"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?"