With one silent glance of veiled recognition, Alan Hawke returned to his diplomatic fence with the wary old nabob who sat at the head of the glittering table.

He was in no doubt now as to the second meeting at Ram Lal Singh's shop, for Justine Delande's eyes promised him more than even his habitual hardihood would have dared to ask.

"What the devil's up now ?" he mused, "Something about the girl, I warrant.

I suppose that the old brute has exiled her here for safety." And then and there, Alan Hawke swore to reach the side of the Veiled Rose of Delhi, though the cold gray eyes of the host never caught him off his guard a moment in the two hours of the pompously drawn-out feast.

Both the men were keenly watching each other now.
It had been no mere accidental slip of the tongue which guided Alan Hawke in his greeting of the old ex-Commissioner when Hugh Johnstone entered the reception-room, a study in gray and white, with only the three priceless pigeon-blood rubies lending a color to his snowy linen.
"Upon my word, Sir Hugh, you are looking younger than I ever saw you," said the visitor gracefully advancing.
"You're a bit premature, are you not, Hawke ?" dryly said the civilian, opening a silver cheroot box, once the property of a Royal Prince of Oude.