“Did you get their conversation?”
“I’ve got a record of the gibberish. It requires an interpreter, of course.”
“I suppose so. I’ll take the records east with me to-morrow, and by the same token I’d better notify New York that I’m leaving.”
He went, half-undressed, to the telephone, got the telegraph office, and sent the following message:
“Recklow, New York:
“Leaving to-morrow for N. Y. with samples. Retain expert in Oriental fabrics.
“Victor Cleves.”
“Report for me, too,” said the dark young man, who was still enjoying his cigar on his pillows.
So Cleves sent another telegram, directed also to
“Recklow, New York:
“Benton and I are watching the market. Chinese importations fluctuate. Recent consignment per Nan-yang Maru will be carefully inspected and details forwarded.
“Alek Selden.”
In the next room Gutchlug could hear the voice of Cleves at the telephone, but he merely shrugged his heavy shoulders in contempt. For he had other things to do beside eavesdropping.
Also, for the last hour—in fact, ever since Sanang’s departure—something had been happening to him—something that happens to a Hassani only once in a lifetime. And now this unique thing had happened to him—to him, Gutchlug Khan—to him before whose Khiounnou ancestors eighty-one thousand nations had bowed the knee.