The low cry: “My mother! My darling mother! He never even breathes the name!” had loosened all the tide of repressed feeling long pent up in Justine Delande’s heart.
“Trust to me! You shall know all, dearest! I am sure that Euphrosyne knows, and we shall see her soon!” So with an added reason for their second meeting, Miss Justine descended the grand marble stair, murmuring: “He shall tell me all he knows; he can search the past here! He can help me, and he must—for Nadine’s sake!”
And as he bowed low before her in courteous acknowledgment of the master’s presentation, Alan Hawke caught the lambent gleam of the newly awakened fires in Justine Delande’s eyes. “She is another woman,” he mused. With one silent glance of veiled recognition, Alan Hawke returned to his diplomatic fence with the wary old nabob who sat at the head of the glittering table. He was in no doubt now as to the second meeting at Ram Lal Singh’s shop, for Justine Delande’s eyes promised him more than even his habitual hardihood would have dared to ask. “What the devil’s up now?” he mused, “Something about the girl, I warrant. I suppose that the old brute has exiled her here for safety.” And then and there, Alan Hawke swore to reach the side of the Veiled Rose of Delhi, though the cold gray eyes of the host never caught him off his guard a moment in the two hours of the pompously drawn-out feast. Both the men were keenly watching each other now.
It had been no mere accidental slip of the tongue which guided Alan Hawke in his greeting of the old ex-Commissioner when Hugh Johnstone entered the reception-room, a study in gray and white, with only the three priceless pigeon-blood rubies lending a color to his snowy linen. “Upon my word, Sir Hugh, you are looking younger than I ever saw you,” said the visitor gracefully advancing.
“You’re a bit premature, are you not, Hawke?” dryly said the civilian, opening a silver cheroot box, once the property of a Royal Prince of Oude. Hugh Johnstone motioned his visitor to be seated, and keenly watched the younger man.
“I am on the inside of the matter,” soberly said Alan Hawke. “It was an open secret when I left London, and I’ve heard more since. A brief delay only,—a matter of a few months—no more.”
“Take a weed! They serve in half an hour!” abruptly said Hugh Johnstone, as if anxious to change the subject. The old man then strode forward and closed the door. Then, turning sharply upon his visitor, frankly demanded, “Now, tell me why you are here?”
“That depends partly upon your affairs,” said Hawke, meeting his questioner’s gaze unflinchingly. “I may have something to say to you about the Baronetcy, by and bye.” He paused to notice the keen old Scotchman wince under the thrust, “but, in the mean time, I am merely waiting orders here, and I want you to post me about the condition of affairs up there.” He vaguely indicated with his thumb the far-distant battlement of the Roof of the World. Hugh Johnstone rang a silver bell, and muttered a few words in Hindostanee to an attendant. “I must know more from Calcutta before I can explain just where I stand,” said the renegade soldier, with caution.
Before the silver tray loaded with ante-prandial beverages was produced, Hugh Johnstone quietly turned to his guest. “Did you see Anstruther in London?” he demanded, with a scarcely veiled eagerness.
“We were together some days,” very neatly rejoined the now confident Major. “In fact, I’m to operate partly under his personal directions. We are old friends.”