ows the secret of the family
history!"

And there was a meaning light in her eyes as she stole back to Nadine's
room when the silver gong sounded, and throwing her arms around the
girl, whispered: "We are going home soon, darling! Be brave and trust to
me! I will find out the story of the past and tell you all, my darling!"
Justine Delande unwound the girl's arms from round her neck, while
honest tears trembled in her eyes.

The low cry: "My mother! My darling mother! He never even breathes the
name!" had loosened all the tide of repressed feeling long pent up in
Justine Delande's heart.

"Trust to me! You shall know all, dearest! I am sure that Euphrosyne
knows, and we shall see her soon!" So with an added reason for
their second meeting, Miss Justine descended the grand marble stair,
murmuring: "He shall tell me all he knows; he can search the past here!
He can help me, and he must--for Nadine's sake!"

And as he bowed low before her in courteous acknowledgment of the
master's presentation, Alan Hawke caught the lambent gleam of the newly
awakened fires in Justine Delande's eyes. "She is another woman," he
mused. With one silent glance of veiled recognition, Alan Hawke returned
to his diplomatic fence with the wary old nabob who sat at the head of
the glittering table. He was in no doubt now as to the second meeting at
Ram Lal Singh's shop, for Justine Delande's eyes promised him more than
even his habitual hardihood would have dared to ask. "What the devil's
up now?" he mused, "Something about the girl, I warrant. I suppose that
the old brute has exiled her here for safety." And then and there, Alan
Hawke swore to reach the side of the Veiled Rose of Delhi, though the
cold gray eyes of the host never caught him off his guard a moment in
the two hours of the pompously drawn-out feast. Both the men were keenly
watching each other now.

It had been no mere accidental slip of the tongue which guided Alan
Hawke in his greeting of the old ex-Commissioner when Hugh Johnstone
entered the reception-room, a study in gray and white, with only the
three priceless pigeon-blood rubies lending a color to his snowy linen.
"Upon my word, Sir Hugh, you are looking younger than I ever saw you,"
said the visitor gracefully advancing.

"You're a bit premature, are you not, Hawke?" dryly said the civilian,
opening a silver cheroot box, once the property of a Royal Prince of
Oude. Hugh Johnstone motioned his visitor to be seated, an