“On Major Montgomerie’s escort as a raw boy when I came out,” promptly interrupted Hawke. “I went all over Thibet in ‘75 with Nana Singh as a youngster. He was a wonderful chap and besides executing the secret survey of Thibet, he ran all over Cashmere, Nepaul, Sikkim, and Bhootan, secretly charged with securing authentic details of the death of Nana Sahib.” The cool assurance of the adventurer disarmed the now serious Anstruther, for both the sagacious English officer and his disguised assistant, Nana Singh, were both dead these many years. “Morley’s is my regular address; I keep up no home club memberships now,” coolly said Hawke, as at last they threw the cards down. Anstruther picked up his marker card as he glanced at Hawke’s ready money upon the table. There was a ten-pound note folded under the Major’s neat pocket case and a plethoric fold of Bank of England notes bulged the neat Russia leather. He never knew that only thirteen one-pound notes made up this brave financial show of his adversary. Alan Hawke was a past master of keeping up a brave exterior and he blessed the Cook’s Tourists who had that day left these small bills with the hotel cashier. “Now, here you are,” hastily said Anstruther. “Do you make the same total as I do?” The spoiled patrician boy carelessly shoved out sixty pounds in notes and rummaging over his portmanteau produced a check book. “There, I think that’s right. Check on Grindlay, 11 and 12 Parliament Street, for four hundred and twenty-eight.” Hawke bowed gravely with the air of a satisfied duelist, and then carelessly swept the check and notes into his breast pocket. “Tell me, what sort of a girl is this Nadine Johnstone,” the wanderer said, by way of a diversion. “I can’t tell you! Only old General Willoughby has pierced the veil. Of course, Johnstone could not refuse a visit from the Commander of Her Majesty’s forces. In fact, Harry Hardwicke, of the Engineers, accompanied Willoughby. The old chief treats Hardwicke as a son since he bore the body of the dear old fellow’s son out of fire in the Khyber Pass, and won a promotion and the V. C. Harry says the girl is a modern Noor-Mahal! But, she is as speechless and timid as a startled fawn! Now, Major, you will excuse me. I have to leave you!” There was a fretful haste in the passionate boy’s manner. The hour was already near midnight. “Shall I not see you to-morrow?” politely resumed Hawke. “You will not spend your whole morning with the stern damsel in spectacles and steel-like armor of indurated poplin?”