No. 71                       10 Cents

  THE SPIDER’S WEB

  [Illustration: EAGLE LIBRARY]

  BY
  ST. GEORGE
  RATHBORNE

  From Photo
  Copyright 1894 by
  Morrison, Chicago

  STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

  STREET &
  SMITH’S      EAGLE LIBRARY

The Most Popular Series of Books Ever Printed

Retail Price, The Correct One, TEN CENTS.

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  =96--The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie.=
  =95--’Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay.=
  94--Darkest Russia. By H. Grattan Donnelly.
  93--A Queen of Treachery. By T. W. Hanshew.
  92--Humanity. By Sutton Vane.
  91--Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  90--For Fair Virginia. By Russ Whytal.
  89--A Gentleman From Gascony. By Bicknell Dudley.
  88--Virgie’s Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  87--Shenandoah. By J. Perkins Tracy.
  86--A Widowed Bride. By Lucy Randall Comfort.
  85--Lorrie; or Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice.
  84--Between Two Hearts. By Bertha M. Clay.
  83--The Locksmith of Lyons. By Prof Wm. Henry Peck.
  82--Captain Impudence. By Edwin Milton Royle.
  81--Wedded For an Hour. By Emma Garrison Jones.
  80--The Fair Maid of Fez. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  79--Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay.
  78--The Yankee Champion. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
  77--Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  76--Mavourneen. From the celebrated play.
  75--Under Fire. By T. P. James.
  74--The Cotton King. By Sutton Vane.
  73--The Marquis. By Charles Garvice.
  72--Wilful Winnie. By Harriet Sherburne.
  71--The Spider’s Web. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  70--In Love’s Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay.
  69--His Perfect Trust. By a popular author.
  68--The Little Cuban Rebel. By Edna Winfield.
  67--Gismonda. By Victorien Sardou.
  66--Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  65--Won By the Sword. By J. Perkins Tracy.
  64--Dora Tenney. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  63--Lawyer Bell from Boston. By Robert Lee Tyler.
  62--Stella Sterling. By Julia Edwards.
  61--La Tosca. By Victorien Sardou.
  60--The County Fair. By Neil Burgess.
  59--Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay.
  58--Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  57--Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  56--The Dispatch Bearer. By Warren Edwards.
  55--Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  54--Cleopatra. By Victorien Sardou.
  53--The Old Homestead. By Denman Thompson.
  52--Woman Against Woman. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
  51--The Price He Paid. By E. Werner.
  50--Her Ransom. By Charles Garvice.
  49--None But the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler.
  48--Another Man’s Wife. By Bertha M. Clay.
  47--The Colonel By Brevet. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  46--Off With the Old Love. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
  45--A Yale Man. By Robert Lee Tyler.
  44--That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  43--Little Coquette Bonnie. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  42--Another Woman’s Husband. By Bertha M. Clay.
  41--Her Heart’s Desire. By Charles Garvice.
  40--Monsieur Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  39--The Colonel’s Wife. By Warren Edwards.
  38--The Nabob of Singapore. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  37--The Heart of Virginia. By J. Perkins Tracy.
  36--Fedora. By Victorien Sardou.
  35--The Great Mogul. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  34--Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  33--Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  32--The Blockade Runner. By J. Perkins Tracy.
  31--A Siren’s Love. By Robert Lee Tyler.
  30--Baron Sam. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  29--Theodora. By Victorien Sardou.
  28--Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  27--Estelle’s Millionaire Lover. By Julia Edwards.
  26--Captain Tom. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  25--Little Southern Beauty. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  24--A Wasted Love. By Charles Garvice.
  23--Miss Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  22--Elaine. By Charles Garvice.
  21--A Heart’s Idol. By Bertha M. Clay.
  20--The Senator’s Bride. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
  19--Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry DuBois Milman.
  18--Dr. Jack’s Wife. By the author of Dr. Jack.
  17--Leslie’s Loyalty. By Charles Garvice.
  16--The Fatal Card. By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson.
  15--Dr. Jack. By St. George Rathborne.
  14--Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay.
  13--The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards.
  12--Edrie’s Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
  11--The Gypsy’s Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay.
  10--Little Sunshine. By Francis S. Smith.
   9--The Virginia Heiress. By May Agnes Fleming.
   8--Beautiful but Poor. By Julia Edwards.
   7--Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
   6--The Midnight Marriage. By A. M. Douglas.
   5--The Senator’s Favorite. Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
   4--For a Woman’s Honor. By Bertha M. Clay.
   3--He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards.
   2--Ruby’s Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
   1--Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.

THESE BOOKS CAN BE HAD IN NO OTHER SERIES

  THE SPIDER’S WEB

  BY

  ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

  Author of “Doctor Jack,” “Doctor Jack’s Wife,” “Captain Tom,”
  “Baron Sam,” “Miss Pauline of New York,” “Miss Caprice,”
  “Monsieur Bob,” “The Colonel by Brevet,” “Major Matterson
  of Kentucky,” “The Nabob of Singapore,” Etc.

  NEW YORK

  STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
  81 FULTON STREET

  Copyrighted 1896 by STREET & SMITH.
  Copyrighted 1898 by STREET & SMITH.

CONTENTS.

  BOOK I.

  _In the Shadow of the Ferris Wheel._

  CHAPTER                                               PAGE

       I. WHAT THE MOON SAW IN THE MIDWAY,                 1

      II. HOW SAMSON CEREAL STOLE A BRIDE IN TURKEY,      13

     III. THE STRANGE PLOT OF THE FERRIS WHEEL,           24

      IV. BRAVO, CANUCK!                                  34

       V. THE MAN FROM THE BOSPHORUS,                     43

      VI. THE ODDITIES OF CAIRO STREET,                   53

     VII. CRAIG BUILDS A THEORY,                          66

    VIII. A BACHELOR PROTECTORATE,                        74

  BOOK II.

  _The Man from Denver._

      IX. NEWS FROM COLORADO,                             85

       X. THE VENGEANCE THAT SLUMBERED TWENTY YEARS,      96

      XI. YOUNG CANADA ON DECK,                          106

     XII. THE PROTECTORATE ABANDONED,                    116

    XIII. A BACHELOR’S “DEN,”                            127

     XIV. THE MAN OF THE WORLD,                          138

      XV. HEARD AT THE SHERMAN TABLE D’HÔTE,             148

     XVI. ENGAGED,                                       159

  BOOK III.

  _What Happened at the Grain King’s Palace._

    XVII. COLONEL BOB WAITS FOR HIS MESSAGE,             172

   XVIII. BY SPECIAL DELIVERY,                           181

     XIX. THE FALL OF THE MIGHTY OAK,                    191

      XX. SAMSON CEREAL & SON,                           201

     XXI. AN ACCOMMODATING SHERIFF,                      213

    XXII. “HAPPY JACK,”                                  222

   XXIII. WHAT THE OLD CAMEL BLANKET CONCEALED,          232

    XXIV. HER ATONEMENT,                                 243

  BOOK IV.

  _The Spider’s Web of Cairo Street._

     XXV. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND,                           253

    XXVI. AGAIN UNDER THE WITCHERY OF CAIRO STREET,      263

   XXVII. THE OLD GAME OF THE SPIDER AND THE FLY,        273

  XXVIII. DOROTHY,                                       284

    XXIX. THE PASHA CLAPS HIS HANDS,                     294

     XXX. THE LAST ACT,                                  304

THE SPIDER’S WEB;

OR, THE

BACHELOR OF THE MIDWAY.

_BOOK ONE._

IN THE SHADOW OF THE FERRIS WHEEL.

CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE MOON SAW IN THE MIDWAY.

“Eight days I have haunted this beehive, fought my way through the
multitude, looked into tens of thousands of faces, and yet failed to
find her. I’m afraid, Aleck Craig, you’re on a wild goose chase, and
the sooner you return to Montreal the better for your peace of mind.
Eight days! and six of them spent amid the infernal clatter of this
bedlam. I’ve been wondering what the sensations of a man would be,
could he go to sleep in Canada and awaken right _here_.”

The tall, well-built pilgrim from over the border, dressed in a quiet
suit of Scotch cheviot and carrying a Japanese cane, purchased no
doubt in the bazaar, laughs softly as in imagination he pictures the
bewilderment and positive alarm that would overwhelm an unfortunate
placed in the midst of his present surroundings suddenly.

Indeed, it is a conglomeration of sounds that would appall the bravest
heart unaware of their particular origin. The hum of many voices
marks the presence of a multitude; from over the buildings across
the way come the many cries that day and night accompany the riding
of the camels and donkeys in Cairo Street; here and there shout the
bunco-steerers who officiate at the doors of various so-called Oriental
theaters; fakirs howl their wares--from “bum-bum candy” to hot waffles
and trinkets--while the ear-distracting tom-tom music, from behind the
gate leading to the Javanese village, throbs like the pulsations of a
heart. Above all this infernal din can be distinctly heard the steady
“clack--clack” of the ponderous Ferris wheel as it slowly revolves in
its course.

Such a kaleidescopic scene had never before been witnessed on earth.
Since the day when, at the Tower of Babel, the confusion of tongues
came upon the multitude of workers, there has not been a time when the
civilized and savage nations of the earth held such a congress as on
the Midway Plaisance of Chicago.

There is always a crowd here. Many come for the excitement; others
because of the grand opportunity afforded them to study these queer
people from all lands. The red fez abounds, but everyone wearing it is
not necessarily a Turk or an Arab, or even an Algerian. It is the head
gear of the Midway, and those who have business here don it as a matter
of course.

In his way, Aleck Craig is something of a philosopher. He has not been
abroad, but takes an intense interest in the strange things of other
lands, and perhaps it is the opportunity presented by this gathering of
nations that causes him to haunt the Midway. His muttered words would
indicate another motive also.

As a relief from the turmoil that is so incessant, the Canadian
turns into the Turkish bazaar near by. Here are booths after booths
of embroideries, trinkets, rugs, and the various goods to be found in
Constantinople, from jewelry to the quaint but expensive swords used by
the Moslem people of the Orient. Some of these booths are presided over
by boys and young men. They may be Jews, but the red fez gives them a
Turkish appearance. So with the young women. They are hardly Orientals,
for they speak clear English, and the customs of Turkey forbid the
presence of a female on the streets unless the detestable _yashmak_
conceals her face.

Here the noise is less intense. Aleck has many times retired to this
place for rest. It is a gaudy scene when lighted up, and he would
always remember it in days to come.

Being socially inclined, he has made several acquaintances in the
bazaar, with whom he stops from time to time and chats. One of these is
a Turk of middle age, a man of stout figure and closely cropped beard
in which the gray is sprinkled like pepper and salt. Aleck finds much
to interest him in the conversation of Aroun Scutari, the dealer in
precious stones of the Turkish bazaar.

The other has traveled all over Europe, has been in the Egyptian
army, and impresses the Canadian as a remarkable man. He pays little
attention to his business, leaving it almost entirely in the hands of
an Armenian, in whom he seems to have implicit confidence. So Craig
shrewdly judges that the Turk has hardly come to the great World’s Fair
to increase his fortune. Various motives bring men here, and it is
hardly right to speculate upon their private reasons.

Leaving the gem dealer, he saunters on to pass a few sentences with a
wide-awake foreigner who invites the public to step in and view the
beauties of Jerusalem through the aid of stereoscopic views.

Upon passing the glittering booth of Scutari again, he sees the stout
Turk in earnest conversation with a man who wears a fez, but who sports
a blond mustache, and at sight of whom Aleck receives something of a
shock.

Instead of passing out of the bazaar, he lingers around, watching for
this individual, who soon comes lounging along, smoking a pipe, with
the most careless abandon in the world. A cane of bamboo raps upon his
arm: he glances down at the spot, brushes some imaginary dirt from his
sleeve, and then raises his eyes to the party at the other end of the
cane.

“Wycherley, my boy, how are you?” says that individual, smiling.

“Do my eyes deceive me--can I believe the evidence of my vision? Is it
Aleck Craig, or his double?” says the party addressed, slowly putting
out his hand to meet that proffered him.

The clasp of the muscular Canadian comes direct from the heart, and
Wycherley shows signs of sudden devotion--although no muezzin chants
the _aden_, or call to prayer, from the minaret of the Mohammedan
mosque near by, he makes a move as though about to drop to his knees.

“Mercy, you Canadian bear. Now I know you are Aleck. No other man has
a grip like that. Keep it, I beg, for your fellow-athletes. I believe
you’ve crushed the bones in my hand. I’ll beware of you next time. Now
what brings you here--how long do you stay--what business are you in?”

He rattles these sentences off in a dramatic way, for having once been
a Thespian, a wandering “barn-stormer,” Claude Alan Wycherley could
not even ask a waiter for a little more hash without throwing into the
simple request an oratorical effect so picturesque, that the poor devil
would be apt to drop the plate in his sudden trepidation.

“Of course I’m doing the Fair, and, as you know my failing with regard
to studying human nature, you can understand this quaint Midway has
strong attractions for me,” answers the Canadian.

“So they all say! Everyone comes here to study human nature,” laughs
the ex-actor, waving his pipe around--they have stepped outside and
are on the edge of the multitude thronging the Plaisance--“but I give
you the benefit of the doubt, my boy. Yes, I do remember your penchant
of old. Nor have I forgotten that I owe my life to the champion of the
Montreal Snowshoe Club.”

“Nonsense! Don’t bring up that thing again.”

“Of course it was a trifling matter to you, my boy, but to me it meant
all the difference between life and death. I was lost; I should have
frozen, for my snowshoes were broken. You came and saved me, God bless
you, Craig.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, as he shows a desire to
change the subject, and glancing meaningly at the fez Wycherley wears.

The latter chuckles; his disposition seems to be a genial one.

“To tell you the truth, Aleck, I’m studying human nature, too. Just now
I’m passing through an apprenticeship. I make it an object to spend as
I go, and each night I throw away what I have made during the day.”

