The spider's web
Date: 2024-01-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American fiction -- 19th century; Dime novels; Popular literature

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Title: The spider's web

Author: St. George Rathborne

Release date: January 14, 2024 [eBook #72718]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPIDER'S WEB ***

No. 71 | | 10 Cents

The Spider’s Web

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.

(COPYRIGHTED)

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 fell 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 fall 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 thinking of how near he came to occupying the position the Canadian has taken—or it may be he speculates on the possibilities of his great deal for the morrow.

At length they cross the State Street bridge and reach the North Side of Chicago, but quite a stretch still intervenes, for the old speculator has his mansion out near Lincoln Park, being one of the favored few whom fortune allows to gaze upon the magnificent lake from his library windows.

Dorothy has become reserved. She realizes that this gentleman, who has several times been of such assistance to her, must look upon her escapade of the night with curiosity at least. True, she is not responsible for what occurred on the Ferris wheel, or near the exit of the Midway; but somehow her participation in such scenes reflects upon the wisdom of a young lady attending the Fair at night with only a companion of her own sex.

Her lips are sealed with reference to a certain subject, and she evidently does not suspect that Craig has seen her in company with the young miner.

On his part Craig feels a genuine regret to remember what the Colorado sheriff told him in connection with John Phœnix, whose downfall is bound to suddenly occur. Perhaps, when he comes to know her better, he may be able to learn what peculiar bond there is between these two—who can tell the vagaries that flit through the mind of a bachelor in love. If this young fellow has won her regard, and his true character comes out with his arrest for embezzlement, perhaps—well, hearts have before now been caught in the rebound.

At length he forces himself to speak again upon the subject of her return. Perhaps she might not like to drive up to her father’s house?

She laughs for the first time since entering the carriage, and it pleases Craig to hear her.

“If you knew me better, Mr. Craig, you would never suspect me of being afraid in anything that concerns the dear old governor. He idolizes me. If I say I’m going to Japan to-morrow he would never throw an obstacle in my way. Though a bear to others, he’s the dearest and best man in the world to me. That is why I have dared to undertake this task—through love for him.”

He wonders what task, but is not rude enough to ask. They roll between elegant mansions on Dearborn Avenue, and will soon be at their destination.

“Then you will alight in front of your door?”

“If you please, sir.”

No more is said, each being busy with thoughts that come unbidden into the mind. The driver has been coached and knows where to turn. At length the carriage stops. Dorothy looks out.

“It is home,” she says quietly.

Immediately the gentlemen are out to assist the ladies. One glance Craig gives at the huge pile of masonry and he has impressed the location of the princely mansion on his mind. It rather staggers him to think of this young girl, the sole heiress to great wealth, having passed through such singular adventures on this night. Craig is a Canadian, and, in a measure, accustomed to English ways. He wonders what his people would think of such an escapade, and smiles at the recollection of his austere aunt, so proud of her blue blood and of an unblemished name. It is the destiny of Canadians to draw nearer the American, while separating from the English, and the younger generation feel this more and more in the drift of commerce.

So Aleck, while brought up with a keen perception of the proprieties, can even pardon such a breach of the same under certain circumstances. Somehow he lays much stress on the personal declaration that her motives are governed by sacred purposes. Not that he can understand it—he does not attempt to do so—but there is a charm in Dorothy’s presence that makes him believe whatever she may say.

’Twas ever thus. A man in love is fain to pin his faith on the goodness of the ethereal being who has charmed him. All others may be false, deceptive, and born flirts, but this one bright, particular star is an exception. That is the subtle glamour love dusts in the eyes of his votaries. Whom the little god would secure in his net, he first makes blind.

“I cannot thank you for your kindness, Mr. Craig. Perhaps by to-morrow night I shall be in a better condition to talk upon this subject. I feel that an explanation is due you,” she says, giving him her hand.

“I don’t know about that, Miss Cereal,” he says.

“But you will come?” she adds eagerly.

He tries to keep his feelings in subjection by remembering the strange companion with whom Dorothy sauntered about the Midway, and who certainly took upon himself all the airs of a lover. Only in this way can he subdue the sudden spasm of exaltation that sends the hot blood leaping through his veins at the solicitude of her voice.

