“As good as anything I ever got in New York,” he declared. “This old priest may be a villain. But his cigarettes are fine, and his dinner all through could hardly be better, even in a Broadway hotel. What do you say, Jai Singh?”
But there was no answer. Jai Singh was industriously polishing his spear, trying its edge on the stone floor at intervals.
“There is nothing wrong with the dinner, and the cigarettes are not bad,” observed Nick Carter. “But I wish our four coolies were within reach, and I don’t like our cartridges being put in another place, where we can’t get at them. It smells bad to me.”
“And I hear that to-morrow is the Feast of the Golden Scarab,” put in Chick. “I was not supposed to overhear that, I guess. But it happened that I was listening when two of the guards became rather confidential just before we walked over the drawbridge.”
“If there is to be a feast, it might be a chance for us to do something for ourselves in the confusion,” suggested Patsy.
“What about the city walls?” asked Chick. “Don’t forget that they are high and thick, Patsy.”
A knock sounded at the door, and a tall servant, with a deep bow, presented himself.
“If my lords are ready,” he murmured, as if he felt himself unworthy in such presence to speak aloud, “the great priest, Calaman, would be pleased to show them the sights of the city. He humbly begs that you will bring with you the death sticks which kill at many yards, so that he may see again what they can do.”
“Slick old duck!” observed Patsy. “I’d like to show him what they can do while he looks down the muzzle.”
Nick Carter waved his hand to Patsy for silence and nodded to the tall servant, who was waiting gravely for an answer.