“If you’re the same old rolling stone I knew a year or two ago, that
isn’t probably a very hard business,” smiles Aleck, for good-natured
Claude was usually in a chronic state of financial collapse, yet he
would cheerfully bestow his last nickel in charity.

“You’re quite correct; but there are times when it bothers me just what
to do with certain sums.”

“Indeed! That is news. Glad to hear you have been so lucky. Thinking of
starting any hospitals, sanitariums, orphan asylums?”

“They’ll all come to-morrow, if fortune is kind,” returns the man with
the fez.

Craig steals a side look at him, as though wondering whether this is a
joke or the other has gone mad.

“What has to-day done for you, then?” he asks, bent upon solving the
mystery, whereupon Claude deliberately takes out a notebook, turns over
the pages, and sighs:

“I made a poor investment, which cuts a big figure in the whole, so
my profits for the day only amount to the pitiful sum of seventeen
thousand, three hundred and eleven.”

“Dollars?” exclaims the astonished Aleck.

“Why, certainly,” nods the other; “and that is a wretched showing
in comparison to some others I could pick out in here,” tapping the
wonderful notebook affectionately.

The Canadian draws a long puff at his cigar, as though reflecting. Then
he turns suddenly upon his companion and says:

“I see how it is, my dear fellow; you are running the Midway--it is a
little private speculation of yours.”

“No, no; I deny the soft impeachment,” returns the Chicagoan, laughing
heartily.

“At least you own the Ferris wheel? Now don’t deny that.”

“I must. True, I took in tickets at the entrance for a time, and even
pushed people into the cars, but when I went into this other colossal
business I had to give that up. No man could continually put twenty
people where ten ought to go, and at the same time do justice to great
deals involving _millions_.”

“You are right, my boy. But will you kindly relieve my suspense and
tell me the nature of this marvelous business.”

Wycherley removes his pipe and says laconically:

“You’ve heard of Wall Street. Well, we have no Wall Street in Chicago,
but we’ve got the greatest lot of hustlers in the grain pit you ever
heard of, from Hutchinson, in days gone by, to old Samson Cereal, the
grain king of to-day. Now you understand why I gave up a lucrative
office; now you can see where the immense profits come in. Why, look
here,” snatching out the book again and showing a closely written page,
“there’s what will to-morrow either win or lose me a cool million.”

Craig begins to be amused.

“Oh! and I presume you’re quite prepared to meet your losses if fortune
is against you?”

Wycherley, a modern Dick Swiveller in all his rattle-brained,
devil-may-care ways, shrugs his shoulders.

“If the fair goddess refuses me her favor, I’ll have to carry it over
to the next day.”

“Your creditors are very obliging.”

“Pshaw! don’t you understand, old fellow? I said I was an apprentice;
I’m making a deep study of this grain gambling on ’Change. It’s my
intention to devote myself to it after I’ve got the secret of success
down fine. I’m only betting with myself, you see. Some days I’m
depressed by heavy losses; then again I’m on the top of the swim--my
name famous as a high-roller. You don’t know how exciting it is to
take up an afternoon paper in a delightful state of uncertainty as to
whether you have won or lost a fortune.”

“Ahem! it must be, indeed. See here, how long have you been at this odd
game?”

“About three weeks.”

“Doing a big business, I presume?”

Claude thrusts his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and swells with
importance.

“I’ve handled millions, my dear fellow; made some of the boldest moves
ever known; expect to be the Napoleon of the wheat pit ere long.”

“Well, how do you stand?” continues Craig, thoroughly interested in
this queer freak of his entertaining companion.

“Stand?” echoes Claude.

“Yes; what have the profits, imaginary of course, been?”

“H’m! Well, I was figuring up this evening, and if I’m lucky
to-morrow----”

“Yes.”

“And win that cool million----”

“We’ll take that for granted, my dear boy.”

“And no beggar of a broker goes back on his contract, I’ll be just
thirteen dollars ahead of the game.”

CHAPTER II.

HOW SAMSON CEREAL STOLE A BRIDE IN TURKEY.

Craig turns and looks squarely in the face of his companion. His
Canadian sense of humor does not grasp the situation as readily as
would have been the case with an American, but gradually a smile creeps
over his countenance.

“Then if luck follows you, my dear Claude, I shall know where to go if
I want to make a loan,” he says, and the other joins in the laugh.

“Perhaps you’ll give me credit for having a long head when you know
_all_,” pursues Wycherley, with a mysterious nod.

“Then there is still something more back of it?”

“I should say so. This brain-racking mental calculation is only a means
to an end. Should the plan carry out I’m a goner,” with a sigh.

“Come, this is very unlike you, my dear fellow, to keep one in suspense
so long. If there’s a story back of it all, let’s have it. You always
found me a sympathetic listener. Come, wet your lips with a mug of
this French cider, served by a divinity in wooden shoes, and then I’ll
listen to your tale of woe.”

When this ceremony has been completed, they saunter toward the great
Ferris wheel near by, which continues to revolve, its electric-lighted
arch spanning the heavens, the most remarkable object in this feast of
wonders.

“Now, tell me what you mean by a 'goner.’ If your plans carry, you
ought to be happy, Claude.”

“True, true; but you see I’m now thirty-three, and I’ve been _so_
free from care. It will be a tremendous thing for me to assume the
responsibility for another,” sighs the Chicagoan.

“Ah, I see! you intend taking a partner.”

“For weal or woe,” groaning.

“Not get married, my boy?”

“I’m afraid there’s some truth in it, though the matter rests on
certain conditions. Do you know, it worries me considerably?”

“I should think it would. You have been a regular Bohemian, living
from hand to mouth, always cheerful and contented. Now you will have to
turn over a new leaf and go to work.”

“Perhaps so; but somehow you’ve got the cart before the horse. It has
happened before now that the wife has supported the husband.”

“Wycherley, I didn’t think that of you.”

“Well,” resumes the other with a little laugh, “I suppose I’d have
my hands full looking after her stocks and bonds, as a sort of agent
or manager. That is one reason I’ve devoted myself to the markets so
assiduously of late--ever since the subject has been broached, in fact.”

“Then the lady is--ahem--very wealthy?”

“Im--_mensely_ so.”

“Accept my congratulations, Wycherley. May you----”

“Hold on, Aleck, my boy; it isn’t all settled yet.”

“Father object?”

“I’m not bothering much about him.”

“Then you mean the day hasn’t been set. That’s a difficulty easily
overcome, my boy.”

The retired Thespian gives a melo-dramatic groan.

“Confound it all! thanks to this modesty on my part, though I’ve seen
the dear girl dozens of times, I’ve never dared address her.”

Craig remains silent. In his mind he is resolving the question of his
friend’s sanity. He has known him for a jolly dog in times gone by, but
his eccentricities as revealed on this occasion certainly stamp him the
most astonishing and original fellow Craig has ever met.

“See here, Wycherley, you’re bent on muddling me up to-night. Explain
this puzzle. How is it you are bent on marrying a girl to whom, as
you confess, you have never even been introduced?” he finally demands
somewhat shortly, as if a suspicion has flashed across his brain that
the other may be guying him--Craig has had previous acquaintance with
such practical jokes as Americans love to play.

“Oh, he will fix all that!” returns Claude, knocking the ashes from his
pipe, with a manner that speaks of remarkable _sang froid_.

“He? You will have to explain who is meant. Have you entered into a
league with the father?”

“Great Scott! no. It’s Aroun Scutari, the Turk.”

“Ah, I know him! I saw you talking with him. Has he a daughter?”

“Heaven knows. He has a harem full of wives over in Stamboul. That’s
how it all came about, you see.”

“But I don’t see. I’m as much in the dark as ever. Now, if you prefer
not to take me into your confidence----”

“Aleck, on the contrary I am delighted with the chance. Something about
this business goes against my grain. I’ve always been a rolling stone,
a harum-scarum sort of fellow, but I don’t know that I ever did a bad
deed in my life. Yes, I believe your running across me to-night is a
blessing. You can be a father confessor.”

“Thanks.”

“And having heard my little lay, tell me whether it would be awful
wicked for me to win a wife by such fraud. Understand in the beginning,
my intentions are honorable. If I refuse the job someone else will take
it, and Samson Cereal’s daughter be won by a wretch who will abuse
his privilege. Hence, though sworn to bachelorhood, I have deemed it
my duty to put aside my scruples and----Jove! I’ve been forgetting
myself--what time have you?”

“Just a quarter to nine.”

Wycherley shrugs his shoulders.

“Then the time has come. I question my nerve to carry out the
contract,” he mutters.

“Contract?” echoes the Canadian athlete.

Wycherley is looking at him steadily, as though possessed of a sudden
notion.

“I believe he’d do it,” is what he mutters, as he surveys Aleck’s
muscular, well-knit figure, and then casts a glance of scorn at his own
stout form.

“Craig, have you been on the wheel to-night?” he asks suddenly.

“No, and I confess it was my intention to go up before leaving. I’ve
been waiting for a moon as near the full as we could get it overhead.
If you’ll go as my guest, I accept.”

“Nonsense. I told you I worked there--all the boys are known to me.
Besides, it will be so arranged that you and I shall occupy a car
alone. Then, as we mount upward, and look down upon these remarkable
sights, I will a tale unfold, which, if it does not make your blood
tingle will at least arouse your interest. Perhaps you may have
difficulty in believing it, but stranger things are happening in this
nineteenth century and at the World’s Fair than ever enter into your
philosophy, Horatio! Here we are. Now watch me.”

Wycherley seems to stand back as though awaiting a certain car. How it
is done, the Canadian knows not, for he sees no signals exchanged, but
presently he finds himself with his singular companion in one of the
cars in which they are the only passengers.

“First of all, notice this,” says Wycherley, as he points to the door
that is ajar.

“Against orders. I thought the system was perfect on the Ferris wheel,
and every door locked.”

“So it is, usually. To-night there is a substitute on duty--that is
all.”

He makes this remark in a significant tone, which at once stamps it as
a fact upon which theories may be built, and Aleck remembers it.

“Now,” continues the disciple of Forrest and Booth, in an impressive
way, “our time for conversation is limited to about one revolution. I
have a story to tell connected with the fortunes of Aroun Scutari and
Samson Cereal, and you will excuse me if I plunge into the details
without further delay.”

“With pleasure,” remarks the Canadian, who stands looking out upon
the remarkable scene that, as they rise higher and higher, gradually
unfolds before their vision until it looks like fairy-land--the
Administration building standing out above all else, with its myriads
of electric sparks showing the outlines of the dome, while ever and
anon, as the moon hides behind a passing cloud, the search lights sweep
across the fair grounds like lightning flashes from the skies, crossing
and recrossing in mystic symbols.

“Going back nearly twenty years, the grain king of Chicago, Samson
Cereal, was in Turkey. I believe he was a United States consul at one
of the ports, perhaps Constantinople itself. Let that pass.

“By a series of strange circumstances, when traveling in Georgia--a
place over in Asia where their greatest industry seems to be raising
beautiful girls to be sold as wives to wealthy Turks--he met a young
woman named Marda, as lovely as an houri. She bewitched the American,
and as he had been taken wounded to her father’s house he had
opportunities for talking with the object of his mad devotion. So, as
was quite natural, they fell in love.

“Now, anyone that knows old Samson to-day would be inclined to doubt
that the cool, calculating manipulator of wheat could ever have been a
Hotspur, ready to dare all for love, yet it is quite true. Imagine his
despair when the object of his adoration, while admitting a return of
his love, coolly told him the fates had decreed it otherwise; that she
was destined to be the wife of a great pasha; money had already been
paid to her parents, and they were in honor bound to see that when the
attendants, now on the way from Stamboul, arrived, she should go to the
beautiful harem of the pasha.

“Well, Samson just up and stormed. He swore to the Georgian beauty that
as she loved him, by that love she belonged to him--that he would have
her, and take her to his country where one wife is all they allow a man
to have.

“This appeared to strike the lovely girl as quite a delightful thing.
It ended in her declaring that if Samson won her she was his.

“As the representative of the pasha and his suite appeared about
the time this bargain was struck, there was no time to do anything
then; but Samson was fully aroused and laid his plans. In this first
speculation of his life he showed the same shrewdness that has of late
years raised him to the proud pinnacle of 'king of the wheat pit.’

“Having learned the exact route the company would take on their way
to Stamboul--for there seems to be some formal ceremony about such
affairs--he mounted a horse and departed in hot haste.

“The result was just what he figured on. Such a shock old
Constantinople had not received since the Crimean War. Even convulsed
as the Turks were over the impending war with Russia, they became
furious when it was learned that the caravan bearing the intended
bride of a pasha had been attacked by a band of savage Kurds under an
American, the horses all stolen and the beautiful Marda carried away.

“Samson had laid his plans well. I reckon he had the story of young
Lochinvar in his mind. At any rate, he rode furiously on to the city,
where he had almost to bankrupt himself in chartering a small steamer.
Once on this they had just so many hours to pass the forts at the
straits. I believe a shot or two were fired after them, but it was too
late, for evening came on, and the brave American had won his bride.”

“You have deeply interested me. Love is indeed a giant in leveling
difficulties. We are now nearing the top--the view is magnificent--but
as yet I am not able to apply your story to present conditions.”

“Patience, and all will be made clear, dear boy.”

CHAPTER III.

THE STRANGE PLOT OF THE FERRIS WHEEL.

“What I have told you reflects only honor upon the name of an American.
I now come to the part that is hard to believe, and yet I swear every
word is true as gospel.

“The pasha whose bride was stolen, you have met. Aroun Scutari is the
man. He comes to the Fair nominally as a dealer in precious stones, but
actually to satisfy a revenge that has been slumbering these twenty
years. A Turk never forgets nor forgives an insult or injury, and it
so happened that he was madly infatuated with the lovely houri Samson
carried away--something rather unusual with a pasha who can buy as many
wives as he cares to support.

