the car. To their astonishment, they found that the other man had escaped.

“Gone!” muttered Pant.

“Faked unconsciousness.”

“And he was the prize bird of them all.”

“Too bad!”

Suddenly Pant appeared to remember something.

“Johnny,” he whispered in a tense whisper, “Johnny, get that black cat!”

Catching his breath, Johnny sprang from the car.

“Wait,” whispered Pant. From his pocket he had drawn a tiny vial.

“That,” he whispered, “may help you. It’s what they call cat-lick in India. An old Hindu gave it to me after I had captured the big black cat. He said it was like catnip to the cat. When a tiger or leopard smelled it, if he could get near the spot where a drop had been spilled he forgot his savageness, and laid down to roll in it. I’m not sure. It sounds queer. Try it if you must.”

“You got some?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll go up track; you go down.”

“Right! And Johnny,” Pant repeated, “get the black cat!”

Johnny had scarcely turned from the car when he almost ran into somebody.

“Gwen!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What you doing out here? Don’t you know half the beasts are loose? Listen to that?”

The long drawn out roar of a lion sounded above the wail of darkies, the neighing of ponies, and the trumpeting of bull elephants.

“I know, Johnny, but Johnny, nothing half so terrible could ever have been dreamed of!”

“The wreck? I know. Some people are almost sure to have been killed.”

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