Failure to encounter danger of any visible sort had heartened Ping wonderfully.
"My makee go up stlails," he thought. "Mebby my ketchee something top-side."
He moved softly, but the stairs creaked and rasped under his sandals in spite of his wariness.
There were four rooms upstairs, just as there were below, and in none of the dark chambers did he discover any trace of Motor Matt or of Wily Bill.
Ping was "stumped." The longer he thought of the mystery the more terrified he became.
He believed in demons. Ben Ali, he knew, was possessed of them, for he had heard how the Hindoo, with his eyes alone, had put people to sleep and made them do strange things while they dreamed.
Ping, naturally, had no idea that Ben Ali was in any way concerned with Matt's pursuit of Wily Bill, but the Chinaman's mind reverted to Ben Ali, and Aurung Zeeb, and Dhondaram, three Hindoos, all of whom, at various times, had formed a part of the Big Consolidated.
Had he dared, Ping would have shouted Matt's name at the top of his voice. But he was afraid. A dragon, spouting fire from its red mouth, and with a hundred claw-armed feet, might materialize and attack him, did he dare awake the echoes of that sombre house.
Turning swiftly away from the last room, Ping got astride the banisters, slid to the bottom of the stairs, and ducked through the front door.
The bright sunshine was never pleasanter to him than at that moment. He gulped down a few draughts of pure outside air and started off toward the bushes, bent upon a little solitary reflection.