Brandon was silent.
“Would you like to know what it is?” asked Vijal.
“Not particularly,” said Brandon, coldly.
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you choose.”
Vijal raised his hand suddenly and gave a quick, short jerk. A cord flew forth—there was a weight at the end. The cord was flung straight at Brandon’s neck.
But Brandon had been on his guard. At the movement of Vijal’s arm he had raised his own; the cord passed around him, but his arm was within its embrace. In his hand he held a knife concealed. In an instant he slashed his knife through the windings of the cord, severing them all; then dropping the knife he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat, and before Vijal could recover from his surprise he drew forth a revolver and pointed it at him.
{Illustration: VIJAL LOOKED EARNESTLY AT IT. HE SAW THESE WORDS: “JOHN POTTS."}
Vijal saw at once that he was lost. He nevertheless plunged his spurs into his horse and made a desperate effort to escape. As his horse bounded off Brandon fired. The animal gave a wild neigh, which sounded almost like a shriek, and fell upon the road, throwing Vijal over his head.
In an instant Brandon was up with him. He leaped from his horse before Vijal had disencumbered himself from his, and seizing the Malay by the collar held the pistol at his head.