Alan Hawke strode to the windows of Anstruther's rooms and standing
there, watched the drifting moonbeams mantling on the spectral
blue lake, while his chance-met friend rang for a waiter. There was
the murmur of confidential orders, and then Anson Anstruther with
a bright smile dropped easily into the role of host. The young
staff officer was so elated by the apparently flattering selection
of the fair anonyma that he never considered the idea of possible
foul play. It was evident that Major Hawke had not noticed the
little by-play which was the delightful undercurrent of the table
d'hotel dinner. There was no time lost in the preliminaries of the
card duel.

Through curling blue wreaths of aromatic incense, over the
brandy-dashed coffee, the two men sententiously struggled for the
smiles of Fortune, with impassive faces, in a rapid duel of wits
as the fleeting moments sped along.

The tide of luck was set dead against Anstruther, who strangely seemed
to be now possessed of a merry devil. He made perilous excursions
into the land of brandy and soda, gayly faced his bad fortune, and
feverishly chattered over the well-worn Anglo-Indian gossip adroitly
introduced by the now nerve-steadied Hawke. General Renwick's
loss of his faded and feeble spouse, the far-famed "Poor Thing" of
much polite apology for her socially aristocratic ailments; Vane
Tempest's singular elopement with the beautiful wife of a green
subaltern; Harry Chillingly's untoward end while potting tigers;
Count Platen's enormous winnings at Baccarat; Fitzgerald Law's
falling into a peerage; and Mrs. Claire Atterbury, the wealthy widow's
purchase of a handsome boy-husband fresh from Sandhurst. All this
with Jack Blunt's long expected ruin, and a spicy court-martial or