“Oh, yes,” the Raja laughed; “you won’t be heard in Tashkent.”
“She will enter,” the valet’s fingers, and the disks on the wireless keyboard, spelled out carefully.
Crespin pulled his cigarette case out—what a stupid-looking face this Englishman had, the Raja thought. And he understood nothing of what the transmitter was saying—that was indubitable.
“His Highness’s household.”
Crespin held out the case to the doctor. “Have a cigarette, Traherne?”
“Thanks.” Traherne took one. Major Crespin struck a match—Watkins was repeating the message—Crespin held the match, saying, “Let us smoke and drink, for to-morrow we—” and he blew out the match, for the cigarette drew now. And the re-transmission ended.
“That’s how it’s done!” Rukh announced.
“How many words did he send?” Traherne inquired, with a show of interest that palpably was a little forced.
“What was it, Watkins?” the Raja demanded. “‘Forward by to-morrow’s caravan twelve cases champagne. Usual brand. Charge our account’—was that it?”
“That’s right, sir,” the man answered as he turned from the apparatus.