“I … what?”
“I had no idea you were Hector Wade. I thought you were some Oriental Don Juan. That's what my Baluchi told me. Told me—oh, well—that a girl wasn't safe with you unless she was accompanied by half-a-dozen chaperons armed to the teeth, and so he persuaded me to leave Jane in a little village oasis—the last, one the other side of the eastern gate.”
“What did he do that for?” Hector was puzzled, faintly uneasy.
“Oh—just to work me for a tip, I suppose. And he worked me all right. That final bakshish I gave him is going to make history in Central Asia.”
And he laughed again. For he was a shrewd business man who believed in the rhythmic law of human equation, the personal element, and as frequently, in New York and London, he had discovered that the roseate geniality due to a dry Martini, a lavish display of ambiguous hors d'œuvres, ornamental ices in frilled pink papers, and the right sort of coffee and liqueur, were of valuable help in directing a man's judgment and fountain pen; thus the flash of Jane's dark eyes through the center of this prosy business discussion might help in influencing the young Englishman.
“I'll send for her as soon as we're through with our little talk,” he said. “She'll be all right at the village, in the meantime.”
“I suppose so,” said Hector, still with that same faint uneasiness; and once more the financier launched forth upon the roaming, treacherous sea of dollars and cents which he knew so well how to navigate.