“I promised, and unless something prevents me I shall be there, glad of the opportunity to meet your father.”

Then she says good night, and runs up the steps. A light burns in the hall. Mrs. Merrick lingers a minute to say a few words.

“I will keep my promise, depend upon it, young sir. Some time you may know my story, and perhaps you will believe I have not been wholly actuated by a love of money.”

Then she follows her young mistress up the steps. A servant has just opened the heavy door, and Aleck can see the handsome hall.

The young reveler on the seat beside the driver has reached the pavement.

“Beg pardon, gents, but is there room inside for a chap of my size? Devilish hard seat up there, you know. Here, driver, 's your pay,” handing him a bill with the air only a royal prince or a roysterer half seas over can assume.

Under these circumstances what can Aleck do—objections to the stranger paying would be useless, and possibly stir up his fighting blood, for men in his condition are exceedingly touchy. He feels an interest in the fellow, since he came to their relief in time of need, so they all enter the vehicle, giving the name of the hotel at which they stop. It chances that Aleck names the Sherman House, and the stranger bursts out with:

“My hotel—singular coincidence—something of a pleasure. Glad to know you, sir. Wake me up when we arrive, kindly. Good. Find shares sixteen above par—Hecla two hundred and three. Oceans of money—no cares—a jolly life—see you later perhaps——”

And he sleeps the fitful slumber that follows over-indulgence in drink. Aleck manages to settle him in a corner, and seats himself beside the actor, who has been regarding the scene with something like amusement.

“Pretty far gone, aint he?” remarks Wycherley.

“Disgusting. What a shame; looks like a bright young fellow, too.”

“Well-loaded with long green,” asserts the actor.

“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand.”

“I mean smartly heeled.”

“I’m still in the dark.”

Wycherley laughs.

“I forgot you were from over the border and not up to our professional terms. What I would imply is that he is a man of means, of money.”

“How do you know?”

“He took the bill from a great roll. The driver’s eyes stuck out of his head at the sight.”

“It’s a shame, then, that he puts himself in a condition to be robbed. Judging from his talk I should say he was from the West.”

“Singular we should run across so many persons from that quarter. And this isn’t Colorado day, either. There’s the sheriff, then Phœnix, who is wanted out in Denver, and finally this young chap.”

“Phœnix! yes, I know him,” utters the man in the corner, as if the name has caught his ear, deaf to all other sounds.

“Talk lower, Claude. Where do you put up?”

“Oh, I have a room,” carelessly.

“Won’t you stay over with me at the Sherman to-night?”

“Couldn’t think of it, my dear boy. Very fussy about my quarters; cranky bachelor, you know. Have to be just so.”

“Oh, I see! and a room in a hotel is a cheerless waste in comparison. I can see the cozy chair, the papers and magazines at hand, pipes on the tables, in fact, a comfortable den.”

“That’s it; you just describe the very thing, Aleck. Nothing like home comforts. Only apt to unfit us for the rough experiences of life; that’s the only fault I’ve got to find. Here’s the Sherman—take care of the young chap—and good-night.”

CHAPTER XIII.

A BACHELOR’S “DEN.”

After leaving the Sherman House Wycherley has the driver take him down Michigan Avenue. He produces a cigar, one of Aleck’s choice weeds. Then comes a match.

“Ah! this is solid comfort,” he muses, stretching his legs out on the front seat as if eager to fill the whole vehicle; “it is my dream realized: a private carriage, a fine weed—perfect happiness. When my million comes home, I’ve got it all laid out. It won’t take me long to spend it. I can shut my eyes and imagine I’m a McCormick or a Cereal going home to my palatial abode. It’s just elegant, you know.”

Thus he chuckles and interviews himself after a habit peculiarly his own, until suddenly the vehicle draws up to the curb.

“Twenty-first Street, sir,” says John, who is especially good-natured after receiving the fat fee from the young roysterer.

Wycherley alights with great dignity.

“Good-night, my man,” he says, and the driver, impressed with his air, answers respectfully.

