"Precisely," said Anstruther, as he most calmly waved his hand
to the steward, who silently refilled even the glass of the Venus
Anonyma. A slight inclination of the head and parthian glance number
three, encouraged Anstruther to hasten and conclude, for the moon
was sailing grandly over the lake now.

Love thrilled in the young man's vacant heart, sounding the chords
of the Harp of Life. He had been in a glittering Indian exile long
enough to be very susceptible. "I spent two weeks up there with
the expectant Sir Hugh Johnstone," lightly rattled on the aid. "I
verified the fact that the young woman is his acknowledged daughter.
He has no other lineal heir to the title, for an old, dry-as-dust,
retired Edinburgh professor, a brother, childless and eccentric, is
living near St. Helier's, in Jersey, in a beautiful Norman chateau
farm mansion, where old Hugh proposed once to end his days. It seems
to be all square enough. I was as delicate as I could be about it,
and the matter is apparently all right. The papers have all gone
on, and, in due time, Hugh Fraser will be Sir Hugh Johnstone!"

Anstruther quaffed a beaker with guileful ideas of detaining his
fair neighbor, now ruffling her plumage for departure, for only a
sporadic knot of diners here and there lingered at the long table.
"The girl herself?" asked Hawke, with a strange desire to know
more.

"Report has duly magnified her hidden charms," replied Anstruther.
"She is called "The Veiled Rose of Delhi," and no manner of man may
lift that mystic veil. I was treated en prince, but held at arm's
length."