“His vengeance slept because he learned that a year after reaching
America Samson’s lovely wife died. Chicago’s climate was too severe
for the hothouse flower. She left a child, and upon this girl the old
broker has lavished his love. How the Turk learned all this I can’t
say, but he came here determined to repay the long standing debt he
owed a Yankee.

“I don’t know whether the pasha knew Samson lived in Chicago, but
he felt sure he would come to the Fair, and he bided his time. Sure
enough, one day they met face to face, and with the old operator was
his charming daughter.

“In Constantinople these two men had known each other. The eyes of hate
are keen. One look they flashed into each other’s face and with a frown
and a grunt passed on.

“The curiosity of the girl was aroused by the peculiar meeting. Her
father for certain reasons has, it seems, never told her the strange
story of the past, and she does not know he won her mother while she
was on the way to a Turk’s harem. She is not like other girls. Although
now but nineteen years of age she has traveled much with friends, but
never to Turkey. Anywhere else she was given full liberty to go, but
never there; which, of course, aroused all manner of conjectures in her
mind, and when she saw the awful look Aroun Scutari bent on her father
she must in some way have connected it with his horror of the Moslem
country.

“I cannot tell you how the cunning pasha went to work; but I am
positive that the middle-aged lady who usually accompanies Samson’s
daughter has been bought body and soul by his gold, and is playing into
his hands.

“It has puzzled me to know why he selected me as an agent. Sometimes I
think it isn’t at all complimentary to my character, and then when I
get puzzling over the matter I’m forced to believe that after all it’s
for the best--'there’s a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them
as we may.’

“In a spirit of deviltry, I pretended to fall in with the Turk’s plans
at the start, and once having committed myself, I’ve been borne along
by the current in an irresistible manner, until here I am at the
crisis, confused and ready to snatch at a straw in order to escape.”

The wheel stops while they are at the top of the great circle. From
below comes the strangest conglomeration of sounds with which the human
ear was ever tortured: music from the German band, the infernal din of
Javanese, Hottentot, South Sea Islanders, and their like, the shrieks
that burst from the camel racers and the donkey riders in Cairo Street,
together with laughter, shouts, and cries arising from the masses
thronging the Midway--will its equal ever be heard again?

Again the rumble of machinery, and they experience the strange
sensations of the descent. Wycherley begins to show more excitement as
the time draws closer for the crisis of which he has spoken.

“Now to explain the strange plan by means of which I am to at once
walk into the good graces of Miss Cereal. Heaven knows it is wild
enough, and could only originate in the hair-brained mind of a Turk. I
suggested various other schemes that would accomplish the same result,
but he would have none of them, so here am I about to imperil my life
to-night, unless my nerve gives way, which I fear it surely will, in
order to appear a hero in the eyes of the great operator’s daughter.

“I have tried to find out what plans Scutari has beyond, but it’s
useless, for he’s as close mouthed as an oyster. In secret, I am to
woo and, when the time comes, marry. Beyond that all is a blank. At
times I have wondered if the Turk didn’t plan to return a Roland for
an Oliver--that as Samson had stolen his purchased bride years ago,
he will now make it square by securing his daughter. That, I have
been content to leave for the future. You see, such good fortune is
a rarity with me, and I was just content to drift along, taking life
easy, pretending to fall in with the plans of the pasha, who doubtless
believes me a rogue, while at the same time I was scheming how to
turn the game against him at the last. Thus time has flown, the Turk
did not plan in vain, and let me tell you, Aleck Craig, I am on this
monster wheel to-night to carry out the wildest scheme mortal brain
ever conceived, as I said before, with the sole purpose in view of
apparently saving the millionaire’s daughter from a terrible danger.”

“The deuce you are!” says the Canadian, looking around him in wonder,
for it is beyond his comprehension how such a Quixotic knight may serve
his lady love under such conditions.

“Now listen. We are almost down. The car ahead of us will be emptied.
If arrangements that have been carefully made are carried out, it
will receive a party in waiting. These are to be all women with one
exception. This is a man with long hair and glasses--a professor in
appearance and quite respectable, whose wife urges him to make the
trip, and almost drags him into the car which is at once closed and the
door barred.

“As soon as it begins to ascend he will jump up and try to force his
way out. His excitement increases as he goes up until he is like a
crazy man. Of course the women are alarmed, and when the wretched wife
shouts that the professor, whose mind is always affected even when
ascending an ordinary elevator, has gone crazy and will murder them
all, you just bet there’ll be the biggest screaming match the Midway
ever heard--old Cairo with its camels won’t be in it.

“Now is my turn, you see. The door of my car is unfastened. I hear the
cries for help in the car above as we ascend. What Chicagoan ever heard
and did not answer a woman’s appeal. There is deadly danger in it, but
I’ve worked on this wheel and ought to know something about it.

“As it stops a minute to take on a fresh load below, I slip out, seize
hold of the girders, and climb up to the car above. It seems impossible
to do this, and yet I assure you the thing is feasible. All it needs
is a strong pair of arms, a quick eye, and a bold heart; and, confound
it, I’m afraid I’m lacking in the last! What d’ye think of the scheme,
my boy?”

Craig laughs outright.

“Why, it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in many a day. I feel
it my duty to stop it if possible. The door is open; I shall call out
to the man below.”

“Nonsense. He wouldn’t pay any attention to you. The chances are my
nerve will fail me, anyhow. See here--they are about to enter the car.
Notice the girl who steps like a queen, in company with the middle-aged
lady in black. That is Dorothy!”

“Dorothy--yes, by Heavens, it is the same!” ejaculates Craig, suddenly
fixing his gaze on the face that has haunted his dreams.

“Do you know her?” cries Claude, aghast.

“Yes--yes, that is--this infamous plot must go no further, do you
hear?” and the Canadian turns upon his companion savagely.

“So far as I am concerned I confess I’m only too glad to be out of it,
my noble duke. But you see, we are in motion--they ascend--the wheel
cannot go backward, and I’m really afraid the ladies must be terribly
alarmed by the antics of that mad professor, unless some athletic hero
like yourself climbs to their rescue. As for me, it’s too much like
being suspended by a spider’s web. I admit at the last a yearning for
_terra firma_.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed Craig.

“The first scream above. Most likely the professor is warming up. The
worst of it is, his wife assured me it was not wholly a put-up job
on his part. He is always inclined toward mania when ascending or
descending an elevator or inclined plane. My only fear is that he may
really become crazy enough to do one or more of the ladies injury.”

“Good God!” cries Craig, horrified; “and you entered into this base
conspiracy. I’m ashamed of you, Wycherley.”

“Ditto, my dear boy. I feel like kicking myself. That old Turk must
have bewitched me. I meant it all for the best. You see, I was afraid
he’d find someone not so scrupulous about the result.”

Craig has not waited to hear the apologies of his companion, but
springing to the door dashes it open. The sight is one to appall the
bravest heart. Already they are nearly halfway up the rise of the great
wheel that clicks and rolls onward like a giant Juggernaut. Below lies
the Midway--nearly one hundred and forty feet--the myriads of lights
flashing from Moorish palace, Mohammedan mosque and bazaars, Chinese
temples, Egyptian theater, and the motley collections of fake shows
that entice money from the pockets of pilgrims in the Plaisance. Above,
the moon and the star-decked heavens, against which is outlined the
circle of cars suspended, like Mohammed’s coffin, in space.

“By my soul, I believe it can be done,” says the Canadian, as,
thrusting his head out, he notices the position they are in; “yes, it
is possible to climb up this great tire of the wheel, this outside
circle.”

The wheel ceases to revolve, and as he stands there in the doorway he
no longer looks down. Above the muffled din below he hears shrieks from
above, shrieks for help uttered by terrified women.

Perhaps, understanding how matters are, he might be tempted to remain
inactive, for the danger is enough to alarm even a braver man than
Claude Wycherley, who has backed out at the last moment.

It is the memory of a face that decides him. _She_ is there! He has
found her at last, and under most remarkable circumstances--Dorothy,
the speculator’s daughter, heroine of the strange story he has just
heard.

Louder rise the screams above; in imagination he can see her in danger
at the hands of a madman. The strain is too much; he flings off his
coat with a quick movement.

“What would you do?” cries the other, leaping toward the Canadian.

“Change cars,” is the cool response thrown in his face, as the athlete
springs upon the great iron framework and begins to mount upward.

“Come back! it is too late, man. Good Heavens! the wheel begins to
move. Come back!” shouts Claude, thrilled with the sight. But it is as
easy to go forward as to return, and with hands of steel clutching the
rim of the throbbing wheel, Aleck Craig climbs upward to meet his fate
in mid air.

CHAPTER IV.

BRAVO, CANUCK!

To falter, to lose his grasp upon the cold iron of the immense wheel
means instantaneous death, since he is now high above the battlements
of the Midway, whose loftiest structure does not dare to mount on a
level with the monster shaft of the Ferris wheel.

Craig is a thorough athlete, his muscles trained by a generous
indulgence in the manly sports for which fair Montreal is noted. With
only an Indian hunter as a companion he has crossed mountains of snow
and rivers of ice on snowshoes, in search of the great moose, or the
caribou of Newfoundland. As a skater he has held a championship medal
several seasons. Modest in his manner, he makes no boast of these
things, but those who know him understand the power of that well-knit
frame.

It may be safely said that never before in all his life has Aleck Craig
experienced such a queer sensation as when halfway between the two
cars, and clinging to the iron framework he feels a throbbing sensation
that tells him the giant wheel is again in motion.

Above, below, around him is space; his only hold upon the cumbersome
iron band so icy cold. Hushed are the myriad sounds from the festive
Midway now, so far as his ear is concerned; he only hears the steady
clamp--clamp of the revolving wheel, and the shrieks of feminine terror
that continue to come from the car just above.

Not one instant does he allow the thought of personal danger to
handicap his efforts. He has started in this desperate game and must
see it through to the end. Not that he expects any glory to descend
upon his head on account of what he may do. Wycherley has confessed to
a fear lest the professor actually does an injury to one or more of
the ladies in the car, and it is this that has urged the Canadian to
undertake this terrible risk. The days of chivalry are not entirely
gone, even though we live in the matter-of-fact, prosaic nineteenth
century.

In one way Craig’s task is not so difficult--he finds a means of
holding on with hands and knees, for there are protuberances upon the
wheel which he is quick to utilize.

He casts one look down, but no more. That glance will never be
forgotten until his dying day. The Midway seems a mile below, the
moving wheel causes a peculiar sensation to pass over him, a dizzy
feeling, as though the earth were receding, and some mighty bird were
carrying him up, up, higher and higher each second.

After that one terrible experience Craig dares not turn his head again,
though there seems to be a wonderful alluring feature, a sort of deadly
fascination, about the scene below. Perhaps others have felt something
of this same sensation in another form, concerning that same wonderful
Plaisance.

Now he has reached the bottom of the car, which is just about beginning
to move upon the upper half of the arc. This favors his desperate
plans, for the door is within his reach as he hangs upon the massive
tire of this most stupendous of wheels.

The cries coming from the car are agonizing in the extreme. Surely the
professor must have left the boundary of sham and entered upon the mad
reality. He can be heard roaring there like an enraged tiger. Several
of the windows have been broken, but the wire netting prevents him from
casting himself out. He raves like a madman. Presently his mood may
take another turn--prevented from leaping into space by the wisdom of
the Ferris wheel management in fastening the doors and screening the
windows of the cars, he may attempt violence upon his fellow-voyagers
through the air. What may not a crazy man do when mania is upon him?

Craig shuts his teeth hard together, and does not allow this dread to
distract his attention from the serious business before him. It so
happens that just as he gains a position where the door is within his
reach, the wheel ceases to move.

This gives him an opportunity of which he is quick to take advantage.
Although the door cannot be opened from the inside, it is not hard to
open from the outside.

As he succeeds in opening it the young Canadian gazes upon a scene
that arouses all the fighting blood in his veins, for like his cousins
across the water in that “tight little island,” he will never look on
inactive when a brave heart is needed along with a stout arm to protect
the weak.

The crazy professor is a terror--his hair is in a condition of chaos
that would drive a Yale football player green with envy, and delight
the soul of an erratic pianoforte player of the Polish type. Upon his
face there has come a wild look that is not assumed. They played with
fire when they selected the professor to engage in this game, for it
becomes a reality to him.

There he is, wildly flinging his long arms about his head, thundering
phrases in Latin and Greek and Sanscrit, with Heaven alone knows what
grammatical correctness, and raging from one end of the car to the
other, just as the lions in Hagenbeck’s cages do while looking at the
crowds below.

Whenever he approaches a group of the women there rises a series of
the most ear-piercing shrieks, and the fluttering that followed would
remind a sportsman of a covey of partridges flushed by his dog.

In this one glance Craig sees volumes. He notices one woman dressed
in a garb that would proclaim her a Sister in some sacred convent,
telling her beads with feverish eagerness, and whenever the mad
professor passes by swinging his arms like great flails, she holds in
front of her a small crucifix, as though confident that bodily harm
cannot reach the one who crouches behind this emblem of the Church.

One alone of all the dozen occupants of the car does not engage in
these outbursts of terror. Aleck notices this fact and it makes a deep
impression upon him.

This is Dorothy. She stands there, white of face it is true, and
doubtless trembling in every limb, as is quite natural, considering
the terrible situation, but not a sound escapes her lips, nor does she
fly to the other end of the car when the cause of all this turmoil
approaches.

Dorothy has traveled far and wide, and this alone has given her a
spirit of bravery and independence far beyond the usual run of her sex.

The scene is appalling, and no one can tell how it may end, but thus
far she holds her ground. Perhaps the spirit that caused Samson Cereal
to run away with the mother has descended to the daughter. She does not
appear to be armed, and yet Aleck notes that one hand is concealed from
view amid the folds of her rich silken dress. It is not unusual for the
American girl of to-day to own a revolver. They are made of the finest
of steel, exquisitely fashioned, and look more like a toy than a deadly
weapon.

