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.

"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 deat