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ALAN HAWKE PLAYS HIS TRUMP CARD.
When the Calcutta train rolled into Allahabad, two days after Harry Hardwicke's crushing surprise, Major Alan Hawke, the very pink of Anglo-Indian elegance, awaited the dismounting of the returning voyagers.

He had passed a whole sleepless night in revolving the various methods to play oft each of his wary employers against each other, and had decided to let Fate make the game.
"The devil of it is, I'm not supposed to know anything of the flitting!" he mused, after digesting Ram Lal Singh's carefully worded telegrams.
All the light in his shadowy mental eclipse was the positive information that a special train had been made up for Bombay at the station, "on government secret service." "The old man is preparing to fight, now," he decided.

"His 'wooden horse' is within Berthe Loiuson's camp.

If she is not wary, she may never leave India, Johnstone can be very ugly.