The ex-actor saunters along the avenue until the hack has vanished. Then he turns on his heel and retraces his steps to the corner. Along Twenty-first Street he walks. At this hour of the night, the dividing line between two days, there are few people abroad, and Wycherley meets no one on his tramp.

As he advances the neighborhood grows more squalid, until he is in one of the poorest sections of the city, not far from the railroad.

At length he pauses in front of a dilapidated frame, evidently a tenement—pauses with a dramatic gesture, and mutters:

“Behold! the Hotel des Vagabonde, where thieves never break through and steal; where no one rolls and groans from an overloaded stomach; the home of the highway prince, the boot-black cavalier, and the jolly old bachelor. Waive all ceremony and enter, my dear boy. I’ll not arouse the janitor, poor fellow. And as I’m a wise man I’ll extinguish this cigar for a double reason—it’ll give me a morning smoke, and prevent a sensation in the princely hotel, for a Havana is unknown in this region of powerful clay pipes, and the odor might offend the fastidous nose of some lodger, when there would be the deuce to pay.”

No sooner said than done.

At the door no keeper challenges his entrance; day and night it is free to all. Wycherley climbs various flights of rickety stairs. It is very dark, but he seems to know from intuition just where every broken board lies, and the higher he gets, the lighter his spirits grow. He hums an operatic air and changes it to “After the Ball.” Really this man makes light of care—troubles sit upon him like bubbles.

Now he stops in front of a door, fumbles in his pocket, finds a key, and enters.

“Where the deuce is that electric button? very queer I fail to find it. Well, making a virtue of necessity I’ll have to fall back on Old Reliable.”

A match crackles, the flame shoots up. Then he applied it to the wick of a candle stuck in the neck of an old beer bottle.

The scene is a remarkable one! Rarely did candlelight illumine a more destitute room. From the wall large pieces of plaster are gone, ditto the ceiling. A general survey of the place would result about as follows: imprimus: the lone bachelor himself; item: one trundle bed, scantily clad and sadly in need of smoothing; item: a carpet bag with a tendency to falling over on one side because of constitutional leanness; items: a piece of looking-glass fastened to the wall, a single wooden chair, a tin basin, a bare table on which the candle holds full sway.

That is the sum total.

Wycherley, merry dog that he is, glances around him with the air of a king. He has a faculty of seeing luxury behind misery, of making much out of little.

“Ah! Aleck was a shrewd one to guess what comforts I enjoy. There is my luxurious armchair; this my heap of magazines and papers,”—picking up a penny afternoon News—“and the whole scene one of comfort. Ah, this is living. Now for my meerschaum, my slippers. Hang the luck! I believe that valet has misplaced them again. Never mind, this will do.”

He kicks off his shoes, opens a drawer in the table and takes out a clay-pipe minus half the stem. This he fills with scrap tobacco, holds it to the candle and puffs away with an enjoyment that cannot all be assumed.

“A strange night it has been. To think I’d meet Aleck and Bob Rocket so near together—two fellows I regard so highly. It’s a queer world, and a mighty small one, too, when you come down to it. Heigho! my chances of wedding the heiress are nil. Upon the whole I must confess to a certain relief. How foolish for a man to give up the free life of a gay bachelor, with its delightful uncertainties, for double harness and the harassing cares of stocks and bonds. Ugh! deliver me. See how cozy I am! Who would care to change it?”

Then he consults his memorandum book and makes a few notes on the market, gaining his points from the closing sales as reported in the newspaper. After this he yawns.

“Heigho! I feel weary. My sumptuous couch invites repose. It calls not in vain. To sleep, to dream, perchance to discover in second sight how to-morrow’s market will jump. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

His preparations for going to bed are simple indeed. He removes his coat and vest; his collar and necktie follow; then he crawls under the army blanket.

“The deuce! I forgot to douse that ten candle electric light. Shall I call Robert to press the button? Let the weary retainer sleep. Thus bright genius overcomes all obstacles.”

One of his shoes flies through space with unerring accuracy, over goes beer bottle and candle, and, rolling off the table, lands with a thump on the bare floor.

