A moment afterward Trent's imagination supplied a solution for the shot—Kerth. He started to call Masein back, but reconsidered and waited.... His wrist-watch ticked off fifteen minutes. He noticed, abstractedly, pale flickerings on the far-away hills. When a half hour had passed he followed the native's trail through the rushes and along a narrow bridle-path. Not far from camp he met Masein.
"It is a white man, master," exclaimed the Lisu. "He has a camp there"—with a gesture.
Then he extended something that glinted softly in the gloom, and Trent took it and examined it closely. The blood throbbed in his throat.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
"He gave it to me, master—the white man. He said when you saw that you would come."
Without another word Trent followed the Lisu, the blood still throbbing hotly in his throat. For the thing that glinted softly was a golden bracelet with the figure of a king-cobra wrought in heavy relief upon it.
More than a half-mile from the camp, on the trail that Trent's caravan had traveled, they came to a clearing. A tent was pitched at one side, a litter of packs scattered carelessly about three mules. A shadowy form sat on a stool before the tent-door—a form that resolved into a young man in khaki and a sun-helmet. The revolver that he held shone in the deep twilight.
As Trent and the Lisu appeared he jumped up. Trent instinctively drew his weapon. The young man stumbled toward him. A yard away he paused and swayed; his revolver slipped from limp fingers.
"Major Trent!"
At the sound of the voice, Trent sprang forward and caught the slim form. It relaxed and the sun-helmet fell to the ground, releasing a wealth of hair that rippled down and showered the shoulders with coiled strands that in the fading light gleamed like molten copper.