The tide of luck was set dead against Anstruther, who strangely seemed to be now possessed of a merry devil. He made perilous excursions into the land of brandy and soda, gayly faced his bad fortune, and feverishly chattered over the well-worn Anglo-Indian gossip adroitly introduced by the now nerve-steadied Hawke. General Renwick’s loss of his faded and feeble spouse, the far-famed “Poor Thing” of much polite apology for her socially aristocratic ailments; Vane Tempest’s singular elopement with the beautiful wife of a green subaltern; Harry Chillingly’s untoward end while potting tigers; Count Platen’s enormous winnings at Baccarat; Fitzgerald Law’s falling into a peerage; and Mrs. Claire Atterbury, the wealthy widow’s purchase of a handsome boy-husband fresh from Sandhurst. All this with Jack Blunt’s long expected ruin, and a spicy court-martial or two, furnished a running accompaniment to Anstruther’s expensive “personally conducted tour” into the intricacies of ecarte, led on by the coolest safety player who ever fleeced a griffin. Truly these were golden moments. The Major’s cool steady eyes were sternly fixed on his cards. The self-imposed sentence of suicide of the afternoon was indefinitely postponed when Alan Hawke amiably nodded as Anstruther at last apologized for glancing at his watch. “I’ve a bit to do to get ready for to-morrow, and we’ll try one more hand and then I’ll say good-night.” “Well, I’ll give you your revenge at any time, Anstruther! By the way, what’s your London address?” Hawke was complacently good humored as he glanced at a visiting card whereon sundry comfortable figures were roughly totted up. “Junior United Service, always,” carelessly said Anstruther. “They keep run of me, for I’m off for the woods as soon as the shooting season opens. Where will you be this winter?” Major Hawke assumed a mysterious air, “That depends upon the Russian and Chinese game--the Persian and Afghan intrigues! You see, I am awaiting some ripening affairs in the F. O. I was called back on account of my familiarity with the Pamirs, and there’s a good bit of Blue Book work that my knowledge of Penj Deh, and the whole Himalayan line has helped out.” The captain was a bit agnostic now. “You were---” began Anson Anstruther, timidly, the old vague gossip returning to haunt him. His ardor was cooling in view of the very neat sum of his losses in three figures.