“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. CHAPTER III. WHERE THE BABOO LOST OUT. “Say, Chick, what kind of a hang-out is this we’re in?” asked Patsy Garvan, as he surveyed his surroundings some hours after they had alighted from the train up in the hill country. “I don’t see much besides trees, muddy water, and monkeys. I bet there are plenty of snakes, too, but they are under the leaves on the ground, I suppose. Is this still India?” “Yes. We are getting toward the borders of Nepal,” answered Chick. “Come again? Is there any difference between Nepal and the rest of this forsaken country? Gee! I’d----” “Keep quiet, Patsy!” warned Chick. “Jai Singh speaks as good English as we do. He doesn’t like to hear any reflections on his country.” “Does he belong to Nepal?” asked the irrepressible Patsy. “He’s a Hindu, and the whole of India is sacred to him,” was Chick’s grave reply. “He’s got the boat ready. We’d better be getting over there.”