Love thrilled in the young man’s vacant heart, sounding the chords of the Harp of Life. He had been in a glittering Indian exile long enough to be very susceptible. “I spent two weeks up there with the expectant Sir Hugh Johnstone,” lightly rattled on the aid. “I verified the fact that the young woman is his acknowledged daughter. He has no other lineal heir to the title, for an old, dry-as-dust, retired Edinburgh professor, a brother, childless and eccentric, is living near St. Helier’s, in Jersey, in a beautiful Norman chateau farm mansion, where old Hugh proposed once to end his days. It seems to be all square enough. I was as delicate as I could be about it, and the matter is apparently all right. The papers have all gone on, and, in due time, Hugh Fraser will be Sir Hugh Johnstone!”
Anstruther quaffed a beaker with guileful ideas of detaining his fair neighbor, now ruffling her plumage for departure, for only a sporadic knot of diners here and there lingered at the long table. “The girl herself?” asked Hawke, with a strange desire to know more.
“Report has duly magnified her hidden charms,” replied Anstruther. “She is called “The Veiled Rose of Delhi,” and no manner of man may lift that mystic veil. I was treated en prince, but held at arm’s length.”
Hawke smiled softly, and said in a low voice, “I hardly see how all this brings you over here. The Rose blooms by the far-away Jumna.”
“Then know, my friend,” laughed Anstruther, “such a rose as the peerless Nadine Johnstone must have a duenna.” He deftly caught an impassioned glance from the softly shining brown eyes, and hastily went on. “She was educated right here in this emporium of watches, musical boxes, correct principles, and scientific research. Mesdames Justine and Euphrosyne Delande, No. 122 Rue du Rhone, conduct an institute (justly renowned) where calisthenics, a view of the lake, a little music, a great deal of bad French, and the Conversations Lexicon, with some surface womanly graces, may all be had for some two hundred pounds a year. Miss Justine Delande, a sedately gray-tinted spinster, has been tempted to remain on guard for a year out in India, having safely conducted this Pearl of Jeunes Personnes Bien Elevees out to the old Qui Hai. I have been charged with some few necessary explanations and negotiations, the delivery of some presents, and, when I have visited this first-class institute, enjoying all the attractions of the Jardin Anglais and the Promenade du Lac, I shall flee these tranquil slopes of the Pennine Alps. Incidentally, the records of Mademoiselle Euphrosyne will confirm the very natural story of the would-be Sir Hugh, whose vanished wife no Anglo-Indian has ever seen. She is supposably dead. A last official note after I have run on to Paris will close up the whole awkward matter. I will call there tomorrow and then take the early train, as I am on for a lot of family visits and sporting events before I can settle down to have my bit of a fling.”
“It’s a very strange story,” murmured Alan Hawke. “No man ever suspected Hugh Fraser of family honors.”
“And ‘the Rose of Delhi!’ will probably marry some lucky fellow out there, as old Johnstone has lacs and lacs of rupees,” said Anstruther, “for he cannot keep her in his great gardens forever, guarded by the stony-eyed Swiss spinster, or let her run around as the Turks do their priceless pet sheep with a silver bell around her neck. There was some old marital unhappiness, I suppose, for the girl is evidently born in wedlock, and the story is straight enough.”
“Have you seen her?” eagerly inquired Hawke.
“Just a few stolen glimpses,” hastily replied Anstruther, politely rising and bowing as the fair unknown suddenly left her seat, in evident confusion.
The two men strolled out of the salle a manger together, Major Alan Hawke critically observing the heightened color and evident elan of his aristocratic friend.