“You have been through it?” queried Chick.
“No.”
“Gee! How do you know about it, then?” interjected Patsy Garvan. “Just a hunch?”
“The wisdom of the hills where I live is not understood by white men,” returned Jai Singh gravely. “I know what I know.”
“Well, you know a great deal more than I do about this forsaken country,” muttered Patsy. “I wouldn’t care if I didn’t find out any more about it, either. If we weren’t going after young Mr. Arnold, and that crook, William Pike, I’d be satisfied to quit right here. I’m not inquisitive—about some things.”
“Yet, how do you know about the pass?” pressed Nick Carter.
Jai Singh did not reply at once. He bent his head and seemed to be in a deep reverie for some moments—almost as if in a trance. Suddenly he straightened up, and speaking in a low, dreamy tone, answered:
“How can I tell exactly how it is that I know? It may be that, long years ago, before I was born, my people forced their way through to battle with those who worship the Golden Scarab. Sometimes, in the night, I seem to see a picture of men of my race and caste going through a pass, with spears ready to strike.”
“Punk!” muttered Patsy.
Nick Carter gave his second assistant a sharp glance. Jai Singh did not hear the remark, apparently, for he continued, in the steady monotone he had been using: