“Leslie!” interposed his father anxiously. “What fool talk is this? Keep back, will you?”
“All right, dad!” answered Leslie, over his shoulder. “I know these fellows. Let me alone.” Then, bending toward Nick Carter, he whispered: “You have to bluff them. That is all they understand.”
“Who are you, to talk thus to Calaman?” demanded the priest, with sudden fury. “The Golden Scarab does as it wills.”
“It matters not who I am,” returned Leslie Arnold. “I am one who knows that the days of the Golden Scarab and all his priests are numbered if that white man you hide is not given up.”
“Let me think it over,” said the priest, with dignity. “We never do things till we have given them full consideration.”
He turned away from them, and his white mule, obeying a slight touch of the bridle, moved a few yards, carrying him out of earshot.
“Look here, Leslie,” said Jefferson Arnold earnestly. “Don’t you know that you are thrusting yourself into unnecessary danger?”
“How?”
“You were a prisoner to these people.”
“Well?”