He had noted, with some secret alarm, a grave-faced, sturdy Frenchman, still in the forties, who was cast in the role of either courier or butler for the beautiful Mem-Sahib, whose loveliness in extenso he so far only divined by guess-work.
In the stranger lady's special car there was also, at her side, a truculent Parisienne-looking woman of thirty, whose bustling air, hawk-like visage, and perfect aplomb bespoke the confidential French maid.

"I must tell Hawke Sahib of this at once," mused Ram Lal.

"We must, in some way, get rid of these foreign servants." The man had a semi-military air, heightened by the sweeping scar--a slash from a neatly swung saber.

This purple facial adornment was Jules Victor's especial pride.

In these days of "ninety" he often recurred to the stroke which had made his fortune in the dark reign of the Commune.
As a wild Communard soldier he had risked his life vainly to save the aged Colonel Delavigne from a furious mob, for the red rosette in the old officer's buttonhole had cost him his life in an awkward promenade, and this sent the orphans, Valerie and Alixe Delavigne, adrift upon the mad maelstrom of Paris incendie.