"One for you, my lady!" he had laughed, grimly, as the
woman whom he had tricked drove swiftly away. And the grim fates
laughed too, spinning at a shortening life web.
Major Alan Hawke was interrupted in his cosy nest at the Club by
the hasty advent of Ram Lal. The old jeweler had for once abandoned
all his Oriental calm, and he trembled as he muttered. "She demands
you at once. I brought my own carriage. Go to her quickly. There
will be a great monsoon of quarrel now. But her face looks as if
she was stricken to the death, and something will come of all this.
You must watch like the crouching cheetah!"
"What has happened?" anxiously cried Hawke.
"She has just found out the women are gone! She went up to the
marble house this afternoon, and saw the old Sahib Johnstone. He
did not even bid her to leave her carriage. One of my men ran over
at once and told me. She drove to the shop on her way homeward and
sent me here." The black Son of Plutus scuttled away, as if in a
mortal fear. "I do not dare to face her--in her angry mood," was
Ram's last word. He was only accustomed to baby-faced Hindu women
of the "langorous lily" type, who hung on his every word--the mute
slaves of his jaded passions. "This one is a tigress!" he sighed,
as he fled from the Club.
"Ah! My lady is a bit rattled," mused Hawke as the carriage sped
along. "Now is the time to catch her off her guard.
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