He does not wait; all these things are before him, so that one sweeping
glance shows him the whole. Then his feet touch the floor of the car,
and at the same moment the great triumph of American engineering again
moves, the iron circle with its dangling cars starting upon its journey.

The professor rattles the other door viciously, and such is his savage
fury that he threatens to demolish the framework. Then with a roar and
a volley of French expletives he turns to make another rush upon the
opposite end of the car.

In thus turning he finds himself face to face with a man. The professor
heeds him no more than he would a troublesome fly that buzzes before
his face. His long arms saw the air like those of a Dutch windmill,
and giving his wildest whoop he starts to clear a passage to the other
terminus, as though he sees the open door and means to escape by it.

In so doing he counts without his host, for Aleck Craig blocks the
way. An experienced boxer, he notes the approach of the wizard with a
feeling of disdain. It is almost like boy’s play to encounter such an
easy mark, but the safety of those in the car demands prompt action.

Hence he puts considerable force into the blow he sends straight from
the shoulder. The professor lands on his back in the middle of the car,
the most surprised man in seven counties. He does not know what has
happened--perhaps imagines he butted his head against some projection,
and makes a feeble, bewildered attempt to gain his feet, but Craig
pushes him back to the floor, and deliberately sits down upon the
prostrate form of the terror.

“Ladies, will one of you kindly close the door,” he says, and it is
Dorothy who does as he requests, for besides the hooded Sister, still
telling her beads, she is the only one in that panic-stricken company
not uttering little shrieks and gasps of real or assumed terror.

“There is no longer any danger, ladies. I beg of you to be calm. Lie
still, sir,” giving the professor, who has made a movement as if about
to rise, a sudden shake, to remind him that he has met his Waterloo.

Looking up Aleck Craig is conscious of the fact that he is now the
cynosure of admiring eyes. Coming thus unexpectedly to their relief, it
is but natural that these women should look upon his manly figure, his
bronzed features, and curly hair with a kindled interest. What thrills
him is the look he sees upon the face of Samson Cereal’s daughter;
the expression of fear is gone, and in its place comes one of puzzled
conjecture, then a sudden rosy blush.

Dorothy has recognized him.

CHAPTER V.

THE MAN FROM THE BOSPHORUS.

The excitement gradually dies away when the fair inmates of the car
realize that they are no longer in danger from the crazy professor,
whose brain cannot stand the exhilarating influence of a ride in mid
air.

Slowly the wheel revolves, and relieved of their apprehensions some of
the women proceed to look out upon the wonderful spectacle, for Chicago
lies spread out before their vision, bathed in the mystic moonlight,
while at their feet, as it were, nestles the representative homes of
the world’s strangest peoples.

The wheel goes on, and again they mount upward for the second
revolution. Dorothy all this time has been thinking of other scenes
than those upon which her eyes rest. Before her vision came the
snow-covered sides of Mount Royal, the icy bosom of the mighty St.
Lawrence, the royal splendor of last winter’s ice carnival, when the
crystal palace was dedicated in the gay fashion that has been the charm
of a Canadian winter for a long time past.

How distinctly does she remember the frolic on the long stretch of ice
and the adventure that befell her. No wonder the blood tingles her
veins as she realizes that the courteous skater who gave her assistance
in the hour of her need is the same who now sits upon the recumbent
form of the panting professor--that he has performed a feat of valor
that has won for him the title of hero in her eyes.

She is no prim New England maiden, this only child of the Chicago grain
manipulator. The warm blood of an Oriental mother flows in her veins,
though she knows it not. Besides, on the father’s side she inherits
some of his daring.

When she no longer doubts the identity of the man who has come to
their rescue, Dorothy turns away from the window--though they are at
this time reaching the point over which all voyagers on the wheel have
raved--and approaches the Canadian, who smiles a little as he looks up
into the fearless dusky orbs.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but unless I am seriously mistaken I believe I
have met you before, and under circumstances that left me your debtor.
Am I right?” she asks.

“You refer to our meeting last winter. I have remembered with pleasure
that a broken strap allowed me to be of some assistance to you, though
deploring the fact that you received an injury in your fall. Perhaps
you will recollect that you gave me your card. I called at all the
hotels on the following day but could not find you.”

“Ah! we were stopping with friends,” she smiles.

“I haunted the pleasure ground, and was at every affair for days after,
hoping to learn that you had not been seriously injured.”

“A telegram called us home the next day. Father was ill. But--you had
the card--my address is upon it. If you had been _very_ solicitous
about my health----”

“Ah!” he breaks in, “pardon me again. That is where the curious part
of it comes in. Look, I have it still. After I left you I continued
skating. Something happened down the river--perhaps you may have read
about it, but they gave me much more credit than I deserved. At any
rate, I was in the water, and, with the assistance of men who brought
boards, managed to save a young lady. The ice was new at the spot, and
hardly fit for use, though she had no warning. I only mention this to
explain another circumstance. Later on I remembered your card; when I
took it out of my pocket it had been soaked, and only half remained
legible. Thus I could only discover that your first name was Dorothy,
and that Chicago claimed you for a resident.”

“How strange,” she murmurs.

“I confess that when I came to the great Fair, I wondered if by some
odd chance I might see you here, though it would be a remarkable thing
indeed. While I think of the oddity of our meeting here, I am struck
dumb with amazement,” he says seriously.

“It seems like fate to me,” is what her heart whispers, and the very
thought causes the blood to mount over neck and face until Aleck’s eyes
are ravished with the fairest picture they ever beheld.

Love comes at no man’s bidding--it cannot be bought with the riches
of an Eastern potentate--spontaneously it springs from the heart as
the lightning leaps from cloud to cloud. So Aleck Craig, bachelor,
realizes, as he looks into the lovely face of Marda’s daughter, that
surely he has met his fate, for such a strange meeting could not occur
unless the cords of their destiny were bound together.

Dorothy says no more just at present. The wheel is rolling around,
the pinnacle passed, and they are descending. Soon they must part. The
professor has made several attempts at rising, but Craig shakes him
down as easily as he might a schoolboy. The Padarewski of the Ferris
wheel is in the hands of a master-voice and the flail-like arms have
long since ceased to cause the wildest music ever heard in one of
these cars--and truth to tell strange things have happened under their
shelter, from a wedding in mid air to the “siss-boom-ah!” of a score
of ascending college students, who deemed themselves slighted by the
superior attractions of the Midway, and were determined to win notice.

As they near the bottom, Dorothy overcomes her reserve once more.

“You will think it strange that I should come to this place at night,
and with only a middle-aged lady for a companion, but I have a reason
for it, Mr. Craig. You know who I am now--the daughter of Samson
Cereal. We live on the North side. Some time perhaps you may call, and
I might feel it my duty to explain. God knows it is no idle whim that
brings me here, but a sacred purpose.”

Her voice is low, her manner earnest, almost eloquent. The Canadian is
deeply moved--when does a beautiful woman with her soul in her eyes
fail to arouse enthusiasm?

“I can well believe that, Miss Dorothy, from the few facts I have
learned,” he says, and although her eyebrows are arched in surprise,
she makes no remark.

The wheel has ceased to revolve. Craig arises, and allows the professor
to regain his feet.

“Are we down?” ejaculates that pious fraud in anxious tones, and upon
his wife reassuring him that all is well, he says solemnly, “Thank
Heaven for that, and all mercies.”

Dorothy manages to brush close to the Canadian, and takes occasion to
say:

“To-morrow night we receive. Will you come?”

He looks straight in her eyes as he replies:

“If I am in the flesh, I will.”

Then as she extends her hand, after they have left the wheel, he takes
it reverently in his.

“Good night, Mr. Craig.”

He watched the two veiled ladies vanish in the midst of the throng that
gathers at this point, where Persian and Turkish theaters, with their
noisy mouthpieces in front, vie with the Chinese and Algerian shows
further on.

The murmur of her soft voice, the look of her lovely eyes, remain with
him like a dream, and to himself this stout-hearted Canadian is saying:

“Hard hit at last, my boy. No more will the old joys allure you. In the
past, peace, contentment, and all the humors of a jolly bachelorhood.
To come, the fierce longing, the uneasy rest, the yearning after what
may prove to be the unattainable. Hang it! I’ve laughed at others, and
now they have revenge. Well, would you change it all--cross out the
experience of to-night?”

“Not for worlds, my boy, and you know it!” says a voice in his ear,
and turning, he finds the speaker, as he supposes, is Wycherley, the
careless, good-natured Bohemian--half painter, half actor, and whole
vagabond.

“Come, I didn’t suppose there were eavesdroppers around,” mutters
Craig, confused.

“Well, you uttered that last sentence a trifle louder than you
intended, and I answered it for you. That’s all. No offense meant, I
assure you. Come, walk arm and arm with me. I feel the eyes of Aroun
Scutari upon me, and want to arrange my plans before granting him an
interview.”

“Certainly, if it will help you.”

“Are you very angry with me, Aleck?”

“Angry? What for?”

“For the miserable business I was engaged in. I honestly assure you
my motives were really quite philanthropical. At the end you know I
realized what a foolish thing I had done. You know me well enough, old
fellow, to understand that I’m no villain, fool though I may be at
times.”

His repentance is sincere, and Aleck, like the good-hearted fellow he
is, claps him on the shoulder.

“I hold no grudge against you, my boy. On the contrary this ridiculous
escapade on the part of the Turk and yourself has resulted very
pleasantly to a fellow of my size. It enabled me to meet one for whom I
have been looking six months and more.”

“When you mentioned her name I knew there was something in the wind.
And believe me, Aleck, you did old Montreal proud. I wish the Toque
Bleue snowshoe boys had been here to see their bold comrade climb the
Ferris wheel.”

At this Craig laughs merrily.

“They might have believed me a little daft, for surely such a Quixotic
venture could have but one meaning--that I had thrown my senses to the
winds, and imbibed too much Chicago champagne.”

“Here comes the Turk straight at me, as if resolved to wait no longer.
Mark his dark face. He saw you come out of that car. The deal is up,
and I must defy his royal nibs.”

Aroun Scutari has barred their path; one hand he reaches out and
touches Wycherley.

“You deceived me, traitor!” he says, with a peculiar accent on the
words, such as a foreigner usually gives, no matter how thoroughly at
home he may be with the English language.

“My dear fellow, you are mistaken; I simply deceived myself. When the
critical moment came my nerve failed me. That mug of French cider
should have been something stronger. It is all right, anyway; this
gentleman saved the girls, so what’s the odds?”

His coolness is remarkable. Really Wycherley must have haunted the
Eskimo village a good deal of late, to show so little concern with the
grave affairs of life.

“It is all wrong. By the beard of the Prophet, I will look to you!
Where is the money with which I buy your soul?” demands the Turk,
working his hands as though eager to get them fastened upon the throat
of the Christian dog of an unbeliever.

“What you paid me I used in the regular routine of my work. By proxy,
I saved the girl. There is now one hundred dollars due. Will you pony
up?” holding out his hand, at which the furious Moslem glares.

“I do not understand. You make sport with me, a pasha. If it were
Turkey I would have your head to pay!” he snarls.

“Then I am glad it is not Turkey. You thought you had me molded to your
liking, but the worm has turned. We are quits, Scutari. _Au revoir_,”
and gayly waving his hand, the debonnair Swiveller of the Midway takes
Aleck’s arm and saunters on, leaving the gentleman from the Bosphorus
standing there, his brown face convulsed with the fury that rends his
soul, as he realizes that his amazing scheme has thus far proved a
lamentable failure.

CHAPTER VI.

THE ODDITIES OF CAIRO STREET.

Upon the narrow streets of Stamboul a Turkish pasha may appear a very
exalted personage, and command respect--upon the Midway Plaisance of
the great Chicago World’s Fair he is quite another character, and when
he speaks his little piece in English, he may be placed on a par with
the itinerant coffee vender, or the dark-skinned doctor who sells the
queer muffin bread of the Egyptians in the corner of Cairo Street.

“Let the heathen rage and imagine a vain thing,” laughs Wycherley, as
he glances back over his shoulder to see if Scutari is still shaking a
fist after them. His everlasting good humor is proof against scenes of
this sort--it protects him like a coat of mail.

What he sees causes him a slight spasm of uneasiness. The pasha still
stands there in front of the theater where the Parisian troupe of
dancers holds forth, but he is no longer alone, a man with a red fez
upon his head is at his side, and to this individual the Turk talks in
a voluble manner, pointing in the direction our two acquaintances have
gone, as though he would direct the attention of the other to them.

Craig has his mind full of the recent surprising adventure. Even the
lively attractions around him do not serve to divert his thoughts from
Dorothy Cereal and her unknown mission. Why does she haunt the Midway?
He might imagine many things that perhaps would not be complimentary
to the speculator’s daughter, but when he remembers her face he is
ready to stake his life that no guile rests there. Besides, he has not
forgotten what she said so earnestly to him, as if realizing that it
must shock his sense of propriety to discover a young lady of Chicago’s
Four Hundred wandering, with only a middle-aged duenna, about the
Plaisance, haunting its strange scenes so assiduously. Why, he can even
remember her exact words, and the earnest expression of her lovely face
will always haunt him, as she said:

“God knows it is no idle whim that brings me here, but a sacred
purpose.”

Those were her words--he cannot conceive what their meaning may be, but
is ready to believe in Dorothy.

He has not forgotten the remarkable story which Wycherley poured into
his ears as they climbed higher and higher in the great Ferris wheel,
and it adds to the piquancy of the occasion to remember how Samson
Cereal, the grim old wheat operator, the millionaire, won his bride
over in the land of the Golden Horn, and that Dorothy is the daughter
of the lovely Georgian who had captivated the pasha.

This brings matters to a certain focus. He is led to believe that the
presence of Scutari has something to do with Dorothy’s mission. Does
she haunt the Midway in order to learn from this dark-brown Turkish
dealer in precious stones, the seeming merchant of the gay bazaar, the
secret of her mother? At the thought Aleck feels a shudder pass through
him, an involuntary shudder, such as would rack one’s frame upon
suddenly discovering an innocent child fondling a deadly rattlesnake.

