With this flourishing about his head, Doctor Chicago leaps in among the
Maltese and belabors them right and left.

As Philander, seeing what is going on, and knowing his assistance would
be appreciated, springs to his side, the dusky sons of Malta break and
run.

They realize, perhaps, that they have waked up the wrong customers, and
immediate flight is the only thing that will save them from the result
of their impetuosity.

The two Americans make a pretense of pursuing them, but truth to tell
their course really lies in an altogether different direction, and, as
if by mutual consent, they suddenly turn right about face.

Taking advantage of the enemy's discomfiture, they are enabled to make
good their escape, and presently reach the vicinity of the hotel, rather
out of breath, and looking somewhat the worse for their strange
adventures.

Professor Sharpe has been glowing with pride and satisfaction up to the
moment they reach the caravansary, then all of a sudden he seems to
collapse.

A sound comes from a window above; a clear, sibilant sound; a human
voice uttering one word, but investing it with a volume of reproach
beyond description.

That word: