Sir James did not know, could not know, that it was through the subterranean influence of an eccentric Cockney millionaire, Mr. Preserved Higgins, that the latter instructions had been sent him. But he did know that, unless he walked a delicate tight-rope between the two departments, his dearest wish would not be realized at the next royal birthday honors: namely, a change from Sir James, Kt., to Sir James, Bart.
Gently, therefore, he proceeded to hedge.
“Mr. Warburton,” he said, “I understand that Tamerlanistan is rather in an unsettled condition just now. The old Ameer died, you know …”
“Yes. I know.”
“Well—we have no consular representative there—it makes it rather awkward for me …”
“Don't worry,” rejoined the financier. “I have my own man up there—Babu Chandra.”
“A Bengali?"
“Yes.”
“Can you trust him? Not that I am trying to impeach the man's honesty, but …”
“I understand. Sir James. I know the sort of reputation the Babus have hereabouts. But my particular Babu is all right.”
“I am so glad,” murmured Sir James—and lied.
Presently, he tried a different method.
“Mr. Warburton,” he asked, “is your business in Tamerlanistan very pressing?"
