“What kind of bunk is that?” whispered Patsy. “Who told him, do you think?”
“Keep quiet, Patsy,” warned Chick. “He’s liable to hear you. Don’t you know that India is the land of mysteries? If you never believed in ghosts and demons, and all that kind of thing, you’ve got a surprise coming to you. You will find that things are not always what you see in this country. Houdini, Herrman, and Keller are not in it with some of these men when it comes to the black art.”
“Black rot!” muttered Patsy, entirely unconvinced.
Jai Singh was a noble figure. His light dress, suitable for such a climate, emphasized his physical grace and strength. The white shirt was open at the throat, and the white linen trousers, coming just below the knee, allowed the muscles of his powerful legs to be seen as they moved about under the dark satin skin like living things.
There were heavy golden armlets clanking at his wrists, and circlets of the same precious metal were around his ankles.
The one thing out of keeping with his picturesque Orientalism was the heavy automatic pistol which hung to a light cartridge belt around his waist.
The latter was well supplied with cartridges, and the naturalness with which the hand of the owner dropped upon the butt of his revolver now and then suggested that he was no novice in the use of that particular weapon of the white man.
“What do you know of my son, Jai Singh?” demanded Jefferson Arnold. “I am Mr. Leslie’s father.”
“Jai Singh knows that,” was the reply. “He sees Leslie’s face when he looks at you. I cannot tell anything of Sahib Leslie except that he has gone into the great mountains far up the Brahmapootra.”
“Did you see him?”