“I know,” rejoined Jefferson impatiently. “You can take it easily. But I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t be quite sure, because it is dark, and that infernal green glow doesn’t tell much. But I believe it is Adil, the young fellow my boy engaged as a sort of body servant. He says all white men in India have a servant of that kind.”
Nick Carter’s grip tightened on his rifle.
“Keep cool, Mr. Arnold! We’ll save him!” he promised, in low, tense tones. “But we must be cautious.”
“It is Adil!” came from Arnold. “I feel sure of it. Every move tells me so. I’ve half a mind to shoot that black scarecrow who is doing it all. I can do it without much trouble. Those snakes are doing just as he tells them. That big one is going to strike Adil before he gets through.”
“I don’t think so,” declared Nick. “The old fakir doesn’t mean to let that happen.”
“What’s he doing it all for?”
“I can’t tell yet,” confessed Nick Carter. “Nobody understands these men thoroughly. They may have any of a hundred reasons for what they do. This probably is merely an incantation of some sort. Or Adil—if it is Adil—may be a prisoner.”
“He is a prisoner. I’m sure of that,” rejoined Jefferson Arnold. “He would not be going through this buncombe otherwise. He’s too level-headed for that. But if this medicine man has him hypnotized, as it seems, what can the poor fellow do?”