of the doors
of the four rooms opening into the central hall of his shop. A single
clap of his hands, and these faithful retainers were ready to rise,
tulwar in hand, and cut down any intruder.

The old jewel merchant's eye roved over the medley of priceless
bric-a-brac in the main hall. The spoils of temple and olden palace cast
grotesque, soft, dark shadows on the floor, under the glimmer of the
swinging cresset lamp filled with perfumed nut oil. Seated cross-legged,
and nursing the mouth-piece of his narghileh, Ram Lal pondered long over
the sudden appearance of the rehabilitated Major Hawke, and the coming
of the rich Mem-Sahib who was to be a hidden bird in the luxurious nest
already awaiting its inmate.

Ram Lal was vaguely uneasy, as he glanced at the pretty pavilion in his
own compound, where languid loveliness awaited his approach. He resigned
himself with a sigh to his lonely schemes. He rose and with his own
hand, poured out a draught of the forbidden strong waters of the
Feringhee.

Dropping down upon the cushions, he reviewed the whole day's doings. "It
is not for him, for Hawke Sahib, this bungalow of delight is made ready!
And the old Sahib is to know nothing. Can it be a trap for him? I am to
watch the old man for Hawke Sahib. This woman who comes. They say here
he will go soon away, over the sea to the court of the Kaisar-I-Hind. He
is rich, why does he linger? And perhaps not return.

"All these long years of my watch thrown away! For, never a single one
of the sacred jewels has he shown me! They have never seen the light
since the awful day in Humayoon's Tomb. Has he the jewels? Does he hide
them? Has he buried them? Has he sent them away? If he has them, then he
dies the death of a dog. The jewels of a king to be the spoil of a low
tax-gatherer! The King of Kings.

"But why does he not go? I have watched him for years.

"There is some reason! Hawke Sahib shall tell me all! He must tell!
He needs my help!" The old man's slumbers were haunted with the olden
memories of a day of doom, the day when the bodies of the sacred Princes
of Oude lay naked in the glaring sun as they were despoiled after
Hodson's pistol had done its bloody work. "They may have taken them all
from him, these English are greedy spoilers," muttered the crafty old
man, as his head fell upon the silken cushions with a curse. He was a
rebel still, as rank as Tantia Topee.

In the splendid marble palace of Hugh Johnstone, the st