Achmed Jzzit Pasha looked all that the Armenian had said he was, and more. A fierce old face it was that looked murder at us. His eyes, under white, bushy eyebrows, were frantic and furious, and never for a second did he cease to struggle. I thought of that fine old Turkish warrior of the last century, the man of Plevna, Osman Pasha; this old man is of the same breed, I thought.
We had so far heard nothing of the Armenian; but that Achmed Jzzit Pasha realised that we two were only accessories was evident, for not even his struggling with us concealed the fact that he was listening, listening intently.
A slight noise, as of a drawer hastily banged, came from the next room. It was only a small noise, but it had a mighty effect on the old slayer of men. His eyes simply tore at us, his fat little body heaved frantically, he bit my finger in trying to howl—he went quite mad, that violent old Turk. I admonished him severely:
“It’s only little Anaïs packing up to go away with her brother,” I told him; but that old Turk knew not resignation nor repentance, and still we had gently to battle with him.
“He’s an infernally long time about it,” grumbled Tarlyon at last—and at that very moment the horn outside blew twice. We welcomed it.
“Now,” said Tarlyon to the heaving old man, “we are about to release you. Your girl has flown, so it’s too late for you to make a noise. So don’t.” And for form’s sake he showed the revolver, though I never saw a man who looked less likely to use it. “You may not realise it,” he added severely, “but we have saved your life. After the first shock has worn off you will thank two disinterested men for having saved you from the wrath of an Armenian.”
With another sudden and well-concerted movement we let go. The Pasha did not make a noise. It was evident he realised that it was too late to make a noise. But in the next few seconds he revealed, for a Turk, an astonishing knowledge of the baser words and idioms of the English language. Then he leapt out of bed, a funny little creature in pink flannel pyjamas, and rushed out of the room. Breathless, we found him in the next room.
Now I have very little acquaintance with girls’ bedrooms, but a glance was sufficient to show me that no girl alive could have a bedroom like that. There was no bed in it, and very little else; just a thing like a tallboy, but made of steel, or so it looked: and that, if I may say so, had certainly been ravished....
Then the old man really began to howl, and we hadn’t the heart to stop him. He howled himself back to the bedroom, and we followed him, looking and feeling like all the things he said we were.
“But aren’t you Achmed Jzzit Pasha?” I pleaded. But the life had suddenly gone out of him; he sat on the edge of the bed.