To himself he is muttering:

“Thank God, I have been allowed to enter this singular game--that
Heaven may mean me to be the one who will tear down this infernal
spider web in the Midway; the web in which this keen old Turk sits and
watches for his fair prey; the web that has been spun with the sole
purpose of snaring the daughter of the lovely girl old Samson once
snatched from his grasp.”

While thus pondering upon the singular train of events that have
already taken place, and speculating as to what the near future may
hold in store for him, Aleck feels his companion’s hand on his arm.

“Come, you must arouse yourself, my boy; there I’ve been chattering
away like a monkey for five minutes, and you walk along like a man
in a dream. You need a jolly laugh, and here’s the doctor to bring it
about.”

Looking up Aleck sees the legend:

                          A STREET IN CAIRO.

He has been there before, several times in fact, and even the
recollection of its boisterous associations causes a smile to cross his
face.

“Oh, I’m with you, Wycherley, on condition--ahem--that you allow me to
pay the fee.”

“Pay nothing. I tell you, my dear fellow, I’ve made it the rule of my
life to deadhead everywhere. There’s nothing I haven’t seen in this
street of nations, the great Midway, and all it cost me was a quarter
I paid to watch a Hindoo juggler do some very clever tricks, and
I’m laying my plans to turn the tables on him. Watch me hoodoo this
door-keeper now.”

With which he steps up. The dark-skinned boy holds out his hand. Then
the vagabond actor proceeds to make a variety of gestures, such as
a deaf and dumb wretch, unacquainted with the mute alphabet of his
fellows, might undertake. Aleck is utterly in the dark as to their
meaning, or whether they have any, but is amazed to see their influence
on the boy. At first he looks disgusted, then grins, and finally throws
up his hands in token of surrender.

“Come,” says Wycherley, and they enter.

“I say, what in the deuce does all that mean?” demands the mystified
Canadian.

“Oh, my boy! I dare not explain. It is soul language. I have been
initiated into the Order of Nomads. I’ve eaten salt with them. That is
as far as I can go. There are the camels. Now to chase the blue devils
away. Nobody can stand here five minutes and fail to laugh.”

And Wycherley is quite right. The uncouth figures of the hump-backed
animals, so strange to Western eyes, their meek, docile aspect,
the ridiculous manner of their rising and squatting are enough in
themselves to arouse interest. Add to this the alarmed shrieks of the
daring women who brave the merriment of the crowd and venture to take
a ride, the clattering of donkeys with pilgrims astride of them whose
legs almost touch the ground, the shouting of donkey boys and camel
drivers, and one can have a faint idea of the sounds of old Cairo
Street.

Several times during the day and evening the wedding procession takes
place; an unique affair, headed by the stout major-domo, with whirling
sword and fierce expression, who is followed by the strangest rabble
American eyes ever gazed upon, from the palanquin to the dancing girls
in the rear, their faces half concealed behind the _yashmak_.

Looking down the singular street from a second story balcony, or an
upper chamber of the Mohammedan mosque, as this procession approaches,
one could easily imagine himself in the old native quarter of Cairo on
the Nile. Aleck speedily forgets his troublesome thoughts in laughing
at the ridiculous sights presented on all sides.

Cairo Street was better than a doctor. No one came out regretting
having entered. There you saw only the jolly side of life, for everyone
laughed and joked. While walking along it was nothing to have a camel
poke his nose over one’s shoulder, or be brushed aside by a donkey boy
on the run, shouting, “Look out for Mary Anderson!” or “Make way for
Lily Langtry!”

“Will you have your fortune told?” asks Wycherley, as, mounting the
steps of the mosque, they look through a grated window into a dimly
lighted room where a black Nubian, with a rather repulsive face,
dressed after the manner of his race, squats upon a rug and manipulates
some sand upon the floor, spreading it out deftly, tracing certain
mystic symbols, and finally in rapid Arabic delivering his prophecy to
the smiling interpreter who translates it in the ear of the mulcted
victim, after which “Next,” and another hard-earned American quarter
has started to roll toward the Nile. This fakir appears to do a
flourishing business--Americans have come to the Fair to be taken in,
and anything connected with the Orient has a peculiar charm for their
Western eyes.

At the question Craig laughs:

“What! have you a pull with this wonderful seer in the turban, this
ebony prophet from the land of the lotus?”

“Well, I’ve been there. If I’d had the capital I might have been his
manager. That’s the way it goes--an opportunity of making myself solid
for life lost because I lacked a few dollars,” and Wycherley chuckles
even while he speaks in such a dismal strain.

“This fellow isn’t the only fortune teller at the Fair,” the Canadian
says.

“By no means. I know of several others right here in the street of
Cairo.”

“Yes; I remember one at the lower end--a woman, I believe. I have seen
no other.”

“Walk with me. There is one here--they call her the Veiled Fortune
Teller of Cairo Street. I don’t know that her predictions are any
nearer the truth than the black’s, but somehow the air of mystery
surrounding her excites a certain amount of curiosity.”

“I would like to see her. I thought I had exhausted the sights of this
street, from the odd barber shop where they lay one down on a bench to
shave him, to the shoe store where their stock in trade is yellow and
red _baboushas_ or slippers. If there is a veiled mystery here I must
see her. You said a woman?”

“Yes, and if one can judge of the faint glimpses seen through the
flimsy veil, and by the shapely figure, a beautiful woman, too. Let’s
see the time--yes, this is her last hour for receiving to-day. Come
along, Aleck, my boy.”

The jovial vagabond almost drags him along, and presently they bring
up in front of a stuccoed building. Over a doorway is a sign, so small
Aleck does not wonder he missed it, bearing this scroll:

                  SAIDEE--THE VEILED FORTUNE TELLER.
                               25 cents.

An Arab boy holds forth, fez and all.

“One _half-duro_--a quarter each,” he insists, and Aleck is about
to comply when the eccentric actor steps in front and proceeds to
mesmerize the youth.

“Ten cents,” he mutters feebly, but Claude only increases his
mysterious passes, and at length the Arab youth throws up the sponge.

“Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. Enter _taleb_, I beg,” he
says hastily, as if desirous of being rid of an incubus.

So they pass in, Aleck Craig never dreaming what an influence this
accidental discovery of a new curiosity will have upon his future. A
dozen persons are in the room, and one by one they interview the veiled
woman on the little stage, who looks into the palm and reads both the
past and the future.

“Look!” says Wycherley quickly; “don’t you recognize the man seated
there?”

“Jove! it’s the pasha himself. Do you suppose our being here has
anything to do with his presence?”

“Not at all. He was here when we came, and I know the man well enough
to understand that he has some motive for his visit.”

“Then let’s watch the game.”

“Nothing pleases me better. Notice the fortune teller, Aleck; did I
speak correctly?”

“As near as I can say--yes, I should judge that she is a fine looking
woman, and, like the most of her sex, a coquette.”

“Oh, why not say _all_?” smiles Wycherley, giving him a sly dig in the
ribs.

“You know there are exceptions to every rule, my dear boy. Since we are
under the enchantment of this unknown Circe, let us act as though we
believed in the rubbish and have our fortunes told.”

“Oh, I’ve done that before. She predicted that I would win much gold,
but that it could never stick to my fingers. Think of that. There’s
the cool million to-morrow--perhaps she means that--and I reckon she’s
right about it not sticking, for how can a man hold that which he hath
not.”

“There goes the pasha up.”

“Now keep your eyes open.”

“She does not seem to have noticed him before. See how she starts and
draws back as though a sudden fear had penetrated her heart.”

“Right you are. I believe she has recognized him.”

“And he?”

“His actions indicate that on his part he entertains a suspicion,
which he is bound to verify. Now he speaks to her. I would that I knew
Arabic, that I might translate what he says. My early education was
somewhat neglected in that respect. She replies in a low tone--I swear
her voice trembles with fear. Why should she dread this man? Tell me
that.”

“I cannot say. Wait, and we may learn something that will give us an
insight. I am deeply interested in all he does.”

“Of course,” says Wycherley, chuckling; “because you are concerned
about Dorothy’s fortunes. Now the Turk holds out his hand. She takes
it. See his bold eyes, they are glued upon her face. The gauzy veil
tantalizes Aroun Scutari. I’ve a notion he has come here to-night to
settle some doubt, some uncertainty, that has preyed upon him for a
long time, and he’ll do it in his own impulsive autocratic way. There!
What did I say, Aleck?”

There is a sudden movement on the part of the pasha, a feminine shriek,
and Aroun Scutari stands there with the gauzy veil in his hand, stands
there glaring upon the beautiful face his rude action has unveiled.
Immediately the lights are extinguished, and all is darkness. Confusion
follows.

“Come, let us get out of this!” cries vagabond Claude, and Aleck Craig
allows himself to be led into the street of Cairo.

He is silent and has suffered a terrible shock, for when that veil was
torn away his astounded gaze fall upon a face that has haunted his
dreams these six months, and he could swear he looked upon the features
of Dorothy!

CHAPTER VII.

CRAIG BUILDS A THEORY.

The idea seems too preposterous to be entertained for a moment, and yet
he must give some credence to what his eyes have seen. Besides, the
strange presence of Dorothy in the Midway is as yet unexplained, though
she has, particularly, promised to enlighten him on the following
evening, if he will call.

Craig is sorely puzzled. Many things flash into his mind and confuse
him. Perhaps, after all, he might have been mistaken. Why has not
Wycherley made some comment upon the matter? So the Bachelor of the
Midway, as the actor has, in a spirit of humor, dubbed his athletic
companion, when learning how the Canadian has persistently haunted the
region of world’s fakes and curiosities, turns now to that party.

“That was something not down on the bills, I’m thinking, Claude,” he
remarks.

“I’m puzzling my head over the cause of it all. The pasha was in deadly
earnest. Don’t imagine that it was a set-up game to clear the room.
What did he expect to see?”

“Probably he suspected that someone he knew was playing a joke on him,”
says Aleck quietly.

“Humph! he was a bear then,” grunts the other.

“By the way, my dear boy, did she remind you of--well, anyone you had
seen before?”

“That’s what makes me mad. A chump in the seat in front got his beastly
head between me and the stage, so that I couldn’t see her face. You
saw me knock his hat down over his ears. Well, just then the lights
went out and I missed the opportunity of solving the riddle of the
mysterious veiled prophetess of Cairo Street.”

It is Aleck’s turn to grunt now.

“Was she very beautiful, Craig?”

“Yes, strikingly so. I wish you had seen her. Never mind, did the pasha
come out?”

“Rather! he was ahead of us. Perhaps he feared the consequences of his
bold act, for these people of the Orient are quick to use knife or
yataghan. As he passed I heard him laugh, and, as it is seldom these
Turks do that, I can guess he was well pleased over what he had done,
and that he recognized the face from which he snatched the veil.”

If ever a sorely puzzled man walked up or down that singular narrow
street, our bachelor is the individual. He cudgels his brains for a
solution to the enigma and finds it not.

“I don’t see how I can wait until to-morrow night to solve the
problem,” he mutters.

“What’s that?” demands Wycherley quickly. “Is it so bad as to keep you
from sleeping? Aleck, my poor fellow, I pity you.”

“Nonsense! I’m bothering my head over quite another thing. In fact,
I’ve a nut to crack that threatens to do me up. Pardon, old boy, but
I’ve been thinking of the story you told me.”

“You mean about old Samson; of course you are deeply interested
now--that’s natural. To the best of my belief he’s a millionaire and
better--lives in grand style on the lake shore. I walked past the
house several times, because, you see, I wanted to understand how
the land lay, if I was to be a prospective son-in-law--ha, ha. All
dreams knocked in the head now, I assure you, dear boy. I shall feel
at liberty to throw a kiss to the pretty girl in the cigar stand. My
bonds are gone, the shackles loosened, and Claude Wycherley is again a
free man.”

An odd genius this, assuredly. Aleck can never edge a word in so long
as his flow of breath lasts, so he usually holds his peace until the
actor pauses.

“I want to ask you a few questions,” he says.

“A thousand, if you wish. I would do anything for you, Aleck. Again you
have saved my life.”

“How?” demands the Canadian.

“Only for you I should perhaps have been fool enough to have attempted
that climb on the wheel. I am in poor condition to-night, and ten to
one I would have lost my grit and my grip. Then they’d have swept me
up below, and poor Wycherley would have been a bursted bubble, a back
number. So I feel awfully grateful to you. Ask me any favor and I’ll
put myself out to do it--anything but giving you a tip on the market.
That’s a dead secret yet--my plans are not quite perfected. If I win
that million now----”

“Hang the million! What I want to know concerns that part of your story
in which the Chicagoan brought his Georgian wife--stolen from the
Turkish pasha--to this place.”

“All right. What I know is at your service. As I learned it from his
royal nibs, Scutari, of course I’m in the dark wherever he is.”

“I realize that,” returns Aleck slowly; “but perhaps I may unearth some
fact that will help me to solve this question. You told me the lovely
Marda died a year or so after reaching Chicago.”

“So Scutari said and swore to.”

“Yet the daughter knows nothing concerning her mother. Why should
Samson Cereal desire to keep the facts from her if there was nothing to
conceal?”

“Look here, you’re probing this thing like a lawyer. You go beyond me.
I deal in facts, and never worry about the reasons back of them. What
are you getting at--didn’t Marda die?”

“Ah! that is what I am unable to say. It is a secret that perhaps only
Samson Cereal could explain. As to myself, without any positive proof
to back my theory up, I have a notion that all these years the old
manipulator of wheat has deceived his daughter.”

“Confusion! I say, you strike hard, Cannuck.”

“That Marda is not dead.”

“Bless me! what puts such a strange notion into your head, my _dear_
fellow?”

“I believe I have seen her.”

