One of the people they met was a youth, quite near their own ages. He spoke a little English and acted as their guide.
None of them, nor their older companions, suspected his real purpose, but it was divulged, one day, as they were in a meaner quarter of the city where some of the natives of Peru, degraded and listless remains of a once noble race, had their poor homes.
“Come—here—I show—how I live!” said their young guide. They all followed him into a low room in an old building, squat and roughly built of a composition something like the adobe of the Mexicans.
But once they were inside they turned in dismay. The youth was not alone with them: three fierce looking half-caste men, part Inca, part Spanish, rose from a dark corner: one slammed the rude door and fastened it. “Now,” he said, “you stay here.”
“What’s the big idea?” demanded Nicky hotly, relapsing into slang in his excitement.
“You see!” said the man. He and his companions held a low-voiced conference and then one of them rose and was gone: his malevolent looking friends gave the door a vicious slam and shot its bolt.
“What are you going to do with us?” demanded Tom.
“We keep you. When that tall one—” he meant Mr. Whitley,”—start for Lima once more, we let you go!”
“You daren’t!” cried Nicky, and made a dash for the window. But Tom and Cliff restrained him.
“We’ll have the police—or whatever they’re got here!” Nicky said. He gave a shout. But one of the men advanced with a very threatening gesture.