to make sure that nobody except the Warburtons and their guide and servants should leave India for Tamerlanistan; and so, with the help of mendacious warnings about some mysterious Russian political intrigue, he had asked the American to let no stranger attach himself to his caravan at any time of the journey.
“I cant do it, Jane,” repeated Mr. Warburton. “It wouldn't be fair to Sir James.”
“I don't care!” the girl exclaimed. “Fair to Sir James—indeed! Why, he's a dreadful person. Remember how he boasted about refusing a passport to Hector—and yet I wager Hector got away all right, otherwise I would have heard from him or seen him … Dad!” she went on, “haven't I been nice about Hector?”
“Nice? What do you mean?”
“Well—I didn't nag you about him, did I? I've hardly ever mentioned him these last weeks.”
“That's true,” admitted her father, rather grudgingly.
“Well—then you really might be a dear and do that little thing for me!”
“What little thing?”
“To let these two men join our caravan.”
“But why, child?”
“Oh—they are so funny—the thin one who looks like an Asiatic Don Quixote, and the fat one who looks like a wicked Pickwick! They'll lend such a bully spice of romance to our trip!”
“Oh … romance! This is a business trip, daughter.”
