Captain Anstruther, however, furtively murmured a few words to the solemn head steward and then leaned back contentedly in his chair. His ostensible orders for cafe noir and cards, as well as the least murderous of the obtainable cigars, covered the plan of using a five-pound note in an adroit personal inquiry. For, the Honorable Anson Anstruther proposed to ride that very evening, and he did not wish to bore Major Hawke with his company. He nursed a little scheme of his own. “Do you make a long stay?” carelessly said the wary Major.
“I intend to leave to-morrow night,” gayly answered the other. “I came over here on a very strange errand. I’ve got to see an eminent Gorgon of respectability, who has a finishing school here for the young person bien clevee,” said Anstruther, eyeing the unknown.
“Hardly in your line, Anstruther!” laughed Hawke, casting his eyes around the depleted table, for Miss Phenie and Miss Genie Forbes had vanished at last, leaving behind them expanding wave circles of sharply echoing comment. The noisy Teutons had devoured their seven francs worth, and the fair bird of passage on their left was left alone, woman-like, dallying with the last sweets and finishing her demi bouteille with true French deliberation. “It’s a case of the wolf and the sheep-fold!”
“Not that; not at all!” gayly answered Anstruther. “I have a long leave, and I only ran over here to oblige His Excellency.” He spoke with all the easy disdain of all underlings born of an Indian official life—the habitual disregard of the Briton for his inferior surroundings. “By Jove! you may help me out yourself! You’re an old Delhi man!” He gazed earnestly at Hawke, who started nervously, and then said:
“You know I’ve been away for a good bit of the ten years in the far Orient, but I used to know them all, before I went out of the line.”
“Then you surely know old Hugh Johnstone, the rich, old, retired deputy commissioner of Oude?” Alan Hawke slowly sipped his champagne, for his Delhi memories were both risky and uncertain ground.
“I fail to recall the name, Johnstone—Johnstone,” murmured Hawke.
“Why, everyone knows old Johnstone; he is an old mutiny man. You surely do! He was Hugh Fraser until he took the name of Johnstone, ten years or so ago, on a Scotch relative leaving him a handsome Highland estate!” There was a warning rustle at Hawke’s left, as the fair stranger prepared for her flitting.
“I was very intimate with Hugh Fraser in my griffin days. But I thought he had retired and gone back home. He is enormously rich, and an old bachelor! I know him very well; he was a good friend of mine in the old days, too!”
Anstruther leaned toward Hawke, as he signed to the waiter to refill his hearer’s glass. “Well, I can surprise even you! He has turned up with a beautiful daughter—at Delhi—just about the prettiest girl I ever—”