CHAPTER I. THE COMING OF JAI SINGH.

“Message for Mr. Carter!”

The wireless operator of the steamship Marathon, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning.

“Where’s it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet.

“From shore, sir—Calcutta.”

Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained:

“Get up to Nepal quickly.”

That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it.

“It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.”

“It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.”

A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter’s shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand.

“Get up to Nepal quickly,” he read. “Does that mean that my boy is there, do you think, Carter?”

“We don’t know that the telegram has anything to do with what has {3}brought us to India,” replied the detective.

“What else could it be?” demanded the other sharply.

Nick Carter shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, Mr. Arnold, you are known here—by name, at least—as owner of several ships, including the Marathon, and your agent, William Pike, has vanished, in a rather mysterious way, from your office in Calcutta. Perhaps the telegram may be from somebody who has seen Pike up in Nepal.”

“It may be, although I don’t know what Pike could want up in the back country, away from civilization. He isn’t that kind of man, from what I know of him. He is more likely to go over to Europe, or, if not, to get to some other big city in India—Rangoon, Lucknow, Cawnpur, or Hyderabad—where he can spend his money and be moderately out of the way of arrest.”

“At all events, this message agrees with our own ideas of the direction taken by Leslie,” said Nick Carter.

Jefferson Arnold did not speak for a few moments. He was not a demonstrative man, and although his heart was wrung by the strange disappearance of his only son, his face was as impassive as it generally was when putting through some great business deal in New York, with perhaps millions of dollars involved.

Here, on the deck of the finest steamer of his fleet of merchant vessels, with the gently rolling waters of the Bay of Bengal scuffing up under the prow, and the engines, at half speed, gradually bringing the ship nearer and nearer to the wharves of Calcutta, he might have seemed to strangers to be a man to be envied.

Yet, tearing at his heart was the greatest anxiety he ever had known—the question whether his boy, whom he loved better than himself, was dead or living.

The scene was as beautiful a one as nature can produce in her most happy mood. The blue waves, with their lacy-white crests, the panorama of mountain and forest in the distance—still hazy, as the mists of early morning hung before them—and the big city of Calcutta in the{4} foreground, its white buildings glistening fairylike in the glorious sunlight, all combined to make the approach to this famous Asiatic port one of the most fascinating in the world.

“What’s that boat coming out?” suddenly exclaimed Jefferson Arnold. “Couldn’t wait for us to get alongside the wharf, eh! We’re five miles from shore, if not more. What do you make of it, captain?” he added, in a louder tone to the skipper of the Marathon, who stood on the bridge just over their heads.

“Don’t know, Mr. Arnold,” replied Captain Southern. “Perhaps they’re crowded for room at the wharf. Looks like it.”

The commander had been gazing at the oncoming boat, as well as at the distant shore line, through his binoculars, and, almost mechanically, he gave orders to drop the anchors fore and aft.

“Going to stop, captain?” asked the millionaire ship owner.

“Yes. It will do no harm. And I want to see what these fellows in the boat are after.”

“I’ll come up on the bridge. I guess,” grunted Arnold. “Come on, Carter!”

The sacred bridge of a steamer is not going to be profaned by the feet of an uninvited person unless he happens to be the owner or some one of equal importance.

Jefferson Arnold and his friends, of course, had the privilege.

One of two young men who had been sitting in steamer chairs with Arnold and Nick Carter seemed to have some idea of following them to the bridge. But the elder of the pair shook his head.

“It wouldn’t do, Patsy,” he whispered. “Old Captain Southern is a crank about some things, and he looks on his bridge as a sort of private office. Let the chief size it up and tell us afterward.”

“I guess we’ll have to, Chick,” was the disgusted response. “But when I’m working on a case I like to see all I can from every angle.”

“Regular angleworm, ain’t you, Patsy?” chuckled Chick.

“Oh, come off with the laughing-gas stuff! Better send that to the funny papers,” snorted Patsy Garvan. “I’m talking serious business. I tell you there’s more in young Leslie Arnold beating it out of Calcutta this way than people think.”

Chickering Carter, principal assistant of Nick Carter, stared for a moment at Patsy Garvan, who was only next in importance to Chick himself on the great detective’s staff—as if trying to get his comrade’s point of view. Then he shook his head, as if he feared there was a great deal in Patsy’s opinion.

“What do you think of William Pike?” he asked, as he glanced around to make sure neither Nick Carter or Jefferson Arnold overheard the question.