Craig smokes his cigar while delivering these sledge-hammer blows.
He really enjoys the astonishment of his companion, for generally
Wycherley is proof against such assault.

“The plot thickens. It was a great hour when I ran across you, Aleck
Craig. When do you think you saw Samson’s Georgian wife, and where?”

“In this street of Cairo, to-night. Plainly, Claude, that was why I was
so anxious to learn if you had seen the face of the fortune teller.”

At this the nomad assumes an attitude that is a revelation concerning
his ability as an actor. Strange that the world failed to properly
appreciate him.

“Great Scott! you don’t mean it--and the pasha---- Why, I’m already
half convinced. He suspected--but see here, how could it be that Marda
living would appear dead all these years? Incredible!”

“I admit it seems so, and yet perhaps if we knew what Samson Cereal
knows, deep down in his heart, we might find it easier to believe. It
is a matter of speculation with me, but if you stop and think for a
moment you can understand how difficult it would be for happiness to
follow such a marriage--he, a progressive American with all the ideas
we claim, she born and reared under the blighting influence of Eastern
customs. I can readily imagine a quarrel arising and she fleeing back
to the sunny land of her birth.”

“What! leaving her child behind?”

“Quite likely. This is theory. When I learn some facts we can see how
near I was to being right.”

“Well, continue the theory: why does she come to the land of ice
again--the country from which she fled years and years ago?”

Aleck shrugs his shoulders.

“Ask me something easy. Put the question to one of the Sandwich
Islanders or a Hottentot. Perhaps she has been drawn by the mother
love to see her child again, for that affection is not confined to
any class. The lioness will fight for her whelps. Putting speculation
aside, Claude, I am ready to swear that the face of this veiled
prophetess was very like that of Dorothy. I was struck dumb by the
resemblance. At first I had a positive notion it was she. Then I
gradually realized that such a thing was too improbable, and while we
walked along my mind evolved the theory which I have given you.”

“Would that have any bearing on the presence of Dorothy here?” asks
Wycherley, stopping to light his pipe at the gas jet of a tobacconist,
and nodding familiarly to the Greek in charge.

“It might. She told me her mission was a sacred one, and what could
be more in keeping with such a word than the search of a child for
her mother? However, we may be meddling with what does not concern
us, though fortune has apparently decreed that I should be interested
in the fortunes of Dorothy Cereal, judging from our several peculiar
meetings. Have you any other plans for to-night, comrade?”

“I never leave here until closing time. Can’t explain it, but there’s
a charm about this same old Midway that is life to me. You know my
nature, Craig, and it just chimes with such a kaleidoscopic scene as
this, color, music, and laughter--not a tear or a frown. Heigho! when
the curtain rings down and the bugle sounds 'lights out,’ I shall have
to seek consolation in making love to that black-eyed Spanish cigar
girl, or emigrate with all these Turks, Arabs, and Moors.”

CHAPTER VIII.

A BACHELOR PROTECTORATE.

Craig has himself seen enough of the daily life along the Midway to
feel some sympathy for his companion, whose doleful refrain has at
least the merit of sincerity.

The popularity of the Midway was something of a joke during the life
of the Fair, but never questioned. It is since the close of the great
Exposition that the people of this country have gradually awakened to
the fact that as a congress of nations, this Plaisance was the most
successful thing ever planned and executed.

Everyone has pleasant memories of hours spent in strolling up and
down, of queer sights witnessed, and, perhaps, singular adventures in
connection with these people from the four quarters of the earth.

In every prominent city of the land these memories have been kept alive
by a series of entertainments, representing the Midway in the height
of its glory; breezy items can be found in the papers, describing the
wonders of the world’s highway, and many snatches of glowing rhetoric
attest to the pleasure derived by the writer in the scenes on the
Plaisance. In defense of Wycherley, who haunted these scenes until he
loved them as a Parisian is devoted to his city, it may not be out of
place to reproduce one of these items which appeared recently in a
prominent Western paper:

“It was not until about July 1 that the denizens of the merry Midway
got their houses and shops in order, and settled down to business.
They easily made up for lost time, however, and during the four
bright happy months that followed, the famous street was far and away
the principal popular attraction of the Fair. Those who went to spend
the whole day at the Exposition, equipped with lunch, camp chair, and
guidebook, usually turned up in the Plaisance about every two hours.
Others who made briefer visits to the park either began or ended them
in the same attractive quarter. School teachers, who made out their
programme for the educational features in the Liberal Arts building,
generally landed in Cairo Street. Students of sculpture who went with
the best intentions of studying the marble models in the Art Palace,
ended by studying living models in the Moorish Palace. Ministers who
hoped to prepare themselves for missionary work, were easily persuaded
that they would be best equipped by looking over the Dahomeyans and
South Sea Islanders. And as to young America--well, the day for him was
not done till he had tossed off half a dozen or more bumpers of beer in
Old Vienna.

“All this is now a memory. The places that knew these merry parties
shall know them no more forever. The Samoan now sits serenely under
his island palm; the Bedouin is again astride his steed, and with
shaded eyes looks off across the desert; the Egyptian 'neath the
shadow of the mighty pyramids, recounts the marvels of his half year
in the New World; and the sad-eyed Cingalese woman tells her sisters
in 'the gorgeous East’ about the wondrous West; while the American,
whose energy and genius reared it all, now sees those sights through
a darkened glass, and faintly hears the once familiar sounds, muffled
and indistinct, as of a distant troop of boys at play. He goes plodding
on in paths of busy commerce, farther and farther along, till time and
distance intervene, and Midway sights grow dimmer still, and Midway
sounds sink to a whisper.”

These then are the feelings that cause the Thespian such sorrow. He
hates to think that before snow flies this gay scene will have vanished
as a dream, never to be seen again.

“Cheer up, my dear fellow,” says Aleck, “there will be other fairs as
great as this.”

“But never again a Midway. However, let us throw dull care to the
winds. It ill becomes us to mourn, we who are butterflies of the hour.
What would you now, my lord?”

Wycherley smiles again--the passing of his grief has been very
rapid--for his nature is buoyant.

“I have no plans. We can move around until it is time to go. I am
impressing this scene on my mind so that at any future day I may
reproduce it by simply closing my eyes. When before now, on American
soil, could you see such groups as that sauntering along?” nodding in
the direction of a squad of Algerians and Moors walking past, clad in
the turban and caftan, burnoose and colored robes of their class, with
the inevitable heavy slippers on their feet.

Close behind come a trio of Celestials chattering like parrots, while
in sight at the same time are one or more natives of India, Dahomey,
and Lapland, representing the antipodes. It is the bringing together
of people who live at the frozen north, and those from the burning
equator; the exposition of their home life, their peculiar habits,
their war customs, and marriage ceremonies, that lends such a charm
to a gathering like this. Contrast it by a visit to the Liberal Arts
building and see what civilization does for the human family, what
wonderful treasures are within the grasp of everyone who lives to-day
in an enlightened community.

Just as the squad of Moors and Algerians move past in their sauntering
way, Wycherley is heard to utter an exclamation.

“Who would have believed it?” he says.

“What now?” asks Aleck, wondering if his companion is dreaming of the
fortune he is to win or lose on the morrow.

“She is a flirt, I do believe,” continues the actor.

“Oh, it’s the dark-eyed Spanish senorita who worries the boy. Never
mind; remember there’s as good fish in the sea as ever were caught.”

“You’re a Job’s comforter, Aleck. Under the circumstances, physician,
heal thyself,” retorts the other.

“Eh? What now?”

“It chances to be the young woman in whom you have such a deep
interest.”

At this Craig becomes all attention.

“You mean Dorothy--where is she?” he demands.

“Hush! not quite so loud, my boy. Glance over yonder, she is just going
into the Japanese bazaar.”

As Craig looks he receives a shock. The brilliant lights fall upon a
face he cannot forget and which is just being covered by the light veil
attached to her hat. Dorothy it is, the millionaire’s daughter. His
interest is quickly aroused, and under the circumstances it is not at
all strange that he should desire to see who her male companion may be.

They are conversing eagerly, as though deeply interested in each other.
Another moment and the bazaar has closed upon them.

“Let us follow,” suggests Wycherley, at once.

Aleck hesitates.

“I’m not sure that it would be just the thing,” he says doubtfully, but
the other gives a scoffing laugh.

“Tell that to the marines. You want to go--you have a deep interest in
this young lady, and it is but natural you should want to see who her
companion is. Come.”

The temptation is irresistible.

“I can buy another cane, at any rate,” he mutters.

“How many have you got now?” asks Wycherley.

“Two dozen or more. It’s a fad of mine, you see.”

They enter the bazaar, which, if not a very spacious building, is at
least well-stocked, and usually crowded with sight-seers or purchasers.
Aleck endeavors to keep at a distance from the pair whose entrance has
inspired their action, at the same time he manages to direct numerous
glances at the gentleman in question.

“Well, what d’ye make of him?” asks Wycherley.

“I am favorably impressed with his looks,” is the frank response that
causes a low whistle of surprise to leave the actor’s lips.

“Well, I’ll be hanged! In confidence between us, my dear fellow, I
quite agree with you. Looks like an independent young chap. There’s
something about his style, his bronzed face and hands, the soft hat he
wears, and his general get-up, that suggests the miner to me.”

“Well, it didn’t occur to me before, but now that you mention it I can
see the same thing. What it means, I am at a loss to say.”

“See how fondly she clings to him.”

“Claude, you are cruel.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy. Follow my example. When I found my cake was
dough, I gave her up without a struggle. That’s diplomacy in love
matters. I learned it long ago, on the stage. Go thou and do likewise.
Seriously, I reckon you haven’t the ghost of a show there, so be
philosophical, my merry bachelor, and take things as they come. As for
myself, I’m trying to place this gentleman; something about his face
seems familiar. It may be I’ve noticed him on the Midway at some time.”

Aleck buys his cane, and continues to keep a good distance between the
couple and himself. They are simply looking at the curios displayed by
the cunning Japs, and appear to be more engrossed with each other than
the objects around. All of which causes our bachelor the most peculiar
sensations of his life.

At one moment he has firmly resolved that he will not seek the presence
of this fair one on the succeeding night, and immediately he has
bitter reflections, of which he is ashamed later on, reflections that
bear upon Dorothy in the sense of her mother being brought up in the
peculiar tenets of Oriental life, which in a measure may have descended
to the daughter.

Again his mind undergoes a change, and he scores himself for such a
thought. He remembers the face first seen under the wintry sky of
Canada, and again on the Ferris wheel of the Midway; remembers that she
claimed her mission to be a sacred one, and until further proof to the
contrary is brought he must believe in her innocence.

What if this is some lover who has incurred the parental anger, and
whom she dares not receive at home--he has the face and bearing of a
true man.

“Don’t imagine you have a mortgage on her affection, Aleck Craig,” he
mutters sneeringly, as if to mock the strange feeling of pain that
assails his heart; “and it's none of your business if by chance she
has met her fate before discovering that a bachelor of your size was
haunting the Fair looking for her. Well, perhaps I may strike up an
acquaintance with this young fellow, and, confound it--be a brother to
her yet.”

“I thought it would happen. I looked for just that same thing to
occur,” breaks in Wycherley, in a thrilling stage whisper.

“What now?” asks Craig guiltily, fearing he has again been talking
indiscreetly above his breath.

“Wait a minute! Examine these elegant tablecloths worked with silk;
aint they beauties? Now, the coast of Bohemia is clear.”

Aleck of course turns his head quickly to see who has caused such
commotion in the mind of his companion, and Wycherley watches the face
of the Canadian, well knowing it will be an index to his feelings. A
figure is moving down the aisle--a woman dressed attractively, but
heavily veiled. As soon as Aleck’s eyes fell upon her graceful form, he
is struck with the peculiar charm of her person, and the actor seeing
this bends over to say:

“I see, you, too, have guessed her identity. It is the Veiled Fortune
Teller of Cairo Street--and yonder is Dorothy. Perhaps the strange
events of this remarkable night are not yet concluded, my dear boy.”

_BOOK TWO._

THE MAN FROM DENVER.

CHAPTER IX.

NEWS FROM COLORADO.

Wycherley is right; Aleck has recognized the cloaked figure. There is
some undefinable quality about her carriage that betrays her--a gliding
movement, so totally unlike the action of an American. What adds power
to the suspicion is the fact that she seems to follow the couple whose
movements Aleck and his companion have been watching.

“I feel as though some sort of crisis were approaching, Claude. Now do
you suppose she suspects what manner of face that veil hides?” he asks
his friend.

“Oh, as to that, Dorothy has thrown back the veil impatiently a dozen
times in order to look at some curio, but, being bothered with the
bold glances her beauty draws from some of the visitors here, lets it
drop again. If this be Marda, as you seem to imagine, depend on it, she
has seen the girl’s face.”

“What will she do?”

“Ah! there I must confess my weakness. We might consult the black
Nubian who holds forth in that sacred chamber of the mosque.”

“To the deuce with him and his folly. I imagine we can get a better
answer by watching these people, though, in one way, it goes against my
grain to play the detective.”

“Bah! you’re too conscientious. Remember, we are not mere curiosity
mongers, nor reporters seeking a sensation, but sworn protectors to
this lovely Hebe, who lacks a brother’s care. Under such circumstances,
Aleck, anything is fair in love or war.”

“Be it so. I must accept your version, and stifle my dislike to the
task by remembering the demands of duty.”

“Bravo! you’ll get there yet. They are quitting the bazaar, and she is
close behind. Now watch me play a little side game.”

In an instant Wycherley has managed to pass around a table and meet
the cloaked and veiled figure at the doorway. The execution of the
maneuver is first-class. A bent pin or some such object in the lapel of
his coat catches the floating veil, and for the second time inside an
hour the Cairo Street fortune teller finds herself shorn of the gauzy
covering that has been used to screen her features.

“I really beg pardon! too awkward of me, to be sure. You--why,
can it be Miss Dorothy Cereal?” says the vagabond, with a look of
well-simulated surprise.

