But he did know, as he followed the Warburtons upstairs, that in all the world there was nothing quite as becoming to a creamy complexion and reddish gold hair than a snug toque, made of the breast plumage of a pheasant, and a severely tailored suit of peacock blue serge.
Downstairs, in the meantime, the sandy-haired gentleman was frantically ringing up a number in the Mayfair.
“Are you there—are you there? Mr. Higgins!” He talked furiously across the wires for several seconds. “Right-oh, guv'nor. He's with the Warburtons at this very moment. Yes. Of course. It was an accident. Old Warburton didn't stage that holdup so's to meet young Hickamadoodle—he ain't that sort—I know. But remember—the female of the species! What do I mean? I mean that the old codger has a daughter—and, my word, ain't she the peaches and cream, though! And that Babu blighter who works for the Anglo-Indian Cable Company at Tamerlanistan is Warburton's agent, and he may find out that. … You'll be right down? You'd better. For if that Babu finds out, and if that Yankee gets on young Wade's buttered and marmaladed side, your name is … MUD!” he shouted into Central's indignant ear, for Mr. Preserved Higgins had already slammed down the receiver, and was running through his genuine Spanish Renaissance drawing-room, past his simon-pure Louis Seize bed-room, into his guaranteed Neo-Gothic reception hall where he yelled at the Italian
