Brewster’s heart almost ceased beating, and every vestige of color left his face.  Clear and distinct in the light from the yacht the Arab and his burden were outlined against the black screen beyond.  There was no mistaking the earnestness of the threat, nor could the witnesses doubt the ghastly intention of the long, cruel knife that gleamed on high.  Peggy’s body served as a shield for that of her captor.  Brewster and Bragdon recognized the man as one of Mohammed’s principal retainers, a fierce-looking fellow who had attracted more than usual attention on the day of the sheik’s visit.

“For God’s sake, don’t kill her!” cried Brewster in agonized tones.  There was a diabolical grin on the face of the Arab, who was about to shout back some defiant taunt when the unexpected happened.

The sharp crack of a gun sounded in the stern of Brewster’s boat, and an unerring bullet sped straight for the big Arab’s forehead.  It crashed between his eyes and death must have been instantaneous.  The knife flew from his hand, his body straightened and then collapsed, toppling over, not among his oarsmen, but across the gunwale of the craft.  Before a hand could be lifted to prevent, the dead Arab and the girl were plunged into the sea.

A cry of horror went up from the Americans, and something surprisingly like a shout of triumph from the abductors.  Even as Brewster poised for the spring into the water a flying form shot past him and into the sea with a resounding splash.  The man that fired the shot had reckoned cleverly, and he was carrying out the final details of an inspired plan.  The Arab’s position as he stood in the boat was such as to warrant the sailor’s belief that he could fall no other way than forward, and that meant over the side of the boat.  With all this clearly in mind he had shot straight and true and was on his way to the water almost as the two toppled overboard.

Monty Brewster was in the water an instant later, striking out for the spot where they had disappeared, a little to the left of the course in which his boat was running.  There was a rattle of firearms, with curses and cheers, but he paid no heed to these sounds.  He was a length or two behind the sailor, praying with all his soul that one or the other might succeed in reaching the white robes that still kept the surface of the water.  His crew was “backing water” and straining every muscle to bring the boat around sharp for the rescue.

The sailor’s powerful strokes brought him to the spot first, but not in time to clutch the disappearing white robes.  Just as he reached out an arm to grasp the form of the girl she went down.  He did not hesitate a second but followed.  Peggy had fallen from the dead Arab’s embrace, and that worthy already was at the bottom of the sea.  She was half conscious when the shot came, but the plunge into the cold water revived her.  Her struggles were enough to keep her up for a few moments, but not long enough for the swimmers to reach her side.  She felt herself going down and down, strangling, smothering, dying.  Then something vise-like clutched her arm and she had the sensation of being jerked upward violently.