He had never lifted an eyebrow at the mention of Miss Johnstone.

He had dropped Justine Delande like a plummet into the lake of forgetfulness, and watched Hugh Johnstone's listless trifling with the dainties of the superb collation.
The raw-boned old Scotsman leaned heavily back in his chair.
His bony hands were thin and claw-like, his bushy white beard and eyebrows gave him a "service" aspect, while his cold blue eye gleamed out pale and menacing as the Pole star on wintry arctic seas.

His broad chest was sunken, his tall form was bent, and a visible air of dejection and unrest had replaced the sturdy vigor of his early manhood.

He was sipping a glass of pale ale in silence when Hawke neatly applied the lance once more.

"It must be a great change for you to leave India, Johnstone, but you need rest, and a general shaking up.