, “Only give me your signal! I must make no mistake! There’s no time to think in such cases!” He bent his head, while his mistress, in a low voice gave her last orders. Jules saluted, as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope. “And now for the first skirmish!” mused Berthe Louison, as she personally examined some matters, of more material interest to her, in the reception-room.