“By God! It’s Hawke, himself!” he shrieked. “Alan Hawke, a midnight robber!” But, Harry Hardwicke, with the two men at his back, had dashed on into the gun-room of the old tower, leaving Murray with his prostrate foe--empty, not a sign of any human presence. With one wild cry Hardwicke turned to the door, “Nadine! Nadine!” he yelled, and his voice sounded unearthly in the night winds. And then, from over their heads, a cheery hail replied, “All right, on deck! The lady is safe up here with me. I am Professor Hobbs, the American. Who are you?” “Friends! friends!” cried Hardwicke. “The house was attacked! Where is the Professor?” “I reckon they have carried him off!” the nasal voice of the American answered. “If they’ve killed him it’s a great loss to science, you bet! I’m coming down.” And while the gun-room was soon filled with a motley crowd from Rozel Pier, Professor Alaric Hobbs long legs dropped dangling down his rope ladder. He gazed, open-mouthed, at the anglicized Prince Djiddin. “Who are you--friends, also?” now demanded the astonished “Prince Djiddin” of the rescuers. “We are friends of Simpson!” cried the nearest. “The smugglers bludgeoned him and then threw him off the cliff, but the banks were soft and wet, and his heavy coat saved him. He sent us up here to the rescue, for he crawled half a mile on his hands and knees. We’ve found the old Professor tied to a tree over there in the bushes. They are bringing him here. Simpson is at the ‘Jersey Arms,’ all safe.” “See here, stranger!” demanded the American, still standing amazed, pistol in hand, “I winged a couple of these damned robbers; they tried their best to get the girl away from me. I’m a pretty good shot. Now, are you a prince or a fraud? I suspicioned you from the first! If you are a fraud, then the History of Thibet is all damned rot! I suppose that you were just ‘girl hunting.’ The girl’s yere sweetheart. I see it all now. Hoodwinked the old man! Who’s this fellow that you’ve got tied up there, anyway? One of the Johnny-Bull-Jesse-James gang?” “Why! It’s Joe Smith, our friend!” chimed out a dozen friendly voices. Then Harry Hardwicke stepped up to the shivering wretch who stood gazing on Alan Hawke, now propped up on a doubled-up coat, and rapidly bleeding to death. “I’ll keep your secret, and save you yet, if you will disclose the whole, and keep mum!” Jack Blunt nodded, and hung his head in shame.