The report of the rifle, and perhaps its flash, was the guide to the young East Indian, who, such a short time before, had been helpless, with the venomous snake twined about his neck.
As he dashed across the clearing, he stooped and picked up something about halfway. It was the object that had fallen from the dead snake charmer’s fingers, and which Patsy had said looked like a stale doughnut.
Holding this thing, whatever it was, tightly in his hand, the fugitive kept on till he reached the edge of the open space.
“Come on, Adil!” shouted Jefferson Arnold, regardless of everything except the fact that the young man was running to him. “This way, my boy!”
Adil stumbled as he got to the shelter of the trees. Then, with a gasp he fell into Arnold’s arms, in a dead faint.
“He isn’t hurt, is he?” asked Patsy, trying to see Adil’s face, but, of course, failing, in the darkness. “What’s the trouble? Fainted?”
“Leave him to me,” returned the millionaire. “I’ll take care of him.”
“How?”
“Let me get any kind of a start, and I’ll have him to our camp and into the boat before this gang can get out. There is a big crowd of rascals in the wood, over there.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” observed Nick Carter. “We’ll hold them there, too.”