.

"I must know all of this Hugh Johnstone, all about this girl," she
whispered, her lips almost touching his cheek.

"Let me play with him to-night; I am yours as soon as he departs!"
sullenly said Hawke.

"Then, finish in two hours," the woman said, gathering her draperies to
flee away, "for I will ride with him to-night!"

"Just a bit unconventional," murmured Alan Hawke. "Who the devil can
this French-English woman be anyway." He realized that some subtle game
depended upon the memories of the past strangely evoked by the artless
Anstruther's babble. As he strolled back to the smoking-room, he saw
the maitre d'hotel slyly deliver a twisted bit of paper to the all too
unconcerned looking young Adonis, and the gleam of a napoleon shone out
in the grave faced Figaro's hand. "Now for our cafe noir, a good pousse
cafe--and--a dash at the painted beauties. I can't play very long,"
was Anstruther's salutation, as he complacently twisted his mustache en
hussar. Major Hawke bowed in a silent delight.

And so it fell out that both wolf and panther--hungry vulpine prowler
and sleek feminine soft-footed enemy--gathered closely, around the
young British Lion, whose easy self-complacency led him into the snare,
hoodwinked by the fair unknown Delilah.

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