Flat upon his back, in the middle of the court, lay Mr.Winters, with Pierre Costello kneeling on his breast, one hand grasping his victim's throat, and the other holding aloft his murderous-looking bowie, whose bright blade glistened in the moonlight like burnished silver.
Frank started back, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

There could be no mistake about it, for the moon shone brightly, rendering all the objects in the court as plainly visible as if it had been broad daylight.

He was not only terribly frightened, but he was utterly confounded.

He had believed Mr.Winters to be fast asleep in his bed at the hotel in San Diego; but there he was, when Frank least expected him, and, more than that, he was being worsted in his struggle with Pierre.

The boy could not understand it.
"Unhand me, you scoundrel!" he heard Uncle James say, in a feeble voice.
"Not until you have given me the key of the safe," was the robber's answer.