“What do I think?” blurted out Patsy. “I believe he’s the guy responsible for it all. From what I hear, he always was as crooked as a pig’s tail. Leslie Arnold was a good-tempered sort of kid, and it wouldn’t be hard for this slippery Pike to make him do anything.”

“And there was nearly a hundred thousand dollars in gold went with one or the other of them,” observed Chick thoughtfully. “If Leslie Arnold went up into the hill country to shoot tigers, he would hardly load himself down with all that money.{5}”

“Who believes young Arnold went to shoot tigers?” asked Patsy scornfully.

“That’s all Jefferson Arnold has been able to hear about his boy,” was Chick’s answer. “He told that to the chief when he persuaded him to come all this distance to look into the matter.”

“Well, I’m glad he came, anyhow,” observed Patsy. “I’ve never seen India before, and it was a good thing he brought us both along. And old Captain, too. Gee! I didn’t think he’d let the good old dog come. But he may be mighty useful before we get through. You never can tell how you may be able to use a trained bloodhound—especially such a good one as ours.”

Patsy stopped to pat an immense dog who lay stretched out on the hot deck under the awning, too languid to move, except to let his great eyeballs roll lazily in their sockets in appreciation of Patsy Garvan’s caresses.

Meanwhile, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Captain Southern were taking the strong, double marine glasses in turn to inspect the boat which was working its way through the surf toward the Marathon.

The four men at the oars were low-caste Hindus. They would not have been doing this kind of work otherwise.

They were picturesque-looking rascals.

Naked to their waists, their brown skin glistened in the sunlight like the top of a German loaf. Each wore the white turban that is part of the costume of every Hindu, and on the wrists of some of them could be seen heavy brass rings.

In the stern of the boat—which was a wide, heavy craft, well able to stand the tossing of the surf and to make good time before the steady pulling of the oarsmen—stood a tall native who looked very different from the others.

This man wore a turban like the oarsmen, but there was a jewel fastened in the front of the folds of snowy cloth that glistened like the lens of a powerful flash lamp.

While it was not easy to make out his feature at that distance, Nick Carter saw, with admiration, that the limbs were lean and muscular, and that every movement of the lithe brown body indicated strength and activity.

That this man in the stern was in command could be told in more ways than one. He carried in his right hand a long lance, or spear, such as is used by some of the Indian cavalry regiments, but without the pennon which is generally attached.

Occasionally he emphasized his orders to the crew by giving one or other of them a rap across the bare shoulders with the staff of the spear, always accompanying it with a roaring command. Nick told this from the opening of his mouth, although he could not hear the sound.

For a few minutes longer Nick Carter stared through the binocular glass at the boat and its gigantic commander, while the captain and Jefferson Arnold talked apart.

Suddenly the big Hindu caused his boat to swing around as it approached the ship, and he waved a hand frantically at the rail where Captain, the bloodhound, had poked out his nose and was barking and whimpering alternately in recognition.

“Say, chief!” roared Patsy, looking up to Nick Carter. “That big busher knows you and Captain, too. Look at him.{6}”

“Of course he knows the chief,” put in Chick, who had begun to make signs to the Hindu. “He knows me, too. We’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“Well, who is he, anyhow?” asked Patsy.

“He is a chief in the hill country, and he calls himself Jai Singh.”

“Calls himself?” repeated Patsy. “Isn’t that his real name?”

“Why, yes. I suppose it is. But there was a famous rajah named Jai Singh, who lived about two hundred years ago, and who built observatories at Jaipur and Delhi. The remains of them are still in existence, and astronomers say they were magnificent structures for that time, and would be even in this day.”

“Gee! Where did you get on to all that?” asked Patsy, open-mouthed. “You’re a wonder, Chick.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” returned Chick. “When I was here with the chief before, we learned a whole lot about India. It was our Jai Singh himself who told us about the rajah and his observatories. He’s a good fellow, but he’s a terror when he gets into a fight. Don’t forget that.”

“He makes those sun-baked bluffs at the oars attend to business, I notice.”

“Yes. They know that when Jai Singh is behind them, they have to keep moving,” returned Chick. “Hello! He’s coming aboard.”

Even as he spoke, the boat came up to the steamer, and Jai Singh, putting a hand on one of the anchor chains, held his small craft firmly, in spite of the tossing of the waves. He seemed to have a grip of iron.

In another minute or two the boat was secured to the anchor chain by a rope, and the tall Hindu climbed aboard like a monkey, spear and all.

Once on deck, he ran up to the bridge, and putting his right hand to his forehead, made a deep salaam to Nick Carter.

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.”