“Why?” whispered Chick. “That can’t hurt you.”
“How do I know that? Look on his chest. There’s some kind of tattooing. Looks like a lobster.”
“It’s a beetle,” corrected Jefferson Arnold.
“The Golden Scarab!” explained Jai Singh, in his deep, resonant voice. “You see that they are on the walls, too.”
“You’re right,” agreed Nick Carter. “There are etchings of beetles all over the walls and ceilings. But they are mixed up with men and trees and rocks. I did not detect the beetles at once.”
Indeed, the drawings had been so skillfully made that it was only after looking at them a second time that one saw how many representations of the strange god of these people there were.
Nick Carter stepped in front of the others, to inspect closely the still form on the stone table.
He noted that the table—a mere slab—was long and narrow. There was room on it for the body of a tall man, and not much more.
The dead man had nothing on but a loin cloth, and the skin was much lighter than that of the ordinary East Indian. Indeed, it was more like that of a Chinese, although taller than most Chinamen. Even without the head, it could be determined that the man in life had been of considerable height.
“Dead a long time, from its general appearance,” muttered Nick Carter. “But the embalming has been done with Oriental skillfulness.”