When Major Hawke entered the great doors of the marble house, he was gravely received by Mademoiselle Justine Delande. “He has been asking every ten minutes for you,” she said. “I am to show you at once to his rooms.” “Now, what’s this? what’s all this?” cheerfully cried the Major as he entered the vast sleeping-room of the Anglo-Indian. Old Johnstone feebly pointed to the door, and motioned to his attendants to leave the room. He was worn and gaunt, and his ashen cheeks and sunken eyes told of some great inward convulsion. He had aged ten years since the pompous tiffin. “I’m not well, Hawke! Come here! Near to me!” he huskily cried. And then, the hunter and the hunted gazed mutely into each other’s eyes. “What’s gone wrong?” frankly demanded the Major. The old man scowled in silence for a moment. “I have no one I dare trust but you,” he unwillingly said. “You know something of my position, my future. I want to know if you have ever met this woman who has taken the Silver Bungalow--a kind of a French woman. There’s her card.” Old Johnstone’s haggard eyes followed Hawke, as he silently studied the bit of pasteboard. “Madame Berthe Louison,” he gravely read. And, then, with a magnificent audacity, he lied successfully. “Never even heard the name,” he murmured. “Fellows at the Club speaking of some such woman today. Pretty woman, I supppose a declassee.” Hawke, lifted his eyebrows. “No, a she-devil!” almost shouted old Hugh. “Now, I want you to watch her and find out who her backers are. She is trying to annoy me. Be prudent, and I’ll make it a year’s pay to you.” Hawke’s greedy eyes lightened as he bowed. “But never mention my name. Come here as often as you will. Go now and look up what you can. I’ll see you to-morrow, in the afternoon. Don’t scrape acquaintance with her. Just watch her. I’m going there to-morrow morning myself.” “You?” said Hawke. “Yes,” half groaned the old man, turning his face to the wall. “Come to-morrow afternoon. Spare no money. I’ll make it right. Don’t linger a minute now.” Major Alan Hawke was gayly buoyant as the horses trotted back to Ram Lal Singh’s, where he proposed to await the hour of ten o’clock. “I fancy, my lady, that you, too, will pay toll, as well as Hugh Johnstone,” he murmured. “You shall pay for all you get, and pay as you go.” He cheerfully dined alone in Ram Lal’s little business sanctum, and listened to the measured disclosures of the Hindu in return for the fifty-pound note. “It’s to-morrow’s interview that I want to know about,” quietly directed the major, whereat Ram Lal modestly said: “I’ll find a way to let you know all.” “That’s more than she will, the sly devil,” said Hawke, in his heart, as he leaned back in the consciousness of “duty well done.”