Nick Carter got an opportunity soon to stand back and look steadily at Ched Ramar. He saw a tall man, with the dark skin and black eyes of the East Indian, and wearing the white turban of his race, who talked good English and was the essence of suave courtesy. “I don’t know how it is,” thought Nick Carter. “His face seems familiar and yet I know I never saw Ched Ramar before.” As the detective moved about with the others, looking at the many curious idols of various metals that were disposed about the great rooms, and answering readily to his assumed name of Doctor Hodgson, he seemed not to have any interest outside of what he was inspecting with the other guests. But his gaze never left the swarthy face of Ched Ramar for more than a few seconds at a time. “Where have I seen him before?” This was the question that would not keep out of Nick Carter’s mind. It might have worried him, too, only that he had quite determined that he would answer it before he was many days older. “Perhaps not to-night,” he told himself. “But when I get alone, in my own room. I’ll go through my portrait gallery of people I have met, and I’ll place him, or know the reason why.” There were other rooms besides these two great double drawing-rooms to which the guests were invited. In all the apartments of the house were some strange things worth seeing, and Ched Ramar took pleasure in offering them to the inspection of those who had honored him by coming. He said this himself, and he seemed sincere when he did so. He seemed inclined to pay particular attention to Matthew Bentham, Clarice, and Mrs. Morrison. He talked to them more than to any of the other guests, Nick Carter thought. The two tall Indian guards, in glittering military uniforms, with curved swords at their sides, and gaudy turbans setting off their dark, solemn faces, were always at the wide door of the reception rooms, and the detective noted that they watched every move of the throng as it surged about the apartments. Ched Ramar had the air of a man who trusted everybody, but his guards’ vigilance suggested that he had given them orders to be suspicious unceasingly. “Hello! Where’s he taking that girl?” suddenly exclaimed the detective. Ched Ramar had directed the general attention to a large glass case filled with magnificently jeweled weapons at one end of the drawing-room. Then he called one of the guards. “Show and explain these, Keshub,” he ordered shortly. Keshub, the guard, made a deep salaam and marched to the end of the case. He spoke as good English as his chief, and his sonorous tones rolled through the rooms as he told the history of each dagger, sword, and gun to his open-mouthed listeners. It was at this instant that Nick Carter made his inaudible remark, for Ched Ramar led the girl behind some heavy red velvet hangings, which dropped back into place, hiding them.