CHAPTER VIII
Giving the pink and silver dawn of a new life, not to forget a baker's dozen of stormclouds.
Mr. Ezra W. Warburton accomplished things less by keeping abreast of opportunity in the matter of enterprise, by a cunning and algebraic reckoning and dovetailing of the slightest details and chances as was the business secret of his rival, Mr. Preserved Higgins, than by an innate, sudden perceptiveness that was almost genius—would have been classified as genius had he been an artist instead of a financier.
Thus, just as soon as he had read Chandra's cablegram which quoted the one Aziza Nurmahal had received from London in toto and added the distressing information that the princess had finally had her way, that there was going to be no more talk of “concessions” until her father's prime minister, who had gone on a mysterious errand, had returned, he had decided to proceed to Tamerlanistan forthwith.
He had no idea what he should do after he got there. Too, he knew from former experiences that Mr. Preserved Higgins, in spite of his extravagant and blasphemous verbosity, was not given to bluffing, to empty boasting, when it came to business; and there was the wire which the Londoner had sent him to his New York office and which had been cabled on to the Savoy:
