Pine Street a few days earlier had been cabled back to London, as the addressee had sailed for the latter place six days earlier and was just about due at his favorite hotel there, the Savoy.
A jumble of news, which caused Mr. Preserved Higgins to do a great deal of rapid figuring and dovetailing.
When Hector Wade left the train at Waterloo and had himself driven to a small, cheap hotel in Moor Street, in the reeking heart of Soho, he was not aware that a short, stocky, sandy-haired man who worked in Upper Thames Street for a mythical party whose cable address was “Gloops,” was shadowing him in another taxicab.
Nor was he aware that, shortly afterwards, a lengthy code cablegram was sent to Babu Bansi, at Teheran, giving the latter several intricate instructions with regard to a certain Princess Aziza Nurmahal who seemed to rule a country called Tamerlanistan.
Even had he known, it would have made little difference to him. In fact, he would not have been quite sure if Tamerlanistan was the name of a rug or of the latest American cocktail.
