Diagonally across the dining-room from where Jack Everson stood was the door leading to the rear of the house.  This was open for three or four inches, and while searching the apartment with all the keenness of his powerful vision, he distinctly saw it move.  The distance was no more than an inch, but he was not mistaken, and knew it had been drawn that much nearer shut.  Since no air was stirring the conclusion was inevitable that some one was on the other side who was aware of the entrance of the American.

The position of the lamp on the table threw the crevice caused by the slight opening of the door in shadow, and all was blank darkness beyond.  But, looking in that direction, Jack caught the gleam of a pair of eyes, peering from the gloom like the orbs of a jungle tiger gathering himself for a spring.  Nothing could be seen but the glow of the eyes, that seemed to have something of the phosphorescence of the cat species, but he could not mistake the meaning of what he saw.

Jack had partly lowered his revolver, after the first glance around the room, but it now came to a level again with the suddenness of lightning and was pointed straight at the gleaming eyes, as he spoke in a low, deadly tone: 

“Come forth or I’ll send a bullet through your infernal brain!”

Never was man more fairly caught.  In the language of the West, Jack Everson had the drop on him, and none could be more alive to the fact than the fellow who was thus taken at disadvantage.  It was merited punishment for his foolhardiness in inviting his own discomfiture.  At first the chances of the two were equal, but the white man was more alive to the situation.

The Asiatic showed his appreciation of the situation by stepping forward into the lamplight.

Incredible as it may seem, he not only held a pistol in his right hand, but it was half raised and pointed at Jack Everson.

CHAPTER VIII.

Mustad.

The East Indian who stood before Jack Everson, thoroughly cowed and submissive, was unusually tall, dark, and thin to emaciation.  He wore a turban, a light linen jacket which encompassed his chest to below the waist, with a sash or girdle, loose flapping trousers and sandals.  In the girdle at his waist was a long, formidable knife or yataghan, which he would have been glad to bury in the heart of the man who had thus brought him to his knees.

When Jack Everson demanded to know his identity the fellow replied in a low voice that was not lacking in a certain musical quality: 

“Mustad!”

The young man half expected the answer.

“What business brings you here?”

“He is my master; I work for him.  I have been to see my aged mother, who is very ill.  I have just returned to serve my master.”

“That is not true!  You went away to bring some of your people to kill the doctor and his family.”