"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.