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But most of all pleased was Ram Lal Singh, clutching in his dreams at the dagger of Mirzah Shah, lying there by his bedside. "He will be left alone, and he knows my signal his own device THREE TAPS AT HIS WINDOW! In Delhi there only lingered, sad and lonely, Major Harry Hardwicke, whose sighs were echoed back from afar by a starry-eyed girl watching the sandy shores of the Suez Canal.
Ram Lal crept into his hidden love nest, his skinny hand clutching the golden shaft of Mirzah Shah's dagger. "I might surrender them later and get an enormous reward from the Crown," he mused. At the Delhi Club, Major Alan Hawke, in a strange unrest, paced his floor half the night. "I stand now nearly eleven thousand pounds to the good, with outlying counties to hear from, as the Yankees say."
Are not these, O Mirzah, Habitations worth contending for? Does Life appear miserable, that gives thee Opportunities of earning such a Reward? Is Death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an Existence? Think not Man was made in vain, who has such an Eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible Pleasure on these happy Islands.
When all was left in darkness, save where a blinking red and white line signal still showed, Ram Lal Singh crept away from the line of the rails. The rich jewel vender clutched in his bosom the handle of Mirzah Shah's poisoned dagger, the deadly dagger of a merciless prince. He had long pondered over the sudden demand made upon him by the Lady of the Silver Bungalow.
"I observe that you have labored to protect your own indorsement," sportively remarked the Major. "And now you will return to me my jewels?" timidly demanded Ram Lal. "Do you wish me to send the dagger of Mirzah Shah to General Willoughby? It is deposited here, with a sealed letter," coldly sneered Hawke.
The jeweled dagger of Mirzah Shah was now securely locked in a little chest where Alan Hawke kept a few articles hidden away in the humble home of the passive plaything of his idle hours. As he caught sight of the Marble House, with its gathered crowds, he saw the gleam of musket barrels, as a company of foot were picketing the vast garden inclosure, and forcing back the excited crowd.
Ordering the troopers to remain behind, Dick and Surajah rode forward. "We are the bearers," Surajah cried out, as they reined in their horses within twenty yards of the gate, "of an order from the sultan for our admittance, and of a letter to Mirzah Mohammed Bukshy, the governor." "I will send up word to him," an officer on the wall replied.
As Hugh Johnstone turned from the corner, in the darkness, there was a gurgling cry a half-smothered groan as Mirzah Shah's poisoned dagger was driven to the hilt between his shoulders. His accounts were settled, at last! An hour later, a dark form crept through the gardens toward the gate where Harry Hardwicke had rode in to the rescue.
As Dick, after the fighting had ceased, went, by order of the General, to examine the prisoners and ascertain their rank, his eye fell upon an old officer, whose arm hung useless by his side, broken by a musket ball. He went up to him, and held out his hand. "Mirzah Mahomed Buckshy!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to meet you again, although sorry to see that you are wounded."
I will watch him like a ghoul of Bowanee, and they shall be mine! He would turn tail now and steal away!" Ram Lal laughed an oily laugh, and going to an old cabinet, took out a heavy kreese. "The poisoned dagger of Mirzah Shah!" he smiled. "After many years!"
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