“No, Nureddin,” he said to the Baluchi. “Tell them I'm sorry, but …”
“Why not, dad?” asked the girl. “Do let them come with us. They are such picturesque ruffians—and I simply dote on local color!”
Mr. Warburton grumbled.
“I can't do it, Jane,” he said. “Sir James Rivet-Carnac was very particular about strangers not joining our caravan.”
For Sir James, the day before the Warburtons had left Calcutta, had had a confidential message from Mr. Preserved Higgins.
The latter had received cabled advice from a certain sandy-haired gentleman who had an office in Upper Thames Street, London, that the mysterious old Oriental in Coal Yard Street, off Drury Lane, had left England; and Mr. Higgins, thinking that the Oriental, if he came to Tamerlanistan, might, for certain reasons which he talked over with the Babu, seriously interfere with his plan of proclaiming Tollemache Wade as the “Expected One”; knowing that it would be very difficult to shadow the old man once he had disappeared in India's brown swirl; and believing, finally, in sweeping and ruthless methods when big things were at stake, had requested Sir James that, temporarily, all caravans from India to Tamerlanistan be stopped.
Sir James had tried to obey. But Mr. Warburton had been obdurate, had used counter-influences with the India Office, and had received his passports. Finally Sir James had compromised by endeavoring
