“Gee! It makes me feel sick!” groaned Patsy. “Put it down, chief!”
“It is an evil charm!” rumbled Jai Singh. “Throw it away, and I’ll drive my spear into the man who made it. Then we can go on. We are wasting time here.”
It was not like Jai Singh to exhibit impatience, and Nick Carter glanced at him curiously. The Hindu’s dark face had become gray, and his skin was moist with a deadly, superstitious fear.
Nick Carter had no idea of putting the head down until he had learned all possible about it. He had been weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. A sudden idea caused him to turn it upside down and look at the place where the neck should have been.
“I thought so,” he remarked. “Look!”
He pulled out a plug, and a small shower of silver sand poured out. When the sand ceased to come forth, the head was hollow, but perfectly firm, with walls about half an inch thick.
“I’ve heard of this method of embalming the dead in India,” murmured Nick Carter reflectively. “A specimen like this would bring more than a thousand dollars from a museum in any part of the United States, because it is rare. Moreover, it is very well done. It is a magnificent example of this sort of work.”
“I don’t see anything magnificent about it,” grunted Patsy. “What are we going to do now?”
Nick Carter deliberately wrapped the head in his handkerchief and dropped it into his coat pocket.
“Look on this man’s chest,” he said, pointing to the prisoner on the couch. “He has a beetle, like that on the body we saw back there in that other part of the cave. I wish I knew what it means.”