The prudent air of judicious mystery lately adopted sat easily upon him as his eye roved over the familiar scenes of old with a silent gleam of recognition, he followed a confidential attendant who salaamed, murmuring "My master awaits the sahib whom he delights to love and honor." "There is one card I must play at once," murmured Hawke, as the carriage sped along.

"Mademoiselle Justine Delande must be my secret friend! I wonder if Euphrosyne really swallowed the bait! If she has fallen into the trap and written to her sister, then--all is well!" His eyes roved over the familiar scene of the broad Chandnee Chouk, sweeping magnificently away from the Lahore gate to the superb palace.
The sun beat down with its old ferocious glare on shop and bazaar.

Grave merchants lolled over their priceless treasures of gold and silver work, heaped up jewels and bullion-threaded shawls for princely wear.

Under the awnings lingered the familiar polyglot groups, while beggary and opulence jostled each other on every hand.
"It's the same old road in life!" murmured Alan Hawke, "whether called Inderput, Shahjehanabad, or Delhi--the same old game goes on here forever, here by the sacred Jumna!" He was dreaming of the artful part which he had to play in the fierce modern race for wealth.

"They used to fight for it like men in the old days," he bitterly murmured.