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Updated: May 1, 2025
'Old Buckstick, as he had been christened by irreverent juniors, raised his hat to Honor from a distance; and wondered what the hell women of that sort were made of. Early breakfast over, they set out upon a six hours' tonga drive to Jhung; an isolated civil station fifty miles off the line of rail.
Ten days later the message, "Starting this morning," flashed through space to Dera Ishmael from Kashmir; and after that each hour brought him nearer. A second flash from Lahore; a third from Jhung; and Desmond, sending on a spare horse, rode down to the Indus to meet his friend, in Oriental fashion, 'at the edge of the carpet.
In the station-master's office he found the fateful red envelope awaiting him; and broke the seal with a shaking hand. "Crisis over. Condition more hopeful. Will wire Jhung." "Thank God!" he muttered, choking down a lump that had risen in his throat. Then, elbowing his way back to where Honor and Lenox stood guard over a disordered pile of luggage, he thrust the paper into her hand.
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