"Fellow in Bombay tells me he went a cropper about some woman
or other, ten years ago," lisped a rosy young lieutenant who was
spreading the golden revenues of a home brewery over the pitfall-dotted
path of a rich Indian sub.
"Right you are!" sententiously remarked Verner of the Horse Artillery.
"He went a stunning pace for a while, and at last had to get out.
Big flirtation--wife of commanding officer! Hawke acted very nicely.
Said nothing--sacrificed himself. That's why the women all like
him. Very safe man. But, he's a shy bird now." They dissected his
past, guessed at his present, but could not read his future!
And then and there, the man who knew it all, told of the mysterious
governmental quest confided to Major Alan Hawke. "You see, he has
a sort of roving commission in mufti, to counteract the ceaseless
undermining of the Russian agents in Persia, Afghanistan and in
the Pamirs. We always bear the service brand too openly. It gives
away our own military agents. Now, Hawke's a fellow like Alikhanoff,
that smart Russian duffer! He can do the Persian, Afghan, or
Thibetan to perfection! He has been on to London. Some morning he
will clear out. You'll hear of him next at Kashgar, or in Bhootan,
or perhaps he will work down into China and report to the Minister
there. He is a Secret Intelligence Department of One, that's all!"
"That's all very irregular for Her Majesty's Service," growled an
envious agnostic.
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