“That’s what I learned when those fellows were leading me along,” put in Leslie Arnold, as he carelessly took from his belt the automatic revolver given to him by Nick Carter a short time before, and lovingly regarded the cartridges. “Ask Adil.”
Adil—tall, dark, grave, and of the best type of Hindu—came forward from the shadows and made a salaam to the company in general.
“Adil is my friend,” continued Leslie.
“Thy servant, sahib,” corrected Adil respectfully.
“His valet, as we should say in New York,” came from Jefferson Arnold. “Here in India they say body servant—except when they use an Indian word. It’s all the same. Go ahead, Adil!”
“They were taking us to Bolongu, where the Golden Scarab is all powerful,” explained Adil. “They said we should get there in another day. It was then that Sahib Leslie and I got away. So we did not go.”
“You bet you didn’t go,” put in Patsy Garvan. “You ran into us, and we had a word or two to say.”
“And that is all you know about it?” asked Jefferson Arnold, disregarding Patsy’s interruption.
“I have heard much more,” replied Adil. “But I do not know any more than I have said.”