“Just the thing!” gayly cried Willoughby. “Murray’s captaincy is in the Gazette of to-day’s mail. I will order him down with you, in command of the guard, and, at Calcutta, the Viceroy will release you from your promise, so as to let him know that you can meet him in London. His Excellency evidently wants to hoodwink all the gossips here, and, above all, to blind old Johnstone. Now, Harry, I feel like a brute to let you go without a poor send-off, but, by Heaven, the whole Willoughby clan will follow you in London, and pay off a part of our debt for that ‘run-under fire’ with my wounded boy. Name anything you want. Do you want any help to watch Johnstone?” The old General was eager.
“Ah! I fear that I must attend to him, alone!” sadly said Major Hardwicke, whose heart was racked, for a fair, dear face now afar must soon be clouded with sorrow and those dear eyes weep a father’s shame.
“Call, day and night, for anything you want!” heartily said the loyal old father of the rescued officer. “The day before you go you must dine with us, alone, and Harriet will give you her last greeting.”
As the day wore away, there was a jovial rapprochement in the special car where General Abercromby and Major Hawke were gayly extolling Madame Berthe Louison’s perfections. “Mind you, General, I am no squire of dames,” said the Major. “You must make your own running.”
“Ah! my boy, you have earned your temporary rank as a Major of Staff, when you’ve introduced me. I flatter myself that I know women!” cried Abercromby as they cracked t’other bottle of Johnstone’s champagne.
“Take me to her, and then, I’ll take you to the Viceroy. I guarantee your rank!”
“It’s a bargain!” cried the delighted Hawke. While Abercromby dreamed of the lovely lady of the Silver Bungalow, Major Alan Hawke leisurely examined a sheaf of letters from Europe which had been thrust in his pocket by Ram Lal at parting.
“Victory!” he cried, as he read a tender letter from Euphrosyne Delande, in which she promised her absolute compliance with his every wish. “Justine has written to me herself,” was the underscored hint that the three might join fortunes. “It’s about time for that Madras boat to get to Brindisi,” mused Hawke, as they ran into Allahabad, “There may be telegrams here now.” And, while General Abercromby jovially feasted, Hawke ran over to his secret haunt to which he had ordered Ram Lal to send any telegrams, for one day only, and then, the rest would be safe with Ram’s secret agent in Calcutta. “My God! This is my fortune! Bravo, Justine!” cried Hawke, “True and quickwitted. I now hold Berthe Louison in my hand.”
He read the words—“Andrew Fraser, St. Agnes’ Road, St. Heliers, Jersey.” The dispatch was headed Brindisi, and signed “Justine.” “A man might do worse than marry a woman as true and keen as that,” smiled Hawke. “I am a devil for luck!” And then he gayly drank Justine’s health, in silence, when he joined the amorous Abercromby at the table.
But the “devil for luck” did not know of a little scene at Brindisi, where the blushing Nadine Johnstone hid her face in her friend’s bosom. “It is my life, my very existence, Justine!” she pleaded. “I will never forget you; we are both women, and my heart will break if you refuse!” And thus Justine Delande had learned at last of Nadine’s easy victory over the frank-hearted cousin’s prudence.