“Yet the fact remains. The rifles are being shipped.”
“But who are the Europeans with Abderrahman Yahiah Khan? And what have they to do with this land?”
“Everything. For remember, there is the old question of the 'concessions,' and one of the Europeans—his name is Mr. Preserved Higgins …”
Hector sat up straight. “Preserved Higgins?”
He thought, puzzled. Why, he said to himself as he had done once before, it was this same Cockney millionaire who had been the first to mention the name of Tamerlanistan to him, who had wanted him to go there, who had spoken of the princess, of Aziza Nurmahal, and …
“My lord,” Gulabian's terse, low voice cut through his thoughts, “Mr. Preserved Higgins is a careful man. He holds to the ancient maxim that among the sages, Narudu; among the beasts, the jackal; among the birds, the crow; among men, the barber; and among wise men, he who thinks twice—is the most crafty. Thinks twice! Acts twice! Thus he is also shipping rifles and ammunition from Bokhara and Khiva and Russian Turkestan, in case an enemy whisper a word into the ears of the British-Indian Raj. Too, there is the other European whom he brought with him, and my spies tell me that he is a soldier like thyself, trained in the art of war, quick and energetic and courageous. Nor is that all. For—thou knowest the old prophecy—of the sword and the wooing of the swords …?”
