THE SCRATCH AT THE DOOR.
“I have my long knife in my sash, where it is hidden,” whispered Jai
Singh to Nick Carter, who was next to him. “I could stick that fat pig
at my side before he knew what I meant to do. Then you and the others
could clean out the remainder with your pistols.”
“Hush, Jai Singh!” responded Nick guardedly. “They will hear you.”
“No. They are too far from us to hear me whisper. Will you let me do
it? We can, I am sure.”
“It would be of no use,” replied Nick, from behind the goblet as he
lifted it to his mouth. “Even if we killed off most of those here,
there are hundreds of others within hearing. We could never get out of
the building.”
“It would be a good way to die,” insisted Jai Singh.
“We came here to get Sahib Leslie,” the detective reminded him.
This had more effect upon the tall Hindu than anything else that had
been said. He was loyal to the two Arnolds.
“I do as you say, sahib,” he returned resignedly. “But I wish these
priests would go soon. They make the red mist to swim before my eyes.”
The meal was soon dispatched. Then, the priests having tied their hands
again, went out. The party of prisoners were again in darkness.
There was silence for some minutes. Each was occupied with his own
thoughts, except Jai Singh, who, with the philosophy of his race,
curled up on the floor and went to sleep.
“What do you think about my boy, Carter?” asked Jefferson Arnold
suddenly. “Surely there must be some way to save him?”
“There’s got to be,” answered Nick briefly.
“They wouldn’t be likely to kill him before we get out of this cell, do
you think?”
“Not at all probable. They are to have this Festival of the Golden
Scarab this afternoon, and, from what I gather, it is a very
ceremonious affair, at which all the people of the city will be
present. They will have us there to see the executions.”
“They’ll never execute my boy!” declared Jefferson Arnold.
“I promise you that,” said Nick Carter earnestly.
“I know I have a strong objection to being stuck on a shelf in that
temple overhead. That seems the worst part of it,” remarked Chick.
“I don’t agree with you there, Chick. If we are dead, it won’t matter
much what monkey tricks they play with us afterward. Only I don’t
intend to let them kill any of us. So there will be no niches in the
temple for us to be put in. As for Leslie, we came into this city to
rescue him, and we are going to do it.”
Nick Carter said this in the resolute tone usual with him when he had
made up his mind, and it inspired confidence in all his companions.
Patsy Garvan indulged in a chuckle, and Jefferson Arnold edged up to
the detective in the blackness and nudged him with an elbow. It was the
next best thing to shaking hands.
“Hush!” whispered Chick suddenly. “What’s that?”
“What?” blurted out Patsy.
“Oh, keep quiet,” rebuked Chick. “Listen!”
“Something is moving outside the door,” whispered Nick Carter.
“I heard it,” added Jefferson Arnold.
“So did I,” declared Adil, who had not spoken much since he had been in
the cell.
They all listened—except Jai Singh, who still snored contentedly.
“Sounds like a cat,” murmured Patsy.
There was a faint, but regular, scratching outside the door, but it
made too much noise for a cat.
They had visions of some monstrous creature trying to force his way
into the cell, and all except Nick Carter shuddered with the terror
that comes sometimes to the bravest man in the face of the unknown.
“We’ll have to kick if it comes at us,” said Patsy. “That’s all we can
do. If only we had our hands free!”
“Oh, shut up!” growled Chick. “While we are wishing, why not wish we
were outside this city, with Leslie Arnold, and everything all right?
Keep still till we see what we are going to do.”
“Hush!” ordered Nick Carter.
The scratching continued, and then it came to the detective that the
sound might mean something good for them, instead of evil.
“You remember that officer who was talking to us?” he whispered.
“Yes,” returned Chick, with a note of hope in his voice.
“That’s so,” added the millionaire.
“He may be trying to get to us.”
“That’s it, of course,” exclaimed Patsy, jumping to a conclusion with
his customary haste.
“We don’t know yet,” went on Nick Carter. “But——”
More scratching, and Nick Carter was sure the noise was made in a
regular cadence, as if it were meant for a signal.
“That officer showed that he was friendly,” he murmured. “Perhaps he
has found out where we are.”
“He’s a big man in the city,” remarked Chick.
“Exactly. And he could go pretty nearly where he likes—in the temple
or anywhere else,” was Nick Carter’s response. “I’ll try to find out,
if only I can do it, with these confounded ropes around my arms. Keep
still, everybody.”
With considerable difficulty, Nick contrived to roll himself across the
floor to the door. Once there, he got the toe of his shoe against it
and scratched three times, with a distinct pause between each scratch.
At once there came three scratches like his own, on the outside.
“Bully!” burst out of Patsy.
“Hush!”
Nick scratched again three times, and now there came a result of his
signaling which was even better than he had anticipated.
There were three quick scratches outside, and then the sound of a key
grating in the lock.
Nick Carter rolled himself away from the door, to see what was going to
happen.
“Look out for treachery, boys!” he whispered.
But there was nothing of that kind this time. In another moment the
door swung gently open, and there appeared a small red spot of light in
the blackness.
