It was Bosja into whose hands it had fallen, when Mr. Figgins was escaping from the mob.
"That is my turban," he cried, as with one hand he dragged it from his enemy's head, with dauntless vehemence, and bringing his flute down with a smart crack on the Turk's bald pate.
The Turk, who was much more of a bully than a hero, was quite confounded at the excited energy which the Frankish lodger displayed. Dropping his scimitar, he then had a struggle for the flute.
Round the room they went, pulling and hauling.
At length, lurching against the door, it burst open.
The combatants now found themselves on the landing.
Here the struggle continued, till, at length, giving a desperate tug, the flute came in half, and Bosja fell backwards, head over heels, down the stairs, with the upper joint of the instrument in his hand.
The landlady, who thought the house was falling, came hurrying to see what had happened, and found the Turk lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, with the breath almost knocked out of his body.
It took some time to bring him to himself.
It was just as he was recovering there was a loud knocking at the street door.