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The smile faded from the older man's lips.

“You believe it was I who cheated, don't you?”

“Of course!” came the blunt reply.

“Well—by God—though neither you nor the guv'nor ever gave me a chance to explain—I didn't!”

“You—you …?”

“I—did—not!”

And, suddenly, Hector understood that Tollemache was speaking the truth.

“Who did—then …?” he stammered; and then: “By Jingo, I have it! It's clear—as clear as daylight! It was Higgins!”

“Higgins? Rot! He has enough of the ready to burn it in chunks. A thousand quid is nothing to him!”

“I know. But …”

And Hector told his brother how Mr. Preserved Higgins, via Babu Bansi and Gulabian had heard of the prophecy of the blades, of the Englishman who, according to it, would come out of the West to save Tamerlanistan.

“So he went ahead and found out the name of the English family—our family, Tollemache—the Wades of Dealle—and he came to our house.”

“Yes. I remember. Under the pretext that he wanted to buy or rent Dealle Castle, wasn't it? But—how did he find out that we were meant in the prophecy—even before we did ourselves?”

“I don't know. But he did. And—you see, he's Mr. Warburton's old enemy, and both are after land concessions, as you know—he decided to—oh—how would you put it?”