“I pray heaven that my poor boy is safe, and that we shall not get there too late,” was the fervent hope of Jefferson Arnold. “Does anybody know the time of day and the date? It must be many weeks since my son was captured.”
“My watch got full of water coming up the river, when we moved the boat at the big falls,” remarked Nick. “Time is a matter of guesswork in these regions. All we can do is to push on as quickly as we can.”
“That rascally Pike does not mean to let us find my boy if it can be helped,” returned Jefferson, with a sad shake of the head. “I suppose he was afraid Leslie would keep after him to get back that hundred thousand dollars—or, failing in that, bring the scoundrel to justice. That is the secret of my son’s disappearance, I feel sure.”
“Probably,” conceded Nick. “If it is, we may have strong hope of saving him. Jai Singh says the feasts of the Golden Scarab, when there are many living sacrifices of human beings, are few and far between. We shall get there before the next one, if we keep on steadily as we are doing now.”
Jefferson Arnold leaned forward to look into the detective’s face.
“Do you mean, Mr. Carter, that there is actual danger of my boy being killed in some fanatical ceremony among those people over there?”
“I mean that we must go after him quickly, Mr. Arnold,” was all Nick Carter would say. “Let me take a look at those mountains through my glasses.”
For perhaps two minutes the detective stared through his double field glasses at the mighty hills in the distance. When at last he took the glass from his eyes, there was a smile of satisfaction just visible at the corners of his mouth.
“From what I can make out, there is some sort of pass on the right shoulder of the main peak,” was his decision.
“The sahib has spoken truly,” agreed Jai Singh. “There is such a pass. So far as I know, it is the only one where a man may pass in safety.”