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“Heaven-Born,” he said, “Al Nakia speaks English.”

“Educated abroad, I guess?”

“No. He is a saheb, like yourself!”

Even so two hours later—two hours pregnant with motley happenings, with the clash of swords, the cries of dying men, the lust of a Tamerlani, and the greed of an Arab—Mr. Ezra Warburton was utterly surprised when, ushered into the presence of Al Nakia, he discovered that the latter was Hector Wade.

And the surprise was mutual. Too, it was typical of American and Briton.

“I'll be jiggered!” exclaimed the former.

“How d'ye do?” said the latter, extending a limp and gawkish hand.

Came an embarrassed silence, until finally the financier, with the abrupt directness of his nation, decided that the past was the past and, as such, must be left to take care of itself; that, whatever the truth or untruth as to the disgraceful card scandal which had banished Hector Wade from the society of decent people, and whatever the methods through which he had reached his present eminent position, that position itself was a fact—and he was here on business.

Business! The sacred Grail of his life!

And business he would talk, and did talk.

“About those land development concessions,” he began. “I guess I can make you a pretty fair offer—an offer you won't be able to refuse.”

He went on to say that he knew about the rebellion which had broken out in the western marches and