Harry! I owe
you my life!" Even the maid mourned a dashing Sergeant-Major! With a
desperate courage, trying to fan the spark of love, which had slowly
crept into her lonely heart, Justine Delande had timidly bribed a
stewardess, going on shore for some last commissions, to telegraph to
the secret address at Allahabad the words: "Madras steamer Coomassie
Castle, Brindisi."

The signature, "Your Justine," brought a grim smile to Alan Hawke's
face, the next night, when on the arrival of General Abercromby, he
stationed Hugh Johnstone's secret spies on duty with the redoubtable
Calcutta warrior. "By God! She is both game and true!" cried Hawke.
"Here is my fortune, and Justine shall share my spoils yet!" As the
special train rolled out into the starlit night the old nabob, in a
paroxysm of delight, read in the marble house words telegraphed by the
happy-hearted Douglas Fraser, now taking up his endless deck tramp
on the Brindisi bound steamer. The young Scotsman, ignorant of all
intrigue, was relieved to know that he had laid the firm foundation of
his future fortunes. His last shore duty was done when he had wired to
his urgent relative in Delhi the glad tidings: "All right. Coomassie
Castle. Orders strictly obeyed."

Even the astute Alan Hawke failed, after many days of futile private
research, to trace the route of the train which had pulled out of Delhi
in the dead of night, beat the record to Allahabad, and then, turning
off apparently for Bombay, had curved, on a loop, to the Madras line,
and surpassed all speed records on the Indian Peninsula. Even when he
telegraphed to Ram Lal's friends at Madras, he could obtain no definite
trace, the railway officials were silent, and the travelers had sought
no hotel in Madras. Hugh Johnstone's well applied money had smothered
all inquiry. Even the driver and stokers of the special train never knew
who so generously presented them with a ten pound note apiece. "Some
secret service racket," they laughed over their ale. Not a tremor of
a single muscle betrayed Major Alan Hawke when he delivered over his
official charge, Major General Abercromby, to Hugh Johnstone in the
golden glow of Delhi's morning. "I've kept your interests in view," he
whispered. "The old boy's just two hundred pounds richer. And, you may
be sure, he wanted for nothing. I know all his damned old tiger and
mutiny stories by heart. I'm going up to the Club for a good long sleep.
My compliments to the ladies,"