“Let me play with him to-night; I am yours as soon as he departs!” sullenly said Hawke.
“Then, finish in two hours,” the woman said, gathering her draperies to flee away, “for I will ride with him to-night!”
“Just a bit unconventional,” murmured Alan Hawke. “Who the devil can this French-English woman be anyway.” He realized that some subtle game depended upon the memories of the past strangely evoked by the artless Anstruther’s babble. As he strolled back to the smoking-room, he saw the maitre d’hotel slyly deliver a twisted bit of paper to the all too unconcerned looking young Adonis, and the gleam of a napoleon shone out in the grave faced Figaro’s hand. “Now for our cafe noir, a good pousse cafe—and—a dash at the painted beauties. I can’t play very long,” was Anstruther’s salutation, as he complacently twisted his mustache en hussar. Major Hawke bowed in a silent delight.
And so it fell out that both wolf and panther—hungry vulpine prowler and sleek feminine soft-footed enemy—gathered closely, around the young British Lion, whose easy self-complacency led him into the snare, hoodwinked by the fair unknown Delilah.
Alan Hawke strode to the windows of Anstruther’s rooms and standing there, watched the drifting moonbeams mantling on the spectral blue lake, while his chance-met friend rang for a waiter. There was the murmur of confidential orders, and then Anson Anstruther with a bright smile dropped easily into the role of host. The young staff officer was so elated by the apparently flattering selection of the fair anonyma that he never considered the idea of possible foul play. It was evident that Major Hawke had not noticed the little by-play which was the delightful undercurrent of the table d’hote dinner. There was no time lost in the preliminaries of the card duel.
Through curling blue wreaths of aromatic incense, over the brandy-dashed coffee, the two men sententiously struggled for the smiles of Fortune, with impassive faces, in a rapid duel of wits as the fleeting moments sped along.
The tide of luck was set dead against Anstruther, who strangely seemed to be now possessed of a merry devil. He made perilous excursions into the land of brandy and soda, gayly faced his bad fortune, and feverishly chattered over the well-worn Anglo-Indian gossip adroitly introduced by the now nerve-steadied Hawke. General Renwick’s loss of his faded and feeble spouse, the far-famed “Poor Thing” of much polite apology for her socially aristocratic ailments; Vane Tempest’s singular elopement with the beautiful wife of a green subaltern; Harry Chillingly’s untoward end while potting tigers; Count Platen’s enormous winnings at Baccarat; Fitzgerald Law’s falling into a peerage; and Mrs. Claire Atterbury, the wealthy widow’s purchase of a handsome boy-husband fresh from Sandhurst. All this with Jack Blunt’s long expected ruin, and a spicy court-martial or two, furnished a running accompaniment to Anstruther’s expensive “personally conducted tour” into the intricacies of ecarte, led on by the coolest safety player who ever fleeced a griffin. Truly these were golden moments. The Major’s cool steady eyes were sternly fixed on his cards.
The self-imposed sentence of suicide of the afternoon was indefinitely postponed when Alan Hawke amiably nodded as Anstruther at last apologized for glancing at his watch. “I’ve a bit to do to get ready for to-morrow, and we’ll try one more hand and then I’ll say good-night.”
“Well, I’ll give you your revenge at any time, Anstruther! By the way, what’s your London address?” Hawke was complacently good humored as he glanced at a visiting card whereon sundry comfortable figures were roughly totted up.
“Junior United Service, always,” carelessly said Anstruther. “They keep run of me, for I’m off for the woods as soon as the shooting season opens. Where will you be this winter?”