CHAPTER II.

UP INTO THE HILLS.

“Sahib, I am here!” said Jai Singh, in English, in a deep, guttural tone.

“I’m glad to see you, Jai Singh,” responded Nick Carter. “But I did not expect to find you so many miles from your home.”

“It is to help the sahib that I come,” replied Jai Singh, with dignity. “The men of the hills have taken one who must be saved.”

“Great Scott!” broke in Jefferson Arnold. “What does he know about it? I always have contended that these Indians know more than seems possible unless they have supernatural powers at their back.”

“It is Sahib Leslie Arnold,” went on Jai Singh calmly. “In the temple it was told to me that you would come.”

“What kind of bunk is that?” whispered Patsy. “Who told him, do you think?”

“Keep quiet, Patsy,” warned Chick. “He’s liable to hear you. Don’t you know that India is the land of mysteries? If you never believed in ghosts and demons, and all that kind of thing, you’ve got a surprise coming to you. You will find that things are not always what you see in this country. Houdini, Herrman, and Keller are not in it with some of these men when it comes to the black art.
{7}
”

“Black rot!” muttered Patsy, entirely unconvinced.

Jai Singh was a noble figure. His light dress, suitable for such a climate, emphasized his physical grace and strength. The white shirt was open at the throat, and the white linen trousers, coming just below the knee, allowed the muscles of his powerful legs to be seen as they moved about under the dark satin skin like living things.

There were heavy golden armlets clanking at his wrists, and circlets of the same precious metal were around his ankles.

The one thing out of keeping with his picturesque Orientalism was the heavy automatic pistol which hung to a light cartridge belt around his waist.

The latter was well supplied with cartridges, and the naturalness with which the hand of the owner dropped upon the butt of his revolver now and then suggested that he was no novice in the use of that particular weapon of the white man.

“What do you know of my son, Jai Singh?” demanded Jefferson Arnold. “I am Mr. Leslie’s father.”

“Jai Singh knows that,” was the reply. “He sees Leslie’s face when he looks at you. I cannot tell anything of Sahib Leslie except that he has gone into the great mountains far up the Brahmapootra.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. But some of my young men have.”

“When?”

“It is many days, sahib. I cannot tell how many times the moon has come and gone since. But I came down to the sea to find those who might belong to Sahib Leslie.”

“Yes?”

“And I burned certain herbs in the forest, and I called to me those who tell me what I want to know. They told me you and Sahib Carter, and his friend, who is Chick, were to be here. So, in my boat, with my men, I came. I am here.”

Jai Singh made another obeisance. Then he waited for some one else to speak.

As is customary with Hindus of high caste, Jai Singh had enough dignity for a justice of the supreme court, added to a certain grace and nobility that belongs peculiarly to his race when they feel themselves entitled to consideration.

“You came down in the boat all the way along the Brahmapootra River?” asked Nick.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you use the railroad?”

“I do not know anything about that,” returned Jai Singh. “Only once have I been carried along by the smoke and fire, and that was with you. It has been the custom of my fathers to go where they would in their boat. I did the same as they,” returned Jai Singh simply. “But I will go in the train with you.”

“All right! There is no time to lose.”

Nick Carter turned to Captain Southern.

“Can you run right in to the wharf without trouble, captain?”

“Yes. I only waited to see what those fellows in the boat were after. Calcutta is a white man’s city—not the sort of place where lawlessness is likely to be found. But you never know. Not so many scores of miles in the back country the people are as wild as those in Calcutta are quiet and commonplace.
{8}
”

“That’s true,” agreed Jefferson Arnold. “Every time I come to India I am struck by the fact that it is a land of amazing contrasts. It never could surprise me to meet a tiger walking along the streets, arm in arm with a cobra de capello, right there in Calcutta. It isn’t New York by a long chalk. Yet you will find white women, in European clothing, shopping in that city, over there, just as you will in Thirty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue.”

Jai Singh was instructed to get his boat, as well as the crew, on board the ship, and the captain immediately gave orders to steam up to the regular wharf belonging to Jefferson Arnold.

Nick Carter got Jai Singh in a retired place on deck, and the two talked earnestly for nearly half an hour. At the end of that time the great detective had a plan of action laid out which he followed as soon as the
Marathon
was warped up to her regular landing place.