“Eureka! score one for Sir Claude de Wycherley. Must practice that little game; save immense amount of trouble. Hard on the bottle, though. Now to woo the gentle goddess of slumber. Think of the untold thousands rolling on feather beds and hair mattresses. Little they know of the genuine luxury of a shuck bed. This is comfort now, you bet.”

The night wind sighs through a hole in a window pane, and lulled by this music, supplemented by the ringing of engine bells, and an occasional shriek from a switching locomotive, Wycherley falls asleep.

For an hour or two only his stentorian breathing can be heard in the tenement room.

Then the man on the cot suddenly sits up. His room is no longer in darkness.

“Jove! that was a beastly dream I had. What a pleasure to awaken and find it was only a dream. Can it be morning? What the devil is all that racket outside, people shouting? Bless me! I believe it’s the engines pumping. There must be a fire in the neighborhood. I’m sorry for the poor wretches; never took any enjoyment seeing a house burn. Tchew! bless my soul, the room’s half full of smoke. Think I’ll get up and investigate. Too bad to have a gentleman’s slumbers disturbed in this way, but I’m interested now, because, you know, it might be the Hotel des Vagabonde that is ablaze.”

While he thus communes with himself he gropes around for the lost shoe, and draws it on. Then he goes to the door. As he opens it a volume of smoke pours in. He instantly closes the door again.

“I declare, it is this house, after all. Another experience, my boy. My palatial mansion is doomed, I fear. Ho! for the salvage corps. Is my account book, the repository of millions, safe? Then let the fire demon do his worst.”

He even stops to button his collar; then seizing the lean grip, he waves his hand around him in a majestic way.

“The best of friends must part. Many happy hours have I spent here. Alas! that it should end thus. Farewell, farewell, and if forever, then forever fare thee well.”

He opens the door and steps into the hall.

“Great Scott!” he exclaims.

Dense smoke fills the hallway. The crackling of flames makes mad music, and when this is supplemented by the shrieks of terrified women, shouts of firemen, the throbbing of engines, and a dull roar from the dense crowd that collected like magic under such circumstances, the result is a combination that once heard can never be forgotten.

Wycherley looks down the stairway and immediately draws back again. Even his remarkable nerve is shaken by the sight. Besides, he hears cries near by that tell him he is not the only one imprisoned in the upper story of this old tenement, now in flames—cries that can only come from a terrified woman.

“Think, old boy, and if ever you cudgeled your brains, do so now. It’s useless trying to get out below—rather too warm for comfort. How about the other way?”

The flames are roaring up the stairway, and whatever is done must be done quickly, or else it will be too late. He remembers some sort of ladder leading to a trap in the roof. It offers a chance. Whether the situation will be improved or not, who can say?

Groping his way through the terrible smoke, he lays hold on the ladder. Just then from a room near by comes the wail:

“Oh, God! help me, save me, and I will undo the past. I swear it. Help! help!”

Wycherley recognizes a woman’s voice. He is not a hero, lays no claim to be such, but if death is the inevitable consequence he cannot try to save himself and desert a fellow creature. Down goes his carpet bag, and in five seconds he is at the door of the other room in the upper story of the burning tenement.

“Who’s here?” he shouts.

A figure at the small window, almost in the act of casting herself out, turns to him.

“Oh, save me, sir! It is too horrible! I am not fit to die. Save me!” she pleads wildly.

“Be quiet! I’ll do the best I can, but you must obey orders. Come with me,” he says.

“Not down there! no, no. I looked—it was like the fires of hell!”

“To the roof! we must get out of this smoke or we’ll suffocate before the fire touches us. Come, and I will save you or we’ll die trying.”

His cheering words reassure the poor woman, and she clings to his coat. They reach the stairs leading upward, and Wycherley mounting, opens the trap. What a blessed relief—here they can at least get a breath of air.

Once upon the roof of the tenement the ex-actor casts about him for some means of escape, some method by which to cheat the hungry flames that must speedily burst through and envelop the whole tenement in their rapacious maw.

