ss, bound and imprisoned. This I see and much
besides." He looked meaningly at the boys.

"Boloney!" said Dan in a low tone that Mahatma missed, but he saw the
look of disbelief on the boy's face.

"Dan Sahib does not believe that I speak true. I will show him!"

Dan was about to make a flippant retort but Dick gave him a threatening
look.

Dick's face was alight with interest. He had heard of the Hindu Yogi
who spend many years among the wise men of Tibet, who are supposed to
hold all the wisdom of the world in their keeping. Was Mahatma
Sikandar one of these? Dick hoped so, for he had always wanted to
study occultism and hoped to learn something of it first hand. He was
watching the Hindu earnestly and at the first chance he said:

"Can you really see what has not yet happened? It is true that we are
on our way to rescue a princess of the Taharans. But tell us, Mahatma
Sikandar, will we arrive in time to save her?"

"Veena is safe at present," replied the Hindu.

"But how do you know that?" interrupted Dan impatiently. "You may have
been able by mind reading to guess our names, but you can't tell me
that there is anything in this fortune telling."

The Mahatma's eyes flashed fire for a second, then he became calm once
more and turned to Dick, ignoring Dan's outburst.

"I have heard of occultism," said Dick. "But I want to learn more. I
would like to have you instruct me."

"It is a long hard way, Dick Sahib. Many lives are needed to gain
wisdom. I will show you."

Sikandar unwrapped the black cloth and displayed a ball that looked
like transparent glass.

"He's a crystal gazer!" exclaimed Dan. "Read your fortune for
seventy-five cents. It's all the bunk!"

The other two ignored these remarks and Dick spoke quickly. "Look into
the crystal and tell us what you see. Is Veena being treated badly?
Where is she?"

"She is well treated even though she is kept prisoner, for a white man
is bargaining for her sale."

"What's _his_ name?" asked Dan, giving Dick a poke in the ribs and with
an elaborate wink whispered, "I bet the old fakir can't answer a direct
question."

"The name of the white scoundrel is Slythe, Jess Slythe. He is a bad
man and will in his next life be less than the worms. Thus it is
written."

Dan Carter thrust out his hand which the Mahatma grasped without
understanding why.

"Attaboy, Old Whiskers!" said Dan. "Now you're talking! I don't wish
Jess Slythe any ba