the girl away from me. I'm a pretty good shot. Now,
are you a prince or a fraud? I suspicioned you from the first! If you
are a fraud, then the History of Thibet is all damned rot! I suppose
that you were just 'girl hunting.' The girl's yere sweetheart. I see it
all now. Hoodwinked the old man! Who's this fellow that you've got tied
up there, anyway? One of the Johnny-Bull-Jesse-James gang?"

"Why! It's Joe Smith, our friend!" chimed out a dozen friendly voices.
Then Harry Hardwicke stepped up to the shivering wretch who stood gazing
on Alan Hawke, now propped up on a doubled-up coat, and rapidly bleeding
to death. "I'll keep your secret, and save you yet, if you will disclose
the whole, and keep mum!" Jack Blunt nodded, and hung his head in shame.

But, on his knees beside the dying man, Eric Murray bent down his head
to listen to the final adieu of the dying wanderer, whose luck had
turned at last. "Justine Delande is to have all! The drafts, and my
money, at Granville. Murray, I'll tell you everything now. Ram Lal Singh
murdered old Hugh Johnstone to get the jewels that Johnstone stole. The
same ones that this old scoundrel, Fraser, here, is hiding." The red
foam gathered thickly on Hawke's trembling lips. "Tell Major Hardwicke
all! He's a good fellow! The knife that Ram Lal killed old Fraser with
is in my own trunk at Granville, stored in Railroad Bureau. He got in
through the window. I was in the garden, and caught him coming out. I
was watching old Johnstone, for fear he would give me the slip. I didn't
tell--I wanted to come over here and get the jewels myself. Hang old Ram
Lal! He's a cowardly murderer! Telegraph to the Viceroy to arrest the
jewel seller; he will break down and confess at once. Make him pay poor
Justine Delande all my drafts--Johnstone gave him that money for me to
keep me silent about the stolen crown jewels. Now--now, all grows dark!
Lift me up high--higher!" he gasped. "I played a hard game, but the luck
turned--turned at last! That woman, Berthe Louison was too much--too
much for me! Poor Justine! Tell her--tell her--" His voice grew fainter
and fainter.

"Do you know this man, Hawke?" whispered Hardwicke, forcing Jack Blunt's
face down to the dying renegade's glance.

"Never--saw him--before!" gasped Alan Hawke. "Poor Justine, tell her--"
and with a sighing gasp, his jaw dropped, and at their feet, the fool of
fortune lay dead, with a last lie on his lips.

"By God! He was dead game!" m