CHAPTER V.A DIPLOMATIC TIFFIN.
Major Alan Hawke had designedly breakfasted in the stately seclusion of his rooms, and as he came gravely sauntering into the Club ordinary, was at once beset by a friendly chorus, as he carelessly glanced over the morning letters which attested his progress toward the social zenith.
He, however, gazed impatiently at the club-house door, where a neat pair of ponies awaited him, with servants deftly purveyed by the subtle Ram Lal.

His two body servants were also afrites of the same sly Aladdin.
His swelling port duly impressed his old friends.
The man "who had dropped into a good thing" gently put aside sundry hospitable proffers, politely laughed away several tempting bargains as to horses, carriages, furnished bungalows, and offers of racing engagements, hunting bouts, and "private" dinners.

"Waiting orders, d'ye see!" he gently murmured.

"Not worth while to set up anything!" And then, with the air of a martyr, he disappeared, the ponies springing briskly away, leaving all baffled conjecture behind.

The curious men who were left discussing a flying rumor that Major Hawke was authorized to raise a Regiment of Irregular Horse for a special expeditionary secret purpose, wrangled with those who maintained that a brilliant local civil-service vacancy would be theatrically filled by the man who now bore a brow of mystery.