"Mind you, General, I am no
squire of dames," said the Major. "You must make your own running."
"Ah! my boy, you have earned your temporary rank as a Major
of Staff, when you've introduced me. I flatter myself that I know
women!" cried Abercromby as they cracked t'other bottle of Johnstone's
champagne.
"Take me to her, and then, I'll take you to the Viceroy. I guarantee
your rank!"
"It's a bargain!" cried the delighted Hawke. While Abercromby
dreamed of the lovely lady of the Silver Bungalow, Major Alan Hawke
leisurely examined a sheaf of letters from Europe which had been
thrust in his pocket by Ram Lal at parting.
"Victory!" he cried, as he read a tender letter from Euphrosyne
Delande, in which she promised her absolute compliance with his
every wish. "Justine has written to me herself," was the underscored
hint that the three might join fortunes. "It's about time for that
Madras boat to get to Brindisi," mused Hawke, as they ran into
Allahabad, "There maybe telegrams here now." And, while General
Abercromby jovially feasted, Hawke ran over to his secret haunt
to which he had ordered Ram Lal to send any telegrams, for one day
only, and then, the rest would be safe with Ram's secret agent in
Calcutta. "My God! This is my fortune! Bravo, Justine!" cried Hawke,
"True and quickwitted. I now hold Berthe Louison in my hand."
He read the words--"Andrew Fraser, St.
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