"You said this afternoon we had our back to the wall," said Hugh. "You were right. They've licked us. Our only chance is to clean them up."
The room-telephone rang. King answered it.
"Send him up," he said. And to Nikka: "A Gypsy asking for you."
"That will be Wasso Mikali," cried Nikka. "He must have learned something. I thought he would. Don't be downhearted, Hugh. This hand is a long way from being played out. It is as I thought all along; we have got to meet savagery with savagery. It is a case of kill or be killed."
"But Betty!" exclaimed Vernon King. "Think of her! What will they—"
"I am thinking of her," retorted Nikka. "If we hope to rescue her we must strike hard. Give them time, let them strengthen their position—and she will go to some harem in Anatolia or to a procurer in Salonika. I tell you, I know. We are dealing with men and women who have no mercy, who fight like animals, who are animals. Well, from now on, Nikka Zaranko will meet them on their own ground."
There was a knock on the door. Wasso Mikali entered, his garish Gypsy dress in striking contrast to the Western furnishings and our own conventional garments.
"I greet you, son of my sister," he said calmly. "My young men, watching in Sokaki Masyeri this evening, beheld Tokalji's party carry in a bundle in a sack, which was a body. I have hastened that you should know it."
Nikka clasped his hand.
"It is well, my uncle. I thank you for the news. This is the night of blood of which I have spoken. We shall all dip our blades before the sun rises to-morrow."