" The red foam gathered thickly on Hawke's trembling
lips. "Tell Major Hardwicke all! He's a good fellow! The knife that
Ram Lal killed old Fraser with is in my own trunk at Granville,
stored in Railroad Bureau. He got in through the window. I was in
the garden, and caught him coming out. I was watching old Johnstone,
for fear he would give me the slip. I didn't tell--I wanted to
come over here and get the jewels myself. Hang old Ram Lal! He's
a cowardly murderer! Telegraph to the Viceroy to arrest the jewel
seller; he will break down and confess at once. Make him pay poor
Justine Delande all my drafts--Johnstone gave him that money for
me to keep me silent about the stolen crown jewels. Now--now, all
grows dark! Lift me up high--higher!" he gasped. "I played a hard
game, but the luck turned--turned at last! That woman, Berthe Louison
was too much--too much for me! Poor Justine! Tell her--tell her--"
His voice grew fainter and fainter.
"Do you know this man, Hawke?" whispered Hardwicke, forcing Jack
Blunt's face down to the dying renegade's glance.
"Never--saw him--before!" gasped Alan Hawke. "Poor Justine, tell
her--" and with a sighing gasp, his jaw dropped, and at their feet,
the fool of fortune lay dead, with a last lie on his lips.
"By God! He was dead game!" muttered Jack Blunt, kneeling there,
by the stiffening form of the wreck of a once brilliant Queen's
officer.
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