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 two, furnished a running accompaniment to Anstruther's expensive "personally conducted tour" into the intricacies of ecarte, led on by the coolest safety player who ever fleeced a griffin.