The other hastily replaces the veil, but not before he notices the
alarm and perturbation his pretended recognition has caused.

“No, no,” she mutters wildly; “it is one mistake, sir. I assure you.”

Then she darts out of the bazaar door like a frightened deer. Wycherley
laughs softly to himself at his success.

“What do you think, now?” he asks of Aleck, who joins him outside.

“There can be no mistake about her identity. We have yet to learn
whether this can be the Marda of the past, the mother whom Dorothy has
been taught to believe dead.”

“I believe I have settled even that,” declares the actor. “Come, let us
continue to keep them in sight while we talk.”

“You said something to her as you bowed with the grace of a
Chesterfield. I was not near enough to hear what it was.”

“But you noticed her confusion?”

“It was very apparent.”

“I pretended to believe it was Miss Cereal, and addressed her by that
name.”

“Jove! and she----”

“Denied it with a trembling voice and great earnestness. I have known
all along she was a foreigner from the quaint way she had of expressing
herself in English. Upon my word I am more and more inclined to believe
your remarkable theory to be true.”

So they saunter along, keeping a safe distance behind, yet close enough
to see all that occurs. The two in front talk together in low tones
such as would befit lovers. More than once Aleck finds a bitter feeling
taking root in his heart, and it is only through severe measures that
he is able to crush it. A new experience is being forced upon him, and
when he realizes how his work of the early night must go for naught if
there is another Richmond in the field, he smiles in the grim way some
men have when inflicting torture upon themselves. He could not look
more rigid and contemptuous were he holding a red-hot iron to his flesh
and searing the fang-marks left by a mad dog.

As for Wycherley, that merry rascal appreciates the situation--and
though incapable of experiencing the same sensations that creep over
Aleck, he knows what it means. In his accustomed way he jokes about it.

“Feel like you’re marching to your own funeral, eh, Craig? Never mind,
you can still be a brother to her. Great institution that. To my
personal knowledge I occupy that delightful place of uncertainty to
a dozen dainty despots here and abroad. I am connected, as it were,
by ties of consanguinity to nearly every city of first importance in
the world. Oh, take a veteran’s advice, my dear boy, and let no such
little trouble disconcert you. A merry life--to enjoy pleasure as she
flies--that’s my motto, and sad will be the day when I part from it.”

There are grains of sound philosophy in much that this strange genius
says, if one can only separate the wheat from the chaff. Craig hears as
in a dream, for his mind is upon those ahead. Shall he continue this
espionage? Is it right? Where is the middle-aged duenna who was with
Dorothy earlier in the evening? He knows she is secretly in the pay of
the plotting pasha, but the young girl must as yet be ignorant of this
fact. Perhaps she has left the other at a certain place, where she may
be found later.

It is growing late.

By degrees even the Midway is thinning out, for people know the horrors
awaiting them in the grand crush for accommodations on the street cars,
and are urged to hurry on this account, though none of them ever escape
the jam.

While passing the large building where the Tyrolese warblers invite
the passers-by to gaze upon the cyclorama of the Alps, some impulse
causes the couple ahead to enter, and the veiled woman, as if led by an
attraction she cannot resist, follows.

“Let us wait here. They must come out by this door,” says Craig, glad
of a chance to consider the matter in its several bearings.

Presently he becomes aware of the fact that Wycherley is shaking hands
with a gentleman and indulging in a chat. Their voices are deadened by
the many sounds of the Midway, which never quiets down until midnight,
but when he glances toward them a few minutes later, Aleck can see
from the dramatic gestures of his friend that the vagabond Thespian
has received information on some score that excites him, but the rapid
thoughts crowding upon his brain prohibit his taking any interest in
what they may be gossiping over. He takes a second look at the man,
however, and upon seeing his style, somehow inclines toward the belief
that whoever he may be he comes out of the rowdy West. His laugh is
like the roar of a bull, and his voice reminds one of a storm muttering
in the Rockies, it is so deep and bass.

Craig begins to gather the several threads of his opinions together,
just as the driver of a four-in-hand might secure the various reins,
in order to make a clean run. He is making fair headway when an
interruption occurs, and frowning, Aleck looks up to see the jocund
actor at his side, having the unknown in tow.

“My friend, Bob Rocket--Aleck Craig. Two good fellows who should know
each other,” says Wycherley, and the Canadian feeling his hand caught
as in a vise, realizes that his comrade has betrayed him, and is in
duty bound to return the grip.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Craig. Had a chum by your name once, poor
fellow.”

“Ah! something happened to him, then?” Aleck is interested enough to
remark.

“Hoss thieves--Mexicans--shot the poor boy. I made ’em sweat, you
understand. There was no rest for me till that score was wiped out,”
returns the ruddy faced man, gritting his strong teeth, and with a
strange light flashing in his eyes.

“I judge you are from the West, Mr. Rocket.”

“Yes. Colorado is my roost at present. I was born on the border and
brought up among the wildest scenes a man ever looked on. In Mexico
I’ve been with the revolutionists. I’ve mined in Idaho and Montana, and
been peace officer in a dozen Territories and States. At present I’m a
sheriff in Colorado.”

“Indeed! You know my friend here. Where did you ever run across this
rolling stone?”

The sheriff’s face suddenly grows soft, as he turns his head upon
Wycherley, and there is unassumed tenderness in his voice as he says:

“I’ll tell you, sir. It was several years back, that terrible winter we
had in Colorado. I had hard luck and came near passing in my checks on
account of a gunshot wound received while arresting a desperado--but I
got him, and he stretched hemp, I’m telling you.

“Things went wrong at home, and my mother and little sister were nigh
starved. As soon as I could travel I went to Denver and found that only
for the kindness of a man who had a room in the same tenement, and who
was constitutionally dead broke, they would have given up the ghost. He
had spent every cent he could lay hold of on them, strangers as they
were. That man was Claude Wycherley, the actor. Do you wonder I love
him like a brother?”

“Come, come, you make me blush. What I did pleased me. God knows I
couldn’t have followed any other course. Say no more about it,” cries
the vagabond.

“You are doing the Fair, I presume?” remarks Craig, glad to hear such a
good report of one who hides his light under a bushel.

The sheriff and Claude exchange glances.

“Yes; I may say I have taken it in, but only as a secondary
consideration.”

“Come, I like that. Better not let a Chicagoan hear such a remark. They
are very sensitive. I have no doubt Colorado could have done better,
but----”

“Oh, you mistake me, Mr. Craig. I meant that as I was here to look for
a man, I had to give much of my time to the search, and, therefore,
what I have seen of the Fair has been, as you might say, on the
sly,” returns the sheriff, whose manner lacks the ease of a polished
gentleman.

“And have you met with any success?”

“I have located him at last. He is in yonder building. A clever and a
daring fellow. He made way with fifty thousand dollars belonging to the
Hecla Mining Company, of which this same John Phœnix was treasurer.
The president and manager of the company, probably as wealthy a man as
Colorado boasts, though a stranger to me, was away, but in his absence
the directors wired me to start after Phœnix, and said a photograph
of him would be sent to me in Chicago. When it arrived I set to work,
and gradually ran the fellow down. Would you believe me, he actually
had the brass to take the president’s name. Yes, at a small hotel I
found him registered as John Atherton, and putting on all the airs of
a substantial mine king. I didn’t take him in at once--some little
legal affair to comply with, you understand. Besides, I wanted to learn
something about him, so I wired my employers and ever since I’ve just
kept an eye on Phœnix while waiting for an answer.”

Craig is interested in the narrative, because, being a man who has seen
something of life, he appreciates such a dramatic situation.

“You are fortunate then, Mr. Rocket,” he says.

“I mention these facts to you because you see, Claude, here, says
you’re interested in the young fellow,” continues the Colorado sheriff.

“I? Impossible!” exclaims Aleck, glancing from his friend to the man
from the West.

“Oh, yes you are! Show him the photo, Bob.”

Whereupon the sheriff takes out a cardboard and hands it over to the
Canadian. It is somewhat battered from lying in the pocket of the
officer, but the picture is plainly seen, and Craig holds his breath
with sudden awe as the electric lights fall upon the features of the
young miner whom he saw in the company of Dorothy.

CHAPTER X.

THE VENGEANCE THAT SLUMBERED TWENTY YEARS.

Craig makes no remark, but hands the picture back. Somehow, instead
of feeling exultant over the fall of a possible rival, his thoughts
are wholly of Dorothy. It looks as if she must soon receive a terrible
blow, and he feels sad.

“Sorry if he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Craig, but business is business.”

“Never saw the young man before half an hour ago. I only take an
interest in him because he is with Samson Cereal’s daughter.”

“Ah! that charming young woman is a child of the shrewd old speculator,
eh?”

“I trust you may not feel it your duty to arrest him while in her
company. It would be a terrible shock,” continued Aleck.

The sheriff manages to exchange a sly wink with Wycherley, as if to
declare that he can see through a mill stone with a hole in it.

“Probably not, Mr. Craig. At least, I hope such will not be the
case. When my telegram arrives, I am bound to let as little time as
possible slip through my hands before making sure of my man. In all
my experience--and it’s been considerable, let me tell you, young
fellow--I’ve found that these quiet chaps are the most to be feared,
the most tricky.”

“I don’t question it,” remarks Aleck, who seems disinclined to further
conversation, and leaves the others to chat upon various topics, while
he wrestles with the momentous question that has such a bearing on his
life.

Thus time passes.

Those in the cyclorama building begin to pour forth, having feasted
their eyes upon the glories of the Alps. Among them comes the couple
whose actions have interested our friends.

Sauntering behind they are not noticed in the throng heading for the
exit.

“Look,” says Wycherley, “they are three; it is the middle-aged duenna
again. She sold herself to the pasha. Dorothy leans on a broken rod
when she puts any faith in her.”

That is one of the problems Craig is trying to solve. He feels that
Dorothy should know the truth, and yet hardly cares to be the one to
tell her. If he lets it go until the succeeding night that may be too
late. What would he not give for a favorable opportunity.

“They separate; he has business back in the Fair grounds. Stand here
and watch,” says the Colorado officer, suddenly turning them into a
place of shadow, which he is easily able to do, as he walks between
Craig and the actor with arms locked.

It is as he says. John Phœnix is bidding the young girl good-night.
Aleck gnaws his mustache a little nervously as he watches them, just
as though a sudden fear has burst into his bachelor heart lest the
good-looking scamp may take Dorothy in his arms with a bold lover’s
right.

Nothing of the sort occurs, however. He takes her hand and says
something that causes Dorothy to hang her head, but as to the nature
of her emotion the Canadian is utterly in the dark. While he is musing
Phœnix is gone.

Upon turning his head Aleck discovers that Bob Rocket has also
disappeared. The man from Colorado does not mean to allow any chance to
slip through his fingers. All he awaits is the receipt of a telegram.

The two women have not yet gone on, but stand where Phœnix has left
them. Can it be possible they wait for his return? Craig chances to
look beyond and catches a glimpse of a figure there, a figure he
knows. It is the fortune teller of Cairo Street, who hovers near by,
as though eager to approach Dorothy, yet restrained by a fear lest the
girl should repulse her. Thus, in the agony of doubt she reaps the sad
harvest of the past.

It is an open question whether the women have seen or paid the least
attention to this figure in black that hovers near by, just as a poor
moth flutters around a candle that will singe its bright wings.

They talk together and as Aleck observes closer, he becomes assured
that something else claims their attention, something that lies between
them and the exit.

Before he can discover what this can be, his companion says in a
surprised tone:

“Why, there’s the Turk--the pasha.”

“That explains it. She has discovered him in her way, too late to call
Phœnix back, and is now trying to convince her companion that they had
better seek another exit,” Aleck says hastily.

“And as the woman is in the employ of the Turk, as this very affair
has all been arranged while the others were in the Japanese bazaar,
or viewing the scenery of the Alps, her words fall upon deaf ears,”
continues Wycherley.

“But Scutari dare not attempt violence.”

“You forget he is a Turk, and naturally brings some of his Bosphorus
habits here with him. Samson Cereal ran away with his bride in a manner
just as bold. More than one person has come to the World’s Fair and
never been heard of again. It’s a great maelstrom of humanity, and a
single person could be sucked out of sight without being noticed.”

Craig is fully aroused.

It comes to him with full force that Heaven has again been kind. Should
Dorothy need help, to what better use can his muscular ability be put
than in defending her against this relentless enemy, this Oriental
whose one mission in life, after this lapse of years, seems to be
revenge upon the daring speculator who robbed him of the bride his gold
had bought on Georgian soil?

He, too, has, by this time, discovered the pasha, who does not appear
to be alone, since several men hover around him, men wearing the fez,
but whether Turks or not remains to be seen.

It is as though one were suddenly transported to a street in Stamboul.
In imagination the sounds incident to that queer city on the Golden
Horn assail the ear: the tinkling of silvery bells, the strident voice
of the muezzin on the minaret calling to prayer, the dismal chant of
dervishes, the howling of mongrel curs that after nightfall roam the
streets. Wycherley, who has been there, rubs his eyes to make sure he
is not dreaming. In the quaint Midway, surrounded with its remarkable
features, jostling elbows with the odd people of the other hemisphere,
it must always be hard to realize one is within the city limits of
bustling Chicago, empress of the West.

The discussion between Dorothy and her faithless duenna lasts but a
couple of minutes, but this is time enough for Aleck to notice many
things.

It seems almost incredible that Aroun Scutari should dare attempt
such a bold game; but who can fathom the depths of daring to which an
unscrupulous man will descend when he desires to see his enemy and go
one better! The clever _coup d’état_ executed by Samson years ago has
remained a thorn in the pasha’s flesh. Time has served to make the
wound more irritable, and this Mohammedan comes to the great Fair with
but one idea uppermost in his mind--to find the man who defied him on
Turkish soil, to turn the tables by stealing his child from under his
roof.

