n, with quick wit, he forbade the gaping crowd to touch
even a single article.

Not even the stiffened body, as it lay prone upon its face, was
disturbed. Simpson stood there, pistol in hand, on guard until properly
relieved, and as silent as a crouching rifleman on picket. The whole
room bore the evidence of a thorough ransacking, and the disordered
clothing of the nabob proved, too, that the body had been rifled. The
mysterious nocturnal visits returned to Simpson's mind. "Could it have
been some once-wronged woman?" he mused while waiting for his "military
superiors." For the simple old soldier scorned all civilian control.
His keen eye had caught the strange facts of the fastened windows, the
disappearance of the two mahogany boxes, and the startling absence of
the key of the chamber door.

"Whoever did this job knew what they came for and when to come!" mused
Simpson. He gazed at the window sill. There was the mark of damp earth
still upon it. "Just as I fancied!" growled Simp-son. "They came in at
the window, and when their work was done, left by the door. There was
more than one murderer in this job!" And, then, certain old stories of
a mysterious Eurasian beauty returned to cloud the old man's judgment.
"Was it robbery, or vengeance?" he grumbled. "The black gang are
in this, but their secrets are safe forever! They are a close
corporation--these devils!"

With certain ideas of an endangered life pension, and a sudden yearning
for the absent Hardwicke's counsel, stern old Simpson awaited the coming
of his betters. And, the ghastly news of Johnstone's "taking-off" flew
over Delhi to furnish a nine days' wonder.

There was a great crowd gathered around the garden walls of the Marble
House, as an officer of the guard galloped up with a platoon of cavalry.
"The General will be here himself, soon! What's all this terrible
happening?" said the young officer, as he took post beside Simpson. "You
have done well!" the soldier said, on a brief report. "Let nothing be
touched. My guard will prevent any one leaving the grounds!" There was a
sullen apathy as regarded the unloved old egoist.

Major Alan Hawke sprang to his feet, hastily, as the excited Club
Steward, forgetting all his decorum, banged loudly upon the staff
officer's bedroom door. The young man was still in the dress of night,
as the Steward excitedly exclaimed: "Here's a fearful deed! Hugh
Johnstone has been murdered in his bed, and--they've sent for you!