Part 10 (2/2)

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.”

”I wonder when he will return?” dreamily said Johnstone, as if the subject was growing annoying in its bold directness.

”I believe that he has a long leave--a furlough of a year,” lightly answered the Major. ”In fact, I am to carry on some official matters for him in his absence, but he is wary and non-committal.”

”What is his English address?” abruptly said Johnstone, as they bowed formally over their gla.s.ses.

”I do not know,” frankly returned Hawke. ”I am to send all reports to headquarters in Calcutta.”

”Are you going down there soon?” asked the old nabob, with a growing uneasiness.

”Not unless I am sent for by the Viceroy,” quietly said the Major, with a listless air, gazing around admiringly on the magnificence of the apartment.

”I will give you a letter to my nephew, Douglas Fraser, when you do go,”

said Johnstone. ”He is a fine youngster, and he will have charge of all my Indian affairs, if I go home. He is in the P. and O. office. I would like you to know him.”

”I did not know that you had any family connection here,” replied the Major with a start of innocent surprise.

”Only this boy,” hastily replied the incipient baronet, ”and my daughter. She is, however, a mere child--a mere child. I have seen the leaves of the family tree wither and drop off one by one.” The host then stiffly rose, and formally said, ”Let us go in!”

”You are good for a score of years yet,” jovially remarked Major Hawke, as he gazed at the well-preserved outer man of his uneasy entertainer.

”The harpoon is deeply fixed in the old whale,” mused Hawke, as he followed Hugh Johnstone. ”He begins to flounder now.”

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.”

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