As the red spot moved about, a low voice came to them, the tone of
which was unmistakably friendly.
“Do not fear, strangers! Above all, don’t make any noise. It is I,
Lord Slava, come to help you. I talked to one of you to-day, the man
who first showed what could be done with the death stick, when he put
pieces of lead into the head swinging to the cord.”
“That’s you, chief,” whispered Chick.
“I am the person you spoke to, Lord Slava,” said Nick Carter to their
unseen visitor. “You were friendly.”
“I am friendly,” came the response. “If you will come with me, you may
yet escape the sacrifice. The feast does not begin for an hour.”
“Gee! I’d like to keep out of it,” observed Patsy.
If Chick’s hands had been free, he certainly would have given Patsy a
nudge that would have taken the breath out of him.
“You are tied, are you not?” asked Slava.
“You bet!” replied Patsy.
The visitor seemed not to understand this American idiom, and Nick
Carter followed it with plainer language.
“Our hands are tied behind our backs.”
“I thought so.”
Lord Slava blew on the little torch he carried, and which made the red
spot of fire. It lightened up under his breath, until there was enough
illumination for him to see where the prisoners were.
“We’ll soon have these off,” he remarked.
With deft, quick strokes, he cut their bonds.
Jai Singh had woke up, and, catching the last few remarks made, he
understood that a friend had come to help them. So he rolled over to
have the ropes taken off his limbs.
When he was free, the tall Hindu arose and stretched himself with a
grunt of satisfaction that was almost as loud as Patsy Garvan’s.
When they were all released, and had had a few moments in which to move
about, to get their blood again in circulation, Lord Slava gave the
word for them to depart.
“Follow me closely,” he cautioned. “One false step may arouse the whole
of this nest of vermin. But the way I shall take you is not long, and
we can soon be out of immediate danger.”
“Now I’ve got my hands to use again danger is just what I want,”
mumbled Patsy to himself. “Gee! There’s nothing I’d like better than a
rough-house right here.”
“Keep quiet, Patsy,” admonished Nick Carter, whose keen hearing very
little ever escaped.
The prisoners followed Lord Slava step by step, paused while he opened
another door and closed it carefully after them all, and passed after
him down a long, low, damp-smelling tunnel.
They went on till they came to a sharp turn. There they felt the fresh
air blowing on their faces, and saw an oval patch of sky in front and
above them.
The friendly officer of the guard placed his heel on the torch and
stamped out the fire.
“Now we may speak in safety,” he told them. “But not loudly, for soon
the crowd will begin to assemble.”
“Is the festival going to begin again?” asked Patsy.
“Very soon.”
“We are not too late to save my son—the white man who is to be
sacrificed?” asked Jefferson Arnold eagerly.
“We are not too late,” replied Lord Slava quietly.
“They intend to kill him?” came from Chick.
“If they are not stopped.”
“They will be stopped,” declared Nick Carter grimly. “Thanks to Lord
Slava, here, I am sure of it now.”
“I believe you can do it,” smiled Lord Slava. “But you must use great
caution. I’ll confess I have helped you at the risk of my life. Calaman
has no mercy on those who oppose him. I’m with you in this venture. In
return, I ask you to stand by me.”
“Till the death!” returned Nick Carter earnestly.
“Here, too,” added Chick.
“And you can bet your pile on me,” announced Patsy.
“Where do we strike first?” asked Jefferson Arnold.
“I only have my knife,” bewailed Jai Singh. “It will have to serve
until I can get a spear. But I’ll take one from some of those men as
soon as I get near to them.”
“I have a revolver,” modestly spoke Adil, who seldom said anything
unless he considered it absolutely necessary.
“What are we to do?” asked Nick Carter. “Make a sudden rush? That would
suit me and all my party.”
“That’s so!” indorsed Patsy. “Good stuff!”
“We must proceed cautiously,” answered Lord Slava, “and yet with
boldness. We will make an onslaught at the proper moment, which may
either result in the death of us all, or rid the land forever of these
pestilent priests.”
“They seem to have the country by the throat,” observed Nick.
“They have. We nobles, as well as the common people, all know that. The
time has come for a desperate rebellion.”
“We seem to have come to Shangore at an opportune moment,” remarked the
detective.
“You have. So I promise that if you die, you shall at least die
fighting. If you live, and I also, then you may take your toll of the
treasures of the temple. Those treasures are enormous, for the Bolongus
are a wealthy people.”
“That listens good!” commented Patsy.
“We are lucky, I should say,” added Chick, delighted at the prospect of
a big fight, with prize money as a pleasant incidental.
“Speak on, Lord Slava,” requested Nick Carter. “You have done much for
us already. For that we owe you thanks—not in words, but in deeds. As
for the treasure, we are not thinking of that.”
“Speak for yourself, chief?” murmured Patsy, and this time he spoke so
low that not even Nick Carter overheard.
“We will help you with this stroke of yours, Lord Slava,” declared
Nick. “If it gives us a chance to get even with that rascally Calaman,
so much the better.”