"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.