Before they were in the shelter of the banker’s superb mansion, Hugh Johnstone was double locked within the walls of Douglas Fraser’s apartment.
“I have two hours to work in” he gasped, after a nervous examination of the contents of the cases which had been placed at his feet in his carriage. “And, then, for the Viceroy! But first to the steamer and the Insurance Office!’”
Not a human being in Calcutta ever knew the contents of the small steel strongbox which occupied the place of honor in the treasure room of the Empress of India on her speeding down the Hooghly. But a Director of the Anglo-Indian Assurance Company opened his eyes widely when Hugh Johnstone, his fellow director, cheerfully paid the marine insurance fees on a policy of fifty thousand pounds sterling. “I am sending some of my securities home, Mainwaring,” the great financier said. “I intend to remove my property, bit by bit, to London. I do not dare to trust them on one ship.” The director sighed in a hopeless envy of his millionaire friend.
Hugh Johnstone’s Calcutta agent was also solemnly stirred up when his principal gave him some private directions as to the custody of his private papers and a substantial Gladstone bag, consigned to the recesses of the steel vaults. “I go back with these papers to Delhi to-morrow night. Give me the keys of my private compartment till then. In a few months I may be called to London. Douglas Fraser will have my power of attorney.”
With a sunny gleam in his face, Hugh Johnstone then alertly sprang into his carriage, when he had finished his careful toilet, to meet the Viceroy of India. The two brass-bound mahogany cases were left standing carelessly open upon his table in Douglas Fraser’s rooms, neatly packed with an assortment of toilet articles and all the multitudinous personal medical stores of a refined Anglo-Indian “in the sere and yellow.”
“Five pounds worth!” laughed Hugh Johnstone, as he closed the door. “Now, in one hour, my Lady Disdain, I can say ‘Checkmate.’ Ram Lal shall attend to you later—behind all your bolts and bars. He will find a way to reach you.”
It was a matter of profound speculation to the gilded youth of the Government House what strangely sudden friendship had blossomed to bring the august representative of the great Victoria, Kaisar-I-Hind, and Queen of England, as far as the middle of the audience room, in close colloquy with, and manifesting an almost affectionate leave-taking of, the silver-haired millionaire of Delhi.
But that night the most confidential General “at disposal” received from the Viceroy some secret orders which caused the experienced soldier’s eyes to open widely.
“Remember! The personal interests of the Crown are involved here!” said the Viceroy. “Any mistake might cost me my Sovereign’s confidence and you your commission, perhaps a Star of India!” he laughed, with an affected lightness.
In far-away Delhi, as the sun faded away into the soft summer twilight, Harry Hardwicke was sitting at the side of Nadine Johnstone, while her stern father secretly exulted in distant Calcutta. He had already mailed by registered post a set of duplicated receipts and insurance policies for his last shipment addressed to “Professor Andrew Fraser” and his mind was centered upon some peculiarly pleasurable coming events to take place in the Marble House. But the dreamy-eyed girl watching the man who had so gallantly saved her life, thought only of a love which had stolen into her heart to wake all its slumbering chords to life, and to loosen the sweet music of her singing soul! They were alone, save for the bent figure of Justine Delande at a distant window, and the spirit of Love breathed upon them silently drew them heart to heart.