“I must watch this young fool,” growled Alan Hawke. “Thank my lucky stars, the woman is far away! But, he’s well connected, has a brilliant record, and is a V. C. now for Berthe Louison and the fireworks! But, first, old Ram Lal! They bowled the old boy out! I suppose that he has already told Alixe Delavigne that she has been outwitted. I hold the trump cards now! No single word without its golden price! I must not make one false step! As to the club men, I only join in the general wonder.” He made a careful and very studied toilet and sauntered out of the club en flaneur, and then stealthily betook himself to the pagoda in Ram Lal’s garden, where his innocent dupe had so often waited for him with a softly beating heart.
“I’m glad the girl is gone,” mused Alan Hawke. “If she were here, the chorus hymning Hardwicke’s perfections might set her young heart on fire.” He was, as yet, ignorant of the tender bond of gratitude fast ripening into Love. For, Love, that strange plant, rooted in the human heart, thrives in absence, and, watered by the tears of sorrow and adversity, fills the longing and faithful heart, in days of absence, with its flowers of rarest fragrance and blossoms of unfading beauty. Nadine Johnstone, speeding on over sapphire seas, had already conquered the tender secret of the simple Justine Delande’s heart; and in her own loving day-dreams:
“Aye she loot the tears down fa’ for Jock o’ Hazeldean!”
“I must see him again! I must see him!” she fondly pledged her waiting heart. With the serpent cunning of a loving maiden, she brooded like a dove with tender eyes, and so in her heart of hearts, determined to draw forth from her stalwart cousin, Douglas Fraser, the secret of their future destination. And the honest fellow became even as wax in her hands; while the gloomy Hardwicke, in far-away Delhi, eyed the parchment-faced Hugh Johnstone in mute wonder, at the long official reception in the Marble House. “Will he not vouchsafe to me even one word of thanks?” thought the young man, in an increasing wonder.
But, Ram Lal Singh, when Major Alan Hawke drew him into the sanctum behind the shop, showed a dark face, seamed with lines of care. “There will be some terrible happening!” muttered the smooth old Mohammedan.
He had good gift of the world’s gear, and now preferred the role of fox to lion. “She knows nothing as yet. I waited till I could see you. I dared not to tell her. She only fancies that this official visit of the General-Sahib from Calcutta will, of course, take up all their time at the marble house. But she begs me to watch them all, and she has given me some little presents—money presents.” Hawke winced, but in silence. His employer trusted him not. Here was proof positive.
“How in the devil’s name did they get away without you knowing of it?” demanded Hawke. “If you are lying to me, Ram Lal, we may lose both our pickings from this fat pagoda tree. You see old Johnstone may slip away after the girl. He may leave here with Abercromby.”
The jewel merchant’s eyes gleamed with a smoldering fire. “Johnstone Sahib will not leave Delhi. It is in the stars! He has too much here to leave. There are many old ties which bind. No, he will not go like a thief in the night.” Hawke was surprised at the old rascal’s evident emotion.
“Then tell me what you think about the disappearance of these women,” said Hawke, watching him keenly.
“I have seen all my friends in the station, even the mail clerks, telegraph men, and all,” began Ram Lal. “A train ‘on government service’—a special—came in that night from Allahabad at ten o’clock. Then two small trains were kept in waiting for some hours; one left for Simla before daylight, and the other drew out for Allahabad. There was a crowd of ladies, officers’ ladies, and some children and servants in the waiting-room. They like to travel at night in the cool shade. No one knew them. Now, at Allahabad, the east-bound train could branch off either for Calcutta, Madras, or Bombay.”