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.