The case seems desperate; no friendly roof offers a refuge. On one side a great warehouse, fire-proof and grim, rears itself; on the other lies a smaller building, with the roof far below. If he had a rope Wycherley can see how he might escape. Without one the case is almost hopeless. Already ladders have rested against the building, but none are long enough to reach to the top. They see him. Shouts in the street below announce this fact—encouraging cries that give him hope. A stream of water breaks above and showers them. Wycherley turns up his coat.

“Pardon—it is my last collar,” he says calmly.

They have placed a ladder against the smaller house. Brave firemen are bringing another which will be carried up the sloping roof, and used to reach those above.

All that now may be considered is the question of time. Will they succeed, or be too late? The fire is having everything its own way. These old tenements burn like match wood. Already the flames have eaten a hole through the roof, and curl and twist wickedly as though stretching out eager hands for new victims.

The heat is growing unbearable, and yet the ladder is not in position. He realizes that the case is desperate, and casts about for a chance to lessen it. The woman lies there groaning. They are dragging the ladder up the roof, and in a couple of minutes it will be in place, but that time is an eternity under such conditions. Just now, to remain means death. He sees one chance, takes the woman—she is a slight creature—in his arms, slips over the edge of the roof, and with feet braced on a ledge, exerts his whole strength to maintain his position, while the encouraging shouts of the firemen below give him hope. It is a picture for an artist—the race between life and death, between the greedy flames and the uplifting ladder, but the ladder wins.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

When the man who hangs there with such a weight upon his left arm feels that he cannot endure the strain five seconds longer, a voice shouts out just at his feet:

“Drop her down to me!”

Brawny arms are outstretched, and the woman, falling from his nerveless clasp, is caught and held. Now that he can change his position Wycherley is not so hard set, and manages without assistance to lower himself.

It has been an exceedingly narrow escape, for hardly has he reached the lower roof when, looking up, he beholds the greedy tongues of fire crawling over the edge at the very point where he held on with such grim resolution.

A scuttle has been torn open, and through this the woman has been taken. Wycherley would linger, but the firemen tell him nothing can save this house from sharing the fate of its neighbor, and that he had better lose no time in making good his escape.

So he, too, crawls through the scuttle. Even in such dire distress and under such peculiarly unromantic conditions his sense of humor does not desert him, and he chuckles more than once while making his way to the street. When tenements burn there are sad enough sights, Heaven knows, but at the same time many comical ones crop up, for people in the mad excitement may be seen hugging feather beds, while tossing pictures, mirrors, and every fragile object out of the window.

Hardly has he reached the street than someone near by says:

“There he is.”

Immediately hands are laid upon his arm, and turning he beholds a woman.

“God bless you, sir. You saved my life. I cannot find words to thank you,” she says, between her hysterical sobs.

“Then don’t worry about trying. What I did wasn’t much,” is his characteristic answer.

“Oh, sir! my life is not of much value to me, but to another it may be. Tell me your name—where I can find you after I have seen him.”

He notes curious glances cast upon them, and desires to break away.

“A letter to Claude Wycherley at the Sherman House would reach me. But I beg of you to forget all about it,” he adds.

Reporters are as thick as peas, and he would avoid them if possible, not wanting to figure in a sensation. Wycherley is so retiring in his disposition, so modest withal, that any such notoriety might embarrass him exceedingly.

“Where have I seen that woman before? Don’t ever recollect meeting her in the Hotel des Vagabonde, now, alas! no more; and yet her face seems so familiar to me. Give it up. Where now, my dear boy? The clock strikes four. Daylight will be along—even now I see it creeping up over the lake. To pass the time until then—ah! here’s a bootblack’s chair. Quite an idea. I’ll keep it warm until it’s time for breakfast,” saying which he sits down and dozes.

The great city is waking up. As day comes wagons rumble by and working people with buckets in hand swing past to their labors. Soon the shrill cry of the newsboy is heard in the land.

“Tribune—Times—Inter-Ocean!”

Wycherley sinks a hand in his pocket, and after a thorough and systematic search in order that he may corner all fugitive pieces, he draws out sundry nickels and coppers, which, upon being marshaled upon the palm of his hand, he counts.