Telling Chick and Patsy to keep somewhere near the wharf, so that they could be found when he returned, Nick Carter strolled off with Jefferson Arnold and Jai Singh to the office of the Arnold corporation on one of the several business streets of the ancient city.

There were white and Indian employees about the place. But in the office was only one young man, an American, who had been brought up in his native city, New York, until he had taken the position of assistant manager in the Calcutta branch of the importing and steamship house of the Arnold Company, a year before.

This young man’s name was John McKeever, and he was as keen as a newly ground bayonet.

“Hello, McKeever!” was Jefferson Arnold’s greeting. “What has become of Pike?”

“Gone,” replied McKeever laconically.

“Know where?”

“No idea. He just simply dried up. I came here one morning and he had cleaned out the safe and decamped. I went to the bank and found he had not deposited much of late, but that, two days before, he had taken out most of the company’s balance.”

“And they let him have it without question, eh?” put in Nick Carter.

“Certainly. It was not an unusual thing for him to take out all the money he had there—or most of it, especially when one of the ships of the company was nearly due. Everybody knew that the steamer
Jefferson
was expected about that time.”

“The
Jefferson
is the sister ship of the
Marathon
, Carter,” explained Arnold incidentally. “They are the two finest vessels of our fleet.”

“So he had no difficulty in getting the money,” continued McKeever. “It was supposed he meant to ship the cash to the home office in New York.”

“I see,” nodded Nick Carter. “Pretty well managed. But what about Leslie Arnold, Mr. McKeever?”

“He had been in the office two or three times. He said he was going tiger hunting soon, but that he thought he’d wait till the
Jefferson
came in, so that he could hear something about his father and affairs at home generally by direct word of mouth from the captain.”

“But he did not wait, after all?”

“No. He vanished just about the time Pike went,” replied McKeever. “We are not sure that there is any relation between the two in appearances. But there are the facts, just as I give them to you.
{9}
”

“A hundred thousand dollars, you told me in your telegram, McKeever,” observed Jefferson thoughtfully.

“That’s what I figure it,” answered the young man. “But I cannot swear that Pike didn’t fix the books.”

“H’m! Very likely he did,” grunted Jefferson. “Well, we’ll get out on the night train. Jai Singh will have to be our guide. He seems to have some idea of where we may find Leslie. What do you say, Carter?”

“That’s the only thing to do,” answered the detective. “We will get what things we need and go. There is nothing to be done here. Fortunately, I know both your son and Pike. So does my man Chick. My other assistant, Patsy Garvan, has never seen either of them. But I can rely on him to help when the time comes.”

“Will you take your bloodhound?” asked Jefferson Arnold.

“Certainly! Old Captain has been useful in too many cases for me to leave him behind.”

“I was hoping you would take him,” said Jefferson. “We are likely to find ourselves against some of the tough tribes when we get up the country, and a dog who can follow a good scent will be a mighty comfortable friend in the party.”

“Well, that’s all, then,” remarked Nick Carter. “I just wanted to know from your assistant manager the exact status of the case.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the millionaire, putting an affectionate hand on John McKeever’s shoulder. “You spoke of McKeever as ‘the assistant manager.’ You should have said ‘manager and confidential agent.’ This is his position here now. He takes William Pike’s place.”

There was a general handshake, with John McKeever’s sharp eyes a little dulled by emotion. Then his employer and Nick Carter went out into the simmering streets.

Seeking as much shade as they could, they strolled slowly back to the wharf where they had left the others.

Calcutta is a hot place in the afternoon, and nothing could be done until the sun began to go down. Then those who had been curled up in any partly cool place they could find for the inevitable siesta, stirred themselves, and the little party made its way to the railroad station.

Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, Chick, and Patsy Garvan all gathered in the coach reserve for high-caste natives and white persons, while Jai Singh and his men took their places in a car of lower class, to smoke cigarettes and doze throughout the night.

Captain was in the baggage car, where he made friends with the native train men, and seemed to be as contented as he always was anywhere so long as he had enough food and water.

They had begun the first stage of what might prove to be a long journey in the hunt for the missing Leslie Arnold.