But the acute adventurer's mind returned to
fix itself upon Ram Lal Singh, now blandly smiling in his jewel
shop, where the morning gossips babbled over Johnstone Sahib's
tragic death. "I must telegraph to Euphrosyne," thought the Major,
"and to 9 Rue Berlioz, Paris, for my will-o-the-wisp employer. But,
Mr. Ram Lal Singh, you shall pay me for what ruin Mirzah Shah's
dagger has wrought!"
The mantle of silence had fallen forever over the last night's
rencontre in the garden. With dreaming eyes Hawke mused: "It would
never do to tell any part of that story. What busines had I there?"
And, without a tremor, he stood by the General's side as they gazed
on the dead millionaire's body still lying on the floor.
"I will now send for the civil authorities, and you, Major Hawke,
will represent me in the investigation. Your military future hangs
on this. Remember, now, that the Viceroy looks to you alone! I will
return here after tiffin. I will have some personal instructions
for you." And Alan Hawke now saw the farther shore of his voyage
of life gleaming out as General Willoughby left him to confer with
the arriving magistrates and civil police. "I shall marry you, my
veiled Rose of Delhi, and be master here yet, in this Marble House,
and, by God, I'll die a general, too!" he swore, with which pleasing
prophecy Major Alan Hawke calmly took up the varied secret duties
which joined a Viceroy's secret orders to the will of the General
commanding.
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