“Je demande mills pardons, Madame!” politely cried Major Hawke, as his fair neighbor’s wineglass went shivering down in a crystalline wreck.
“Pas de quoi, Monsieur,” suavely replied the woman whom till now he had hardly noticed. A moment later the slight damage was repaired, and then Captain the Honorable Anson Anstruther had his little innings.
With courtly hospitality he offered the creamy champagne as a remplacement for the lost vin du pays.
A charming smile rewarded the gallant youth, while Major Hawke turned with interest to the renewal of the interrupted narrative. He had caught a glance of burning intensity from the dark brown eyes of the lady a la Houbigant, which set every nerve in his body tingling. It was a challenge to a companionship, and, as he led on the triumphant Anstruther, he deeply regretted the absence of that most necessary organ,—an eye in the back of the head. He was dimly aware that his beautiful neighbor was very leisurely drinking the peace offering of the susceptible son of Mars. “I will bet hundreds to ha’pennies she speaks English!” quickly reflected the now aroused Major.
“You astound me, Anstruther,” the Major said. “Not a lawful child! Some Eurasian legacy—a relic of the old days of the Pagoda Tree! Why, the old commissioner always was a woman hater, and absolutely hostile to all social influences!” The Captain was now stealing longing glances at the willowy figure of the beautiful woman whose glistening dark brown eyes were turned to him with a languid glance, as Alan Hawke leaned forward. To prolong the sight of that bewitching half profile, with the fair, low brows, the velvet cheeks, a Provencale flush tinting them, the parted lips a dainty challenge speaking, and the rich masses of dark brown hair nobly crowning her regal outlines, Anstruther yielded to the spell and babbled on. “The whole thing is a strange melange of official business and dying gossip!” dreamily said Anstruther with his eyes straying over the ivory throat, the superbly modeled bust and perfect figure of the young Venus Victrix.
He was duly rewarded by a glance of secret intelligence when he leaned back, dreamily closing his eyes. “You see, they were going to make old Hugh Fraser or Hugh Johnstone, as he is now called, a baronet for some secret services to the Crown of an important nature, rendered about the time when mad Hodson piled up the whole princely succession to the House of Oude in a trophy of naked corpsess pistoling them with his own hand.” He ordered a third bottle of Pommery, with a wave of his hand, and proceeded: “Of course, you know, Her Majesty’s Government always closely investigate the social antecedents of the nominee in such cases. The change of name is all right; it is regularly entered at Herald’s College and all that sort of thing, but the Chief has heard of the sudden appearance of this beautiful daughter. Now, old Johnstone surely never looked the way of woman in India! It’s true that he went back about twenty years ago to England on a two years’ leave. He has lived the life of a splendid recluse in his magnificent old bungalow on the Chandnee Chouk.”
Anstruther paused, fishing for another fugitive smile. He caught it behind the back of the wary adventurer.
“I know the old house well,” said Hawke with an affected unconcern. “Men were always entertained royally there, but I never saw a woman of station in its vast saloons.”
“Now there you are!” cried Anstruther, lightly resuming: “I was sent up to Delhi to delicately find out about this alleged daughter, for the Chief does not want to throw Johnstone’s baronetcy over. The fact is before they packed the toothless old King of Oude away to Rangoon to die with his favorite wife and their one wolf cub out there, Hugh Fraser skillfully extorted a surrender of a huge private treasure of jewels from these people while they were hidden away in Humayoon’s tomb. There’s one trust deposit yet to be divided between the Government and this sly old Indo-Scotch-man, and I fancy the empty honor of the baronetcy is a quid pro quo.” Alan Hawke laughed heartily. “It is really diamond cut diamond, then.”
“Precisely,” said Anstruther, as he most calmly waved his hand to the steward, who silently refilled even the glass of the Venus Anonyma. A slight inclination of the head and parthian glance number three, encouraged Anstruther to hasten and conclude, for the moon was sailing grandly over the lake now.