“I believe that,” was Nick Carter’s quiet response.
They had reached the steps of the temple. It was a magnificent structure, built with the architectural skill of any American or European pile of its kind. It seemed to be of the finest marble, and the great dome was covered with thin sheets of beaten gold that glistened in the sun as if it were afire.
On the lower steps the guard halted. Calaman, accompanied by all of Nick Carter’s party—except Captain, Nick Carter’s splendid bloodhound, who had trotted along modestly at their heels throughout all their peregrinations, without trying to force himself into notice, paused.
He gave a sign to the guards, and one of them took Captain by his massive collar.
If Chick had not spoken a few words to the bloodhound on the instant, the soldier never could have retained his grip. But when Chick told the dog to go with him and be quiet, he obeyed with the docility that was one of his predominant characteristics.
Once inside the temple, Nick Carter was struck by the coolness, in contrast with the stifling heat outside.
“Seems like a fine building,” remarked Chick.
“Nothing slow about this!” muttered Patsy. “Reminds me of the Pennsylvania Station in New York.”
It was a minute or two before their eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
As they began to distinguish their surroundings, Chick observed softly that he understood now what was meant by “dim, religious light.”