His last shore duty was done
when he had wired to his urgent relative in Delhi the glad tidings:
"All right. Coomassie Castle. Orders strictly obeyed."
Even the astute Alan Hawke failed, after many days of futile private
research, to trace the route of the train which had pulled out of
Delhi in the dead of night, beat the record to Allahabad, and then,
turning off apparently for Bombay, had curved, on a loop, to the
Madras line, and surpassed all speed records on the Indian Peninsula.
Even when he telegraphed to Ram Lal's friends at Madras, he could
obtain no definite trace, the railway officials were silent,
and the travelers had sought no hotel in Madras. Hugh Johnstone's
well applied money had smothered all inquiry. Even the driver and
stokers of the special train never knew who so generously presented
them with a ten pound note apiece. "Some secret service racket,"
they laughed over their ale. Not a tremor of a single muscle betrayed
Major Alan Hawke when he delivered over his official charge, Major
General Abercromby, to Hugh Johnstone in the golden glow of Delhi's
morning. "I've kept your interests in view," he whispered. "The
old boy's just two hundred pounds richer. And, you may be sure,
he wanted for nothing. I know all his damned old tiger and mutiny
stories by heart. I'm going up to the Club for a good long sleep.
My compliments to the ladies," lightly said Alan Hawke, as he
gracefully declined Hugh Johnstone's invitation to breakfast.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248