Over Alan
Hawke, sleeping there, as he was swiftly borne away, hovered, in
sad regret, his good angel, with sorrowing eyes, for the stern,
self-accusing man had not sought, in the last hours of this sorrow,
even the poor consolation that his life had been wrecked to feed
the fires of vanity burning in the jaded heart of the beautiful
Faustine, whose cold desertion had sold his youth to shame!
Twenty-four hours later Major Alan Hawke was again a stormy petrel
on Life's trackless ocean. The cold politeness of Captain Anson
Anstruther at the brief interview at the Junior United Service Club
in London at once decided the wanderer to make for India as soon
as his "pressing engagements" would allow. There was no seeming
menace, however, in Anstruther's wearied air of perfunctory courtesy.
"The whole affair being officially dropped, Major Hawke," said
Anstruther, "I only ask for your personal receipt for my individual
check. You will observe that this eleven hundred pounds is not in
any way government funds. And, on behalf of the Viceroy himself,
I thank you for your energy shown in the inquiry, which is now
permanently abandoned." To Major Hawke's murmured request, Anstruther
replied:
"Certainly! Drive around to Grindlay's in Parliament Street with
me and they will at once give you notes or their own circular check
for this money." In ten minutes, when Hawke had lightly announced
his intention to return to India, the Captain observed: "I may
not meet you for some years.
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