“Get one of our family into his toils, what? Regular melodramatic style!”
“Exactly,” replied Hector. “After the scandal, he interviewed me, asked me to go to Asia for him. But I wouldn't play. I knocked him down. Then he got you. It's all perfectly clear.”
“Right-oh! Let's interview our amazing Cockney friend!”
They did, and they found Mr. Preserved Higgins at first inclined to bluster.
But Hector reminded him of the fact that he was regent of Tamerlanistan, and that a word to the executioner would …
“You wouldn't?” protested Mr. Preserved Higgins. “Ain't we both British gents? I s'y—look 'ere …”
“No use arguing,” said Hector. “Either you own up or …”
“Right-oh, cocky!” said Mr. Preserved Higgins, with that sudden and complete change of front which was one of his main characteristics and which, often, in the past, had given him the victory in financial battles. “You 'ave me by the short 'air on my neck. I own up, see? It was me cheated at cards. I used to myke oodles of tin at it, years back, when I was in South Africa and still belonged to these 'ere downtrodden masses.”
Pressed to be more explicit, he told how, on the day of the old Ameer's death, his faithful agent, the Babu Bansi, had cabled him, had followed it up by other wires which detailed the story of the prophecy and the blades, and that, for the reasons which the
