“Well, that’s all, then,” remarked Nick Carter. “I just wanted to know from your assistant manager the exact status of the case.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the millionaire, putting an affectionate hand on John McKeever’s shoulder. “You spoke of McKeever as ‘the assistant manager.’ You should have said ‘manager and confidential agent.’ This is his position here now. He takes William Pike’s place.”
There was a general handshake, with John McKeever’s sharp eyes a little dulled by emotion. Then his employer and Nick Carter went out into the simmering streets.
Seeking as much shade as they could, they strolled slowly back to the wharf where they had left the others.
Calcutta is a hot place in the afternoon, and nothing could be done until the sun began to go down. Then those who had been curled up in any partly cool place they could find for the inevitable siesta, stirred themselves, and the little party made its way to the railroad station.
Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, Chick, and Patsy Garvan all gathered in the coach reserve for high-caste natives and white persons, while Jai Singh and his men took their places in a car of lower class, to smoke cigarettes and doze throughout the night.
Captain was in the baggage car, where he made friends with the native train men, and seemed to be as contented as he always was anywhere so long as he had enough food and water.
They had begun the first stage of what might prove to be a long journey in the hunt for the missing Leslie Arnold.
CHAPTER III.
WHERE THE BABOO LOST OUT.
“Say, Chick, what kind of a hang-out is this we’re in?” asked Patsy Garvan, as he surveyed his surroundings some hours after they had alighted from the train up in the hill country. “I don’t see much besides trees, muddy water, and monkeys. I bet there are plenty of snakes, too, but they are under the leaves on the ground, I suppose. Is this still India?”