“Twenty cents, sum total; not a fortune, it’s true, but better than I’ve known many a time. Let’s see how I’ll divide it: five for a paper, ten for breakfast, and the last nickel brings a cigar. There’s luxury for you; a prince could have no more. Hi! boy, come here.”

In another minute the paper has changed hands.

“Now to feed the inner man, who clamors for attention. Over a cup of coffee and some rolls in a beanery near by, I’ll read my fortune. What a delicious state of uncertainty—it’s heads or tails whether I win or lose a million. Then I enjoy all the sensations of the greatest plunger and never risk a dollar. I must copyright my scheme. Hello! what’s this?”

He has come upon a little girl crying—a child who belongs in the poorer walks of life, for her clothes are scanty, and her face thin. She sobs as though her heart would break.

“Come, come, what is the matter, my child?” he asks, touched by her despair.

“I can’t find it, and it was all granny had.”

“What have you lost, then?”

“She sent me out last night to buy something to eat, and I fell down and lost the money. I came early this morning to look, but I can’t find it. She won’t have any breakfast, poor old granny. I’ve cried nearly all night, but she told me never to mind, that God would find it for me in the morning, but I guess he forgot.”

Indeed, her swollen eyes give evidence that what she says is true.

Wycherley makes a grimace, but sturdily puts his hand in his pocket.

“How much was it, my dear?”

“Only fifteen cents, sir, but it was all granny had, and she won’t get any more till to-morrow.”

“A mere trifle, my child. There you are. Don’t mind saying thanks, but be very, very careful not to drop any.”

Her looks are eloquent enough as she goes skipping along toward the grocery. Wycherley watches her and then chuckles.

“There goes my breakfast, and the cigar, too. Well, what of it? ’Tisn’t the first time you’ve fasted, my boy, and may not be the last. Good for the digestion, don’t you know. Besides, you’re invited to dinner at the Sherman House with Aleck, and a sharp appetite will give you more of a chance to enjoy the good things of life. It’s brought relief to one small heart, anyway. Now, I might as well return to my chair and settle this question of a million. If I’ve won I can lay back and imagine a royal banquet fit for the gods.”

Presently he is scanning the reports.

“What’s this? Unexpected advance in Golconda mining stock—I was deep in that. Decline of Reading. I skipped that, glad to say. How about the Consolidated on which I spread? I can hardly see for excitement. What’s that, advanced two cents? Hurrah! and I only hoped for one. Sell out, sell out, don’t hold anything a minute later. I’ve gone and done it. Yes, sir, as sure as fate, I’m a millionaire. No thirteen dollars this time; all previous losses wiped out and something like a million to my credit. Think of it, a cool million, too. Champagne—no, that wouldn’t do on an empty stomach. I’ll hie away to Kinsey’s, and scan his bill of fare. This settles it. I’m cut out for a broker. The whole secret is to stand by your colors long enough, and success is certain.”

Someone grasps his foot, and looking down he sees the bootblack commencing operations.

“Hold on there, boy! just gave the last fifteen cents I had to a little girl who lost her money. You’ll have to trust me or take this paper in pay.”

The boy grins and says the paper will do him, so Wycherley makes some notes from it.

“Haven’t time to figure, now. May be a difference of a hundred thousand or so either way, but that doesn’t matter. There’s that woman’s face before my mind again. Where have I seen her? Stupid in me to forget asking her name when I gave mine. Well, let it pass—a memory like many others in a checkered career. Ah! done, boy? Thanks. I’ll leave you the paper and call again.”

It is just twelve when Wycherley turns up at the hotel, and finds Aleck awaiting him. No one would think the jolly actor had not eaten a bite since the previous night. He has great command over his system, and although the aroma of the soup almost overcomes him he restrains his fierce ardor. Above all it is his aim to act the gentleman.

“I see you’ve been up to your old tricks again, Claude,” says the Canadian kindly, as he looks into the face of the adventurer.

“What d’ye mean, my dear boy. Surely four o’clock was too late for a morning paper.”

“I had the whole thing from the lips of a party who was an eye-witness—who heard you give your name to the poor woman you rescued.”

“The deuce you say. I hoped it wouldn’t get out.”

