"We ought to try to get inside Tokalji's house as soon as possible, if Toutou and Hélène and the rest of them are not here yet," said Nikka slowly. "Are you sure about that, Hugh?"  
"To the extent that we haven't seen a sign of them."
 
"They will have been scurrying about our back-trail," I suggested. "Our disappearance must have upset their plans."
 
"Probably," assented Nikka. "Yes, if we are going to profit by that trick we must move soon. I don't believe either Jack or I could fool that Cespedes woman. At the same time, what Hugh says about the danger of violent tactics is very true. We should keep my uncle and his men as a reserve. If it ever comes to a cold show-down, we are going to need more than ourselves."
 
"King and I have talked it over frequently," said Hugh. "But we haven't been able to think of a safe way of getting inside. Of course, we could run ashore in the launch some night, and climb up the courtyard wall that fronts on the Bosphorus, but we'd certainly be discovered."
 
"It wouldn't work," asserted Nikka. "No, to get in and have opportunity to look around for the landmarks mentioned in the Instructions we must be accepted as friends."
 
"It can't be done," protested Hugh at once.
 
"Oh, yes, it can. Jack and I can do it—with Watkins to help us."
 
Watkins started up from the pack upon which he had been endeavoring to appear comfortable.
 
"Oh, now, Mr. Nikka! I never 'eard the like! Your ludship, I protest, I do! I wasn't cut out for a Gypsy. Can you see me in such clothes? It's not decent, your ludship, for a man of my years to be going in public dressed like a pantomime."
 
"We're not going to make a Gypsy out of you, Watty," returned Nikka, waving him to silence. "You are going to be the innocent victim of two outrageous bandits."
 
"That's worse," groaned Watkins. "I'll do my duty, your ludship, and take what comes, but there's no call for all this wild talk, if I may say so, sir, and what does it all lead to? And I'm mortal sure, your ludship, there's bugs in this room. 'Adn't we better be getting back to the 'Otel, sir?"
 
"Sit down," commanded Hugh. "Nobody's stuck you up yet. What's your plan, Nikka?"
 
"Just this. When we leave here you and Watkins head for Tokalji's house. We'll follow you at a distance. You and Watty must prowl through the street as mysteriously as you can, looking up at the house, examining its approaches, all that sort of thing. Make sure the street is empty—"
 
"Oh, it's always empty," interrupted Hugh. "It's crescent-shaped, with comparatively few houses opening on it, a backwater."
 
"That helps. Now, when you get into the street look back and you will see us lurking after you. Pretend to be scared. Then we'll go after you, knives out. Run. You get away, Hugh, but we catch Watty and throw him down—"
 
"Yes, it 'ad to be me, gentlemen," sighed Watkins.
 
"—empty out his pockets, start to cut his throat—you'd better not be wriggling about that time, Watty, or the knife might slip—and you raise a yell for the police around the corner. We change our minds, kick Watty on his way and run back. At the gate of Tokalji's house we ask for admission, claiming we fear pursuit. I think—I am quite sure—they will let us in. It is a chance we must take. They will have seen what we did, and from what you and Wasso Mikali tell me, Tokalji considers himself the chief of the local criminals. He will demand a percentage of our loot, and let it go at that."
 
"A nice time will be 'ad by all," commented Watkins.
 
"It sounds simple," I said. "But what about me?"
 
"You are a Frenchman, an ex-Apache and deserter from the Salonika troops. Let me do the talking. I know Gypsies. If you tell them a bold tale, and carry a high bluff, they will take you at your own valuation."
 
"It's a plan worth trying," agreed Hugh. "But you can't expect to stay with Tokalji forever."
 
"I know that. We'll do the best we can."
 
"Start now?"
 
"Wait until afternoon. That will drive your shadows insane, and they will be doubling back to the hotel on the chance of picking you up again."
 
We spent the balance of the time together hashing over our experiences, and horrifying Watkins by revealing to him the state of our apparel. Incidentally, we arranged to have complete changes of European clothes sent to us at the khan, so that if it became necessary we could shift rôles inside the protecting walls of the great caravanserai.
 
