. I will meet you at Delhi. Abercromby
comes to my house. Can I depend on you? And, not a single word about
the Baronetcy. The Viceroy has graciously sent a special dispatch to
England."

"All right. Let us join the Madame," said Hawke, with an uneasy feeling
of a coming tropical storm, "I'm glad to be out of it," mused Hawke. "If
Abercromby stays a week, both parties will defer hostilities until he
goes. If that soft-hearted Swiss fool only telegraphs! By God, I would
have liked to have had one final tete-a-tete. She can make my fortune
yet."

The flying minutes glided easily away, with Hugh Johnstone's old-time
gallantry artfully separating the two secret conspirators against his
peace. Alan Hawke lunched gayly, with but one lurking regret--a futile
sorrow that he had not bent Justine Delande to his will. There was no
dark pledge between them, no secret bond of a man's perfidious victory,
no soft surrender, the seal of a woman's dishonor.

"Will she telegraph?" the adventurer asked himself with a beating heart
and a burning brain. "If so, then I hold them both in my hands, and
the game is mine." When the train drew out, the Major watched the
disappearing forms of the mortal enemies in a secret wonder. "Have they
made it up? Will they marry after all?" he growled, and yet he laughed
the idea to scorn. "And yet fear, as well as love, has tied the nuptial
knot before," he mused.

A new proof of Johnstone's craft was afforded him after he had, in a
leisurely way, verified the regularity of his windfall in good London
exchange, signed by the millionaire upon his home bankers, and duly
stamped. A mental flash of lightning showed him how he was "sewed up,"
for Johnstone's all too polite servants shadowed him, alternately,
in his every movement. He even dared not visit the secret telegraph
address. "Old scoundrel!" raged Alan Hawke. "I will only get the first
news after the fair and probably in a storm from Berthe. The denouement
may occur with me languishing here in Capua. Suppose that this she-devil
would bolt? Where would I land then?" He was most sadly rattled.

In the Delhi train, Hugh Johnstone busied with his late London papers,
slyly smiled as he studied a route map and railway time table. He
had received a single telegraphed word, dated Madras, and wisely
left unsigned, but that one word was the keynote of his coveted
victory--"Arrived."

"Ah! my lady," he mused, casting his eyes in the direction of Madame
Lo