“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied the detective. “Moreover, I have it right here, in my pocket.”
“A photograph of yourself?”
“No. Not exactly,” smiled Nick Carter. “I don’t suppose he’d care for that.”
“I don’t agree with you there,” dissented Leslie. “But what is it you have?”
Nick dived into one of his coat pockets and brought out a round object wrapped in a cloth.
“Here is something that I am sure Lord Slava would like to have. In fact, I consider it belongs to him more than to any one else. I took it to keep as a memento of this trip through India and of the people of the Land of the Golden Scarab. But I willingly give it up.”
He unrolled the cloth, and held up the shriveled head he had taken from the cavern of the old witch doctor whom they had surprised hanging over a brazier and caldron more than a week before.
Jefferson Arnold and his son both backed away and looked incredulously at Nick Carter—disgustedly, in fact.
“What in thunder would he want such a thing as that for?” roared Jefferson. “I can’t bear to look at it.”
“Perhaps not. But don’t forget that this is the head of Prince Tillo, an uncle of Lord Slava’s. Different people have different ideas, my dear Arnold,” continued Nick Carter impressively. “I believe that if Lord Slava had this mummified head to hang in the temple at Shangore, he would be better pleased than with anything else you could give him. Suppose you ask the captain of his guard over there.”