When the hour came to leave, Wasso Mikali and his young men escorted Hugh and Watkins through the courtyard, and Nikka and I followed at some distance. The Gypsies stopped in the gateway, and we strolled on alone after our friends in the direction of the Bosphorus. We had walked for upwards of an hour along the narrow lanes, up-hill and down-hill, elbowing a passage through the sordid stream of life, when from an elevation we glimpsed the sheen of water, and Hugh, a hundred feet in front of us, tossed his head as if in invitation to press on.
 
We accepted the hint, and as they rounded an alley-corner into a dingy lane that was over-topped midway by a wall of massive Roman construction we were close at their heels. Now the comedy began. Hugh played up in great shape. He drew a paper from his pocket, and affected to stare along the wall. He counted his steps. He looked around him fearfully. He conferred with Watkins, who manifested even more uneasiness. It was Watty who looked behind them, and spied us, peering around a flair of stonework. It was Watty, too, I am bound to say, who undertook to measure the height of the wall by contrast with his own stature—at least, he appeared to be doing so. Afterwards he denied that he had had any thought of this. He was only trying to get as far away as possible from us—we "fair gave 'im the creeps."
 
We slunk into the alley in as hangdog a manner as we could manage. Watty called Hugh's attention to us, as we thought, with genuine dramatic art. We heard later that he remarked: "It ain't right, your ludship, these carryings-on! I don't 'old for me own skin, but there's Mister Jack and Mister Nikka little knowing what they'll be getting theirselfs into." To which Hugh says he replied: "Steady on, old Boot-trees! England expects every man to take his beating."
 
Anyhow, as Nikka whipped out his knife and ran for them, Watty squeaked, and lit off with a considerable lead on Hugh. But Hugh wasted no breath. He sprinted and lunged into Watkins, knocking him against a house-wall, so that we had time to catch up. And as Hugh reached the curve of the crescent-shaped street, Nikka overhauled Watkins and toppled him over with every appearance of ruthless brutality. In the next moment I added my knife to the picture, and while I menaced the poor old chap's throat, Nikka scientifically emptied his pockets and ripped a money-belt from under his clothes.
 
"Oh, Mister Nikka, sir," moaned Watkins. "Not that, sir. There wasn't anything said about me belt, sir. Do be careful with that knife, Mister Jack. It's me throat, sir, if I may say so. Not the belt, Mister Nikka! Oh, dear, sir, whatever will I do about me trousers? Torn me apart, you 'ave. Ow!"
 
This last as Nikka gave every indication of intending to cut his heart out. There came a yell from Hugh around the corner, and Nikka bounded to his feet. Between us we hoisted Watkins to his, and propelled him from us with a couple of really brutal kicks. Collar torn, jacket scruffed and trousers unbraced, Watkins scudded for that corner like a swallow on the wing. But we did not wait to watch his exit. We took to our own heels, and headed in the opposite direction, hesitated at the far corner, and doubled back to the closed door that was buried in the high wall of Tokalji's house.
 
Nikka banged the thick wood with his knife-hilt.
 
"Who knocks?" rumbled a voice.
 
"Two who fear the police."
 
A small wicket opened.
 
"We want none such here." And to one within: "Be still."
 
"There is something to be divided," answered Nikka.
 
"Where do you come from?"
 
"Salonika—and elsewhere."
 
"Tziganes both?" And again to one unseen: "I said be still, little devil."
 
"My comrade is a Frank—but he is one of us."
 
A hinge creaked.
 
"Enter," growled the voice. "Quickly."
 
The crack was wide enough for one at a time, and we slid through like shadows, the open leaf slamming behind us. We stood in a large courtyard. To right and left were solid, timeworn buildings, two stories high. In front was a broken wall, partially built over by a structure of moldy brick, but there was a gap sufficiently large to reveal the Bosphorus. The court was cluttered with bales of goods and boxes and a number of men and women in Gypsy dress who were occupied in staring at us.
 
But we did not spare any protracted attention for them. There were two far more interesting characters close at hand. One was a stalwart, black-bearded man, with a seamed, wicked face that wore an habitual scowl. The other was a girl of perhaps eighteen, whose lissome figure set off her ragged dress like a Paquin toilette. She was very brown. Her hair was a tumbled heap of midnight, and her eyes were great glowing depths of passion. Her shapely legs were bare almost to the knee, and her flimsy bodice scarcely covered her. But she carried herself with the unconsciously regal air that I had noticed in Wasso Mikali.
 
She regarded me almost with contempt, but her eyes fairly devoured Nikka.
 
"This............