“I can’t tell yet,” confessed Nick Carter. “Nobody understands these men thoroughly. They may have any of a hundred reasons for what they do. This probably is merely an incantation of some sort. Or Adil--if it is Adil--may be a prisoner.” “He is a prisoner. I’m sure of that,” rejoined Jefferson Arnold. “He would not be going through this buncombe otherwise. He’s too level-headed for that. But if this medicine man has him hypnotized, as it seems, what can the poor fellow do?” “We’ll get him out of it,” repeated Nick. “But we must have just a little patience. The game of the snake charmer is to keep him in suspense for an hour or so, and then probably let him go--unless there is some object in keeping him that we do not see.” “That’s just it,” quickly replied Arnold. “There may be a lot of rascals with this blackguard who is doing all the mischief. We don’t know who may be hiding behind those trees.” “That’s so,” assented Nick Carter. “But we must wait and see. We may get a clew to the whereabouts of your son right here, if we don’t spoil it by rushing things. I could pick that snake off with my rifle, without touching the man. But it wouldn’t be safe, because the snake might bite him in its death struggle.” This was obvious, and Jefferson Arnold nodded assent. “Listen!” he whispered nervously. “What did I tell you? There are a lot of people among the trees.” Proof of this was furnished by the sudden rising of a weird, not unmusical, dirgelike chant from the blackness surrounding the clearing. The fakir straightened up to his full height again--a favorite gesture of his, it seemed--and answered the chorus with a few notes on his pipe. Then he settled himself down to play for the snakes. Striking a plaintive minor, he brought forth more music out of the reed than either Nick Carter or any of his companions had supposed was in it. The result was that all the snakes began to move in time to the notes. “I wish I could shoot that rascal down,” muttered Jefferson Arnold. “I feel that I owe it to poor Adil, anyhow.” “Not yet,” whispered Nick Carter. “When we do strike, we want it to be of real effect.” Bang! Whether the nerve of Chick had suddenly given way under the strain, or whether he had fired by pure accident, he never could tell. All he knew was that he had pulled the trigger of his rifle before he realized what had happened. He had not taken aim at anything in particular, but it chanced that the head of one of the whirling snakes on the ground was in the direct line of fire, and was blown off as clean as if it had been severed with an ax. With a shriek which explained who had been guilty of the unearthly screams that had first disturbed Nick Carter’s party, the medicine man whirled around as if looking for the person who had fired. Then he put his reed to his mouth and blew a loud, steady whistle.