Craig grinds his teeth at the bare thought, it is so repugnant to him.
Then he realizes what strange surroundings fate has placed him amongst.
Surely such opportunities for serving Dorothy can have but one natural
outcome--he may win her, despite the young miner. The remembrance of
this worthy causes Aleck a qualm, but he banishes the sensation.

Now the two cloaked figures move again. Dorothy has yielded to her
companion’s guidance, and they are advancing. The Canadian cannot but
admire the proud pose of the young girl. He remembers that she faced
danger once before in the car of the Ferris wheel when the crazy
professor was raging about like an escaped mad-house patient.

Fear is not an element in her heart, and yet some hidden faculty
whispers of danger. She has never forgotten the awful look of hatred
which this Turk shot into the face of her father when by chance they
met on the Plaisance, and it has ere now been patent to her mind that
some link in the far away past connects their destinies.

Seeing the pasha hovering there, Dorothy has conceived the idea that
he means harm to her, and while the seductive voice of her companion
assuages her alarm, it is with something of the feeling with which a
soldier marches up to the muzzle of a cannon that Dorothy advances in
the direction of the Turk.

Then comes the devilish deceit of the woman who has sold herself for
gold. She knows the time is at hand for delivering the goods. No doubt
the stake is a rich one, since by this stroke she must sever all
connection with her patroness, upon whose bounty she has long lived.

This bundle of deceit now turns upon her unsuspicious companion. The
plot has been carefully arranged, and art is called upon to render
assistance.

Craig and his companion see the woman lay a hand upon the shoulder of
Dorothy; the latter appears to shake her head negatively. Then the
other draws closer. Why should she embrace the girl thus? Aleck stares
in wonder, his whole frame thrilled with the strange character of the
scene. As yet he has not grasped its full meaning.

“Good Heaven! I believe she is fainting!” he says, with evident
excitement.

“It’s worse than that, my dear boy,” comes in the voice of his
companion, but it sounds afar off.

“How worse? Good God, man, you don’t mean that bright, angelic creature
has been stricken with death?” for Dorothy’s struggles appear to grow
weaker, until she lies almost motionless in the arms of her faithless
companion, a dead weight.

“No, no. What I mean is that she has succumbed to chloroform, or some
devilish Turkish drug of a similar character, administered upon the
white kerchief that woman fiend holds over her face--that limbs and
mind are paralyzed, that she may fall into the spider’s web. Here, look
at the monster advancing; note his grim smile, his hands outstretched
to take his prey, his---- Jove! Craig, old boy, you’re gone, are you?
Well, here’s after you.”

CHAPTER XI.

YOUNG CANADA ON DECK.

When the full meaning of what has happened flashes into Craig’s
mind--when he sees Aroun Scutari, lord of the harem and pasha in the
Sultan’s service, about to take Dorothy Cereal in his arms, it seems as
though an electric battery must have suddenly become attached to the
Canadian, so abrupt are his movements.

Leaving the side of the actor, while the other is speaking, he rushes
straight for the scene of the kidnaping. Perhaps love urges his steps.
At least the indignation of an honorable man sends him forward.

There is no palliation, no excuse for such an outrage, and hence the
feeling he entertains for Scutari is that of righteous anger. Such a
scene as this, of course, creates excitement. People gather quickly,
no matter if it be a dog fight on the streets of Constantinople, an
encounter between dragoman and donkey boy at Cairo on the Nile, an
attempted assassination of a Czar at St. Petersburg, or a duel between
two bootblacks in front of the City Hall in New York.

Already a score of people surround the two women. Questions fly back
and forth. The authoritative manner in which Scutari assumes charge
convinces those present that the lady who has fainted belongs to him.
The veil hides her face, and while curious glances are cast in that
quarter, none are so lucky as to see what lies under its screen.

Near by is the exit. Beyond, no doubt, the Turk has a carriage ready.
His years of waiting seem about to be crowned with triumph--though he
lost the mother he wins the daughter. Kismet: it is fate.

Unexpected obstacles arise in his path--obstacles which in his native
land he could brush aside, or at least subdue with the sword, but which
are of a more serious nature under the civilizing influence of the
Stars and Stripes.

First of all, as the man from Stamboul is about to take Dorothy in his
arms, he is surprised to find someone tugging at his sleeve, someone
who seems bent upon distracting his attention, and who will not cease
even when he gives a bearlike shrug.

When he hears a woman’s voice pouring upon his devoted head all the
miserable names known in the Turkish language, the pasha, struck by
a sudden recollection, thinks it worth while to turn his attention
thither.

Of course it is the fortune teller; she realizes the peril of her
child. Since the day when Samson Cereal stole her away, she has learned
to look at the old-time habits of the Turks with aversion, and the
mother love in her heart, which nothing on earth can destroy, urges her
to save Dorothy.

As well might she appeal to a Nero. This dark-skinned man comes from
a country where women are bought and sold. As he sees who thus annoys
him, he frowns like a Tartar, and bellows out a string of oaths strange
to the gathering crowd.

There are those who hear, those who know his voice but to obey. Two
men seize upon the fortune teller of Cairo Street, and despite her
struggles bear her away.

“She is crazy,” is the only reply they make to the questions showered
upon them, as they half drag the woman further into the Plaisance.

Again the triumphant pasha bends forward to relieve the woman of her
lovely burden, but, shades of Mohammed! what is this that now descends
upon him with the fury of a young hurricane? What but the Canadian
protectorate, bent upon stepping between Turkey and the daughter of
Chicago!

One fling Craig gives the stout pasha, only a single flip of his
well-trained arms, and the Oriental goes spinning around like a
teetotum or a whirling dervish, bringing up in the arms of a gay young
fellow who has just come from the beer tables of Old Vienna and is
consequently in a hilarious condition.

“Set ’em up in t’other alley,” he shouts; “don’t send ’em in so hard.
Whoop! now you’re in the game, old man; back you go,” with which the
breezy reveler gives Aroun Scutari another whirl, which sends him
halfway back again, a collision with an elderly woman bringing his mad
dance to a sudden stop, as both of them fall over, and her startled
screams add to the clamor.

No sooner has Aleck entered the affair than he has his hands full.

His action in seizing upon the sacred person of the Turk was
equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet, and the Canadian is
immediately set upon by a number of worthies whose itching palms have
been crossed with the gold that makes them slaves to Scutari.

He is in his element, this man of Montreal: not that such a brawl is to
his liking, but the object for which he strives is a sacred one to a
gentleman--the defense of innocence.

They are four to one, and ugly customers at that. Aleck is no Admirable
Crichton, and if left to himself, no matter how gallant his attack, he
must presently go down before the numbers opposed to him.

The crowd seems paralyzed; in an affair of this kind, men usually
believe it none of their business, but stand by and let those
interested fight it out.

Through the fringe of spectators, however, someone pushes a way. It
is Wycherley in search of his friend, and upon seeing Aleck so beset
he throws himself into the breach, which evens up the game a little.
More help comes from an unexpected quarter. The half-intoxicated young
fellow, whose muscular ability sent Scutari flying on the back trip,
has evidently been spoiling for a fight. He picks out his man and
faces him with the air of a scientific boxer, dazzles the eyes of the
Oriental by the rapid use of his hands, and rains such a shower of
blows upon him that the fellow, believing him a wizard with the six
arms of a Chinese god, bellows for mercy.

The action has been swift, and the field won. Aroun Scutari reads his
defeat in the signs so apparent, and wisely steals away. His minions
sneak after him. Aleck turns to the woman who still holds the limp
figure of Dorothy. It galls him to see one arm thrown about the neck of
the treacherous woman, and Dorothy’s head resting on her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say to you, madam. Your duplicity, your
double-dealing, is known to me. I shall take the first opportunity to
disclose it to your victim. Meantime you must assist me in getting her
home--do you hear?”

She bows her head. This double break in her plans has taken all the
confidence out of the woman who could plot against her best friend. She
now fears the result--for if Samson Cereal is once aroused against her
she may well tremble for her fate.

“Claude, see that she comes; we will find a carriage outside, perhaps.”

“Oh, I’ll get one for you, boys,” cheerfully declares the young
roysterer, as he endeavors to walk a straight line to the exit.

With a strange feeling thrilling him through and through Aleck bends
down and takes the young girl in his arms. She is not entirely
senseless, for though her head droops upon his shoulder, he hears a
fluttering breath and the words:

“Oh, my father!”

Reverently he raises his burden.

“Make way, friends,” he says to those in front, and the crowd parts
before him. They have by this time managed to get an inkling of the
truth through their heads, and between the dark-skinned Turk and the
frank-faced Canadian their sympathies are wholly with the latter.

Strange to say, no Columbian guard has put in an appearance during the
extraordinary fracas. They were everywhere when not wanted.

The exit is close at hand, and as they pass through Aleck sees a figure
with waving arms, a figure he has no trouble in recognizing as their
quondam partner in the late deal.

“This way! here’s your coach; step up lively now, gentlemen. We’re off
over the divide.”

His incoherent jumble is enough to attract Aleck’s attention to the
carriage, and he carefully deposits his burden inside.

“Enter,” he says to the woman beside Wycherley. She would refuse, but
his voice terrifies her, and she obeys.

“Claude, tell the driver where to go. Then get in with me,” he adds
calmly, and it is evident that even more than the strange events of
this night of nights is needed to rattle Aleck Craig.

A moment later Wycherley gets in.

“Jove! that chap insists on sitting beside the driver, and rather than
have a row I let him.”

“Who the deuce is he?”

“Give it up! Muttered something about Happy Jack, and as he’s always
singing snatches of songs or laughing. I reckon he means the name for
himself. Happy Jack--well, he’s to be envied such a disposition in this
vale of tears.”

“Hello! what’s wrong now? I thought you were about as free from care as
the next one?”

“In times gone by. As luck would have it I just saw the adorable Inez.”

“Oh! the pretty Spanish cigar girl.”

“It is too true--perfidious Inez.”

“Come, come, remember your philosophy.”

“But she was with another--a dashing young chap with the strut of a
huzzar. I shall have to reduce him to the humble gait of a cork leg.
Her glance was freezing. I am still like a cake of ice.”

“Perhaps she saw you had company--that it was jealousy influenced her.”

“Aleck, bless you, my dear boy. I take heart, I breathe again.”

Craig turns his attention to the woman who sits opposite, next the
actor. The vehicle is making good progress, but it will be a wearisome
journey to the North side.

“Before we reach this young lady’s home, madam, it is but fair that you
and I should have some sort of explanation. You were supposed to be her
protector; you betrayed your trust. I know all: your alliance with
Aroun Scutari, and everything that followed. You must quit her service
to-morrow, for I mean to expose you.”

“I shall do as you say, sir. There is no need of explanations on my
part. You would denounce my story as a fabrication; but I had cause, I
had cause. What do you wish me to do to-night?”

“Assist in getting the young lady under her father’s roof, from which
she should never have ventured on any such Quixotic errand.”

“You blame me for it, I know; but it was her own idea--she planned it
all, and what followed the pasha took advantage of,” she insists.

It is on the tip of his tongue to ask about the young miner, but he
suddenly shuts his teeth together and changes his mind. Aleck Craig has
a fine sense of honor.

“You have placed yourself in a position where you are liable to
criminal prosecution,” he says sternly.

The woman laughs scornfully.

“You would not dare proceed against me,” she says.

“And why?”

“Because my sweet mistress would have to testify in court, and expose
her own actions. I know them to be entirely innocent--that her motives
were actuated by the holiest feelings of the heart, but the public
would choose to believe otherwise. And to defend myself I would have to
unearth family secrets that would make the name of Samson Cereal the
talk of the town. Now, will you prosecute, sir?”

“We shall be content if you leave your place in the morning,” replies
Aleck discreetly.

CHAPTER XII.

THE PROTECTORATE ABANDONED.

Dorothy is recovering; already she has moved, and it is evident that
the influence of the drug, whatever it may have been, is wearing away.
The jolting of the carriage may have something to do with her coming
back to her senses, for they have not yet struck the boulevard pavement
of Michigan Avenue, and the street is in bad order.

“Oh, where am I?” she suddenly cries out.

“With friends, I trust, Miss Dorothy,” says Craig.

They pass an electric arc--she bends her eyes upon his face, and an
exclamation announces that she has recognized him.

“You? I thought it was that terrible Turk. What have you done this for,
Mr. Craig?” and he is delighted to discover a tremulous undertone to
her voice--it tells of anxiety.

“I see you fail to understand the situation, Miss Dorothy. Compose
yourself. You are now on the way home. My friend and I chanced along
just in time to put the Turk and his followers to flight, to the
amusement of the crowd. We knew no other course to pursue than to
engage a carriage and take you both home.”

“And Mrs. Merrick--was she injured?” eagerly.

“I am here, my dear, and unhurt,” purrs the companion, her manner
reminding Craig of the house cat that has sheathed her claws.

“Oh, it has been indeed fortunate! Then again we owe you a debt of
gratitude, Mr. Craig. How strange!”

“How delightful!” he echoes cheerily, desiring to arouse her to
something like her old self.

“You are very kind. What could it all mean? I am so puzzled. That
odious Turk with the eyes that make me think of a rattlesnake--what did
he mean to do with me?”

“I can only hazard a guess, Miss Dorothy. In his country they have
strange customs, you know. Wives are bought, not wooed. Sometimes
they are stolen and the settlement made later on. Perhaps this pasha
has imagined he can bring his heathen habits over to America. He has
evidently fallen in love with you, and desires you for his wife.”

“The wretch! Why, they have a dozen or two. I have seen the inside of a
harem at Algiers,” she says indignantly.

“That is very true; but, looking at things from his standpoint, he was
probably offering you the highest compliment he understood.”

By degrees he manages to interest her in other subjects. She does not
seem to suspect that it was Mrs. Merrick who held the handkerchief over
her face, and robbed her of her senses, but believes the Turk himself
did this.

It is a strange ride. Wycherley has been introduced, and manages to put
in a word now and then, though unusually quiet for him. Perhaps he is