“No,” contradicted Nick. “He will know better than that. He will understand just how it was. In the darkness, when we escaped from that city, we thought he was with us. You will remember we had quite a tussle on the drawbridge, and got off only just in time. It looks now as if Leslie must have been caught when they pulled up the bridge.”
“I suppose so,” assented the millionaire. “But what are we going to do?” he wailed. “What do you suppose this message means? Do you think the necktie was sent just to taunt us?”
The agony of this usually self-contained man was pitiful.
An answer came in an unexpected way at this moment. Another spear dropped upon the rocks a little way off and lay flat. It had not been so skillfully discharged as the first one, but it also bore its message—this time in writing.
The characters were more like those of ancient Greece than the letters used by English-speaking people to-day, and the spelling was phonetic. But it was possible to make them out, with a little study.
“This says ‘You are all invited to Shangore,’” announced Nick Carter, after examining the note for a few minutes. “Here is a small sketch of the head and face of Calaman in the corner. In lieu of a signature, I suppose. It is written on some kind of parchment. Probably the people of Shangore have not mastered the art of making paper.”
“Many letters are written on skin of this kind,” remarked Jai Singh quietly, as he took the scrap of material from Nick Carter’s hand and rubbed it between his fingers. “And yet paper is made in many parts of India, too.”
“That is all unimportant,” interrupted Jefferson Arnold impatiently. “What are we going to do about it? How are we going to save my boy?”
“What do you want to do?” asked Nick.
“Go,” was the prompt reply.