Part 27 (1/2)

”Perhaps he was paid off for some of his old Shylock transactions--some local intrigue, or the jealous lover of some Eurasian beauty, dragged to his lair, has finished all, and revenged the acc.u.mulated brutalities of thirty years.”

There was a loud outcry of horror and surprise sweeping on now from the social circles of Delhi to the clubs of Lucknow, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Benares, and Patna to Calcutta.

In a day or two, men from Lah.o.r.e to Hyderabad, from Bombay to Nagpore and Madras, and in all the clubs from Calcutta to Simla, had paused over their brandy p.a.w.nee to murmur, ”Well! The poor old beggar is gone, and now he'll never get his Baronetcy! Some of the n.i.g.g.e.rs did the trick neatly for him at last. They must have got a jolly lot of loot!”

In which general verdict the glittering-eyed Ram Lal, hidden in his zenana, did not share. For, when he had rifled and destroyed the two mahogany boxes he summed all up his pickings with baffled rage. ”A couple of thousand pounds of notes, a few scattered jewels, the sly old dog has spirited away his vast stealings! My work was all in vain, save the vengeance!” And the oily Ram Lal, in the zenana, drew a willing beauty of Cashmere to his bosom, and hid his face from the chatterers of street and shop. He was safe from all prying eyes in the Harem.

But, while the triumphant English Mem-Sahibs, of Delhi, shuddered at the b.l.o.o.d.y details of old Hugh Johnstone's taking off, they found abundant reason to point a moral and adorn a tale.

While the anxious Viceroy was busied at Calcutta, and General Willoughby and Hawke were engrossed with the pompous funeral preparations at Delhi, the ladies of the whole station unanimously condemned the departed. For a cold and brutal foe of womanhood had died unhonored in their midst, and none were left to mourn.

With much pretentious wagging of shapely heads, and much mysterious innuendo, they spoke lightly of the departed one, and failed not to mentally unroof the Silver Bungalow. The baffled ladies scented a social mystery!

Wild rumors of splendid orgies, strange tales of a wronged woman's vengeance, lurid romances of the flight of the French Countess with a younger lover, after despoiling her aged admirer; all these things were ”put in commission” and vigorously circulated.

The princ.i.p.al party interested in these slanders, was, however, now calmly gliding on toward Aden, while the dead millionaire was alike oblivious to the lovely daughter whom he had crushed as a bruised flower, the haughty woman who had defied him in his wrath, and the administration of the million sterling which was the golden monument over his yawning grave! The silk-petticoat Council of Notables in Delhi decided by a tidal-wave of womanly intuition, that the gallant and debonnair Major Alan Hawke would marry ”the lovely and accomplished heiress,” and so the white-bosomed beauties of the capital of Oude turned again lazily to their respective sins of omission and commission, and to the glitter of their respective booths in Vanity Fair!

The club gossips waited in vain for the reappearance of Major Alan Hawke, whose entire personal effects were bundled hastily away to the marble house, where the adventurer now ruled pro tempore. It was late in the night when Major Hawke had achieved all the preparations for the funeral of the murdered man, upon the following day. Simpson and a squad of non-commissioned officers watched where the flickering lights gleamed down upon the dead nabob.

Making his last rounds for the night, Major Hawke, with a soldier's cynical calmness, enjoyed a cheroot upon the veranda, as he bade his captain of the guard take charge until his return. The Major had most carefully examined the five bills of exchange which now occupied his attention, and his mind was now busied with the dead man's golden store.

He now contemplated a visit to a man whose conscience bothered him not, but whose bosom quaked in fear when Hawke's letter, sent by a messenger, bade Ram Lal await him at midnight.

”Does he know?” gasped Ram Lal, with chattering teeth, and yet he dared not fly.

An early evening interview with General Willoughby had disclosed to the Major the inconvenient fact that the dead nabob had left a carefully drawn will, whereof Andrew Fraser, of St. Heliers, Jersey, and Douglas Fraser, of Calcutta, were executors. ”There is a duplicate will here in the Bengal Bank,” so telegraphed the solicitor, ”and I have now notified both the executors. I presume that Mr. Douglas Fraser will return here at once, as he is absent in Europe on leave. It may be a week or more until he receives the sad intelligence.”

Alan Hawke softly smiled at those touching words, ”Sad intelligence.”

It was only the perfunctory regret of the shark-like lawyer, and the secretly rejoicing heirs. ”This is not a case where the one who goes is happier than the one that's left behind,” mused Hawke. ”I must settle matters rapidly with Ram Lal, for if the will leaves the property to Nadine, she must be mine at all costs!

”Shall I not send a well-armed man with you, Major?” asked the Captain.

”It is very late!”

”Thanks, Jordan,” lightly said the Major. ”I've a good revolver and my service sword--a priceless old wootz steel tulwar. I'm good for a dozen Pandies! I'm used to Thug--and Dacoit, to bandit and ruffian. I have a little private business to attend to, and I'll come home in a trap!”

By a strange chance, Major Alan Hawke, the distinguished favorite of fortune, slunk along in byway and shadow till he reached the cottage, where a lovely woman, flower wreathed, with child-like face and timid, mournful eyes, anxiously awaited him. ”I'll be back in two or three hours,” he carelessly said, as he tossed her a roll of rupees. Then, with a long, slender package hidden in his bosom, he stole out after a long circuit and entered Ram Lal's compound by the rear entrance, always at his use.

”It is just as well not to make any little mistake just now,” mused Hawke, as with cat-like tread he sped through the old jeweler's garden.

And the ”prevention of mistakes” consisted in the heavy Adams revolver which he carried slung around his neck and shoulder by a heavy cord, in the handy Russian fas.h.i.+on.

His left hand steadied the peculiar parcel which he had so carefully hidden. An amused smile flitted over his face when old Ram Lal opened the door of the snuggery, where Justine had first listened to a lover's sighs. ”Poor girl! I wish she were here to-night!” tenderly mused the sentimental rascal, as he waved away Ram Lal's bidding to a splendid little supper.

”I came here to talk business, Ram, to-night” sternly said Hawke, who had inwardly decided not to taste food or drink with the past master of villainy. ”He might give me a gentle push into the Styx,” acutely reflected the Major. ”Sit down right there where I can see you,” said Hawke, his hand firmly grasping the revolver, as he indicated a corner of the table, after satisfying himself that the shop door was locked. He then quickly locked the garden door and pocketed both the keys.

”What do you want of me?” murmured Ram Lal, who had noted the semi-hostile tone, and who clearly saw the b.u.t.t of the revolver.

”I want to talk to you of this Johnstone matter,” said the soldier, ignoring all other reference to the ”dear departed.” This coolness unsettled the wily jeweler, who trembled as Hawke laid a long red pocketbook down on the table before him.

The wily scoundrel s.h.i.+vered when the Major, with his left hand, pushed over to him five sets of Bills of Exchange for a thousand pounds each.

Ram Lal's eyes dropped under the brave villain's steady gaze, and he slowly read the first paper. He well knew the drawer's writing: