lightly said Alan Hawke, as he gracefully
declined Hugh Johnstone's invitation to breakfast. Then Johnstone bore
off his purple prize, set in red and gold.

The wide ripple of excitement caused by General Abercromby's reported
arrival had crowded the railway station. Hugh Johnstone chuckled,
"Evidently Hawke knows nothing," as the two old friends drove away
in splendid state. But Major Hawke, an hour later, at his Club, was
suddenly interrupted in a cozy breakfast by the most unceremonious
entrance of Major Harry Hardwicke, whose promotion was at last gazetted.
"Hello! I see you're a Major now. Lucky devil! What can I do for you,
Hardwicke?" cried Alan Hawke, eyeing the haggard and worn-looking young
officer with a strange dawning suspicion of the truth. "Did he know,
too, of the Hegira?"

Major Hardwicke threw himself down in a chair, curtly saying: "You
can tell me who effectuated this lightning disappearance act of Madame
Delande and young Miss Johnstone."

"You speak in riddles to me, Hardwicke," coolly said the wary Major.
"I've just come in from Allahabad with General Abercromby, who is here
to settle old Johnstone's accounts. I know nothing of what you refer to.
I expected to meet both the ladies at dinner to-day."

"Then I will not uselessly take up your time, Major Hawke," gloomily
rejoined Hardwicke, as he picked up his sword, and, with a cold formal
bow, quitted the room.

"I must watch this young fool," growled Alan Hawke. "Thank my lucky
stars, the woman is far away! But, he's well connected, has a brilliant
record, and is a V. C. now for Berthe Louison and the fireworks! But,
first, old Ram Lal! They bowled the old boy out! I suppose that he has
already told Alixe Delavigne that she has been outwitted. I hold the
trump cards now! No single word without its golden price! I must not
make one false step! As to the club men, I only join in the general
wonder." He made a careful and very studied toilet and sauntered out of
the club en flaneur, and then stealthily betook himself to the pagoda
in Ram Lal's garden, where his innocent dupe had so often waited for him
with a softly beating heart.

"I'm glad the girl is gone," mused Alan Hawke. "If she were here, the
chorus hymning Hardwicke's perfections might set her young heart on
fire." He was, as yet, ignorant of the tender bond of gratitude fast
ripening into Love. For, Love, that strange plant, rooted in the human
heart, thrives in absence, and, watered