It was morning when four exhausted, dust-covered persons rode into Tangier and hastened to the house of the United States Consul. They were Professor Scotch, Ephraim Gallup, Frank Merriwell and Igela.
Ain-el-Khair had kept his word in every particular. He had escorted them almost to the very gate of the city.
“We must get out of Morocco before the truth is known concerning the attack on that caravan,” said Frank. “We shall be branded as robbers, and a price will be placed on our heads.”
“Which is a very pleasant thing to contemplate!” said the professor.
At the house of the United States Consul a surprise awaited them. Mr. Adams listened to their story, and then said:
“There seems to be a case of mistaken identity mixed up in this affair. Last night a young man who has just crossed the desert from Fez, after escaping from the castle of Bab-el-Maroc, came to me for protection and aid. He has told me his story, which, together with what I have heard from Mr. Merriwell, has thrown some light on a very singular matter.”
He opened a door and called to a person in an adjoining room. A moment later a rather thin and pale youth entered the parlor.
“Permit me to introduce you to Mr. Frank Parker, gentlemen,” said the consul. “Mr. Parker is from London. Mr. Parker—Mr. Merriwell, Professor Scotch, Mr. Gallup, all from the United States. And this is——”
He was interrupted by a cry from Igela, who had been standing and staring at Frank Parker as if turned to stone. Her eyes passed from Parker’s face to that of Frank Merriwell; from one to the other she looked a score of times, and then she ran into Parker’s arms.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Scotch—“very remarkable! Why, Frank, this Parker looks enough like you to be your brother—your twin brother. It is an astonishing resemblance.”