Frank looked around with interest. The room seemed to be unoccupied when they entered.
Having made a hasty survey of the apartment, Frank turned toward the girl; but at that moment there was a noise behind him, and he wheeled to see two fierce-looking, bewhiskered, turbaned Moors rush into the room.
They were Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf!
“Dog of a Christian!” snarled Ali Mustaf. “You have walked into the trap, and now, by my beard, you shall die!”
Ben Ahmet cried out something in his own language, flourishing a scimiter as if he longed to strike the boy’s head from his body.
Instead of being overcome with terror, Frank was astonishingly cool. He surveyed the two Moors complacently.
“So it was a trap,” he quietly said. “Well, I should have known it, but I did trust this old wretch.”
And then, with remarkable swiftness, he made a spring and let one hard fist shoot out from the shoulder.
Frank’s knuckles caught Azza on the chin, and the scoundrel was lifted off his feet and hurled with a dull thud against the wall, from which he dropped in a limp heap to the floor.
“That was easy,” laughed the reckless youth, as if he really enjoyed the situation. “Now, Ben, it is your turn.”