Conscious of the mental alarm which Hugh Johnstone could not altogether conceal, Major Hawke had simply bowed, in his grand manner, when the host presented his guest to Mademoiselle Delande. “I will let the old beggar lead out,” mused Hawke. “This royal spread is an excuse for any amount of silence.” And the Anglo-Indian renegade gazed admiringly at the thousand and one adjuncts of a blended English comfort and Indian luxury.
“Ever been in Geneva?” suddenly demanded Hugh Johnstone, with a glance at his two companions.
“He’s an uneasy old devil. He is trying to trap me now,” thought Hawke, who innocently replied: “Long years ago, when I was a mere lad. I’m told the town has been vastly improved by the Duke of Brunswick’s legacy. I’ve not seen it in later years.”
“Miss Delande is a Genevese,” remarked the host.
“I congratulate you, Mademoiselle,” politely said the Major. “It is a famous city to date from.”
It was evident that the spinster was held in reverent awe of her employer, for she guarded a judicious silence, as with a formal bow she at last left the table at the graciously permitting nod of Hugh Johnstone. There was a cold and brooding restraint, which had seemed to cast a chill even over the sultry Indian midday, but Justine’s smile was bright and winning as she faintly acknowledged with a blushing cheek Major Hawke’s gallantry as he sprang up and opened the door for the retiring lady. “She will come, she will come,” gayly throbbed the Major’s happy heart.
Alan Hawke was now thoroughly on his guard. He had never lifted an eyebrow at the mention of Miss Johnstone. He had dropped Justine Delande like a plummet into the lake of forgetfulness, and watched Hugh Johnstone’s listless trifling with the dainties of the superb collation. The raw-boned old Scotsman leaned heavily back in his chair.
His bony hands were thin and claw-like, his bushy white beard and eyebrows gave him a “service” aspect, while his cold blue eye gleamed out pale and menacing as the Pole star on wintry arctic seas. His broad chest was sunken, his tall form was bent, and a visible air of dejection and unrest had replaced the sturdy vigor of his early manhood. He was sipping a glass of pale ale in silence when Hawke neatly applied the lance once more. “It must be a great change for you to leave India, Johnstone, but you need rest, and a general shaking up. You have a good deal to leave here. I suppose your nephew—”
“He’s a good lad, but a stranger to me, Hawke,” broke in the host. “The fact is, I am as yet undecided. I go home for my daughter’s sake; it’s no place for her out here,” he sternly said. “You know what Indian life is?”
Hawke bowed, and mutely cried, “Peccavi.” He had been a part of it. “I’m waiting for the action of the Government. This Baronetcy. I must talk with you about it. I might have had the Star of India. You see, it’s an empty honor. And I hate to break away for good, after all. Do you know anything from Anstruther? He was up here, you know.”