“And I’m proud to know you, to be your friend, Claude Wycherley. More than that, you builded better than you knew, comrade.”

“How now, Aleck?”

“This gentleman took the woman you saved to a boarding-house near by. I confess something of curiosity, and a desire to hear her story direct, led my steps there after breakfast. Then again I had an idea she might be poor and needy, and, if so, I might second your deed. At any rate, I walked down and found her. She glowed with enthusiasm over your kindness, and described the whole scene so eloquently that I could, in imagination, see you hanging from that roof with one arm and supporting her—you who professed to be all in a tremble at the prospect of climbing the Ferris wheel. I can understand that now, my dear fellow, and know full well it was not timidity that kept you back, but the sturdy desire to baffle Aroun Scutari in the climax of his work.

“Enough of that. Now comes the surprising part of the business. When I talked with the woman I saw she was much more refined than her position would indicate. She asked questions, too, and eager ones they were; questions about Samson Cereal, questions that aroused my suspicions.

“Then I turned the tables and she confided her story to me, at least the outlines of it. You could have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished. Of course, you have never even guessed her identity—how could you?”

“I don’t know. You mention Samson Cereal—a wife of his turned up last night; perhaps she is another,” carelessly.

“Claude, you wizard, go up head.”

“What! is it a fact?” demands the amazed Wycherley.

“As true as gospel. His first wife. He was divorced from her before he went abroad, and I have reason to believe she is the mother of this bold John Phœnix!”

CHAPTER XV.

HEARD AT THE SHERMAN TABLE-D’HÔTE.

No wonder Wycherley stops eating and looks at his companion in a dazed way. The announcement made by the other is of a nature to take his breath away. What sort of man can Samson Cereal be? It is quite enough, he thinks, to have one wife, who was supposed to be dead, turn up, but two of a kind—quite staggers him.

“Wait a moment, Aleck, until I collect my wits. Really, you have knocked them helter-skelter with such a remarkable assertion. There, now, go on with the circus. This woman, whom I had the good fortune to assist, was once the wife of the old speculator, you say.”

“It is true. They were married when he was a young man—just at the close of the War. I believe he met her in Kentucky, for she was a native of Lexington, and called a beauty, and I imagine somewhat of a flirt.

“Some years later a child was born to them, a boy. Samson began to suspect his wife of being in love with a dashing Southerner. He was a plain man himself, you know, and Adela—that is her name—admits that he gave her no cause for such treachery. She lays it all to the fact of her own mother dying when she was a child, and of her father’s lax ways of living, and that she had never known a woman friend whose advice could have saved her.

“Samson was just, but he was also merciless. The awakening came like a thunder clap. He cast her off and applied for a divorce, which was given him; also the custody of the boy, then four years old.

“Fearing she might attempt to steal the child, he sent him away, and for years did not look on his face, because it reminded him of a faithless wife.”

“Ah,” breaks in the actor, “then the mother and boy were very much alike. Your speaking of Phœnix causes me to remember. She reminded me of someone. I see it now. The resemblance is marked.”

Aleck smiles.

He can afford to do so now, since he has learned of the relationship between Dorothy and the young miner. That both of them spring from the same father. Her “sacred mission,” is plain to him at last, for it must have a connection with some reconciliation between father and son.

That is why Craig smiles. The teeth of his terror have been drawn, and he no longer need worry about the possible rival who comes out of the wild, untamed West.

“Later on Samson went abroad. We know what happened to him there. He made a strange venture into the sea of matrimony, and, as before, drew a blank. Coming to Chicago he entered upon the speculative business, in which he has since become famous; but at that time he was only a small dog, a drop in the bucket, and unnoticed.

“I do not know what trouble came up. We have believed the beautiful Georgian left him and fled to her native land again. Perhaps later on we may learn more about this.

“At any rate, it was given out that she was dead. Dorothy believed so, and in all probability does so to-day. We chance to know that Marda the Georgian lives—that she is at the Fair, and has come for some definite purpose.

“As to Adela—her life has been a sad one. Cast off by her husband she went back to Kentucky. She was still lovely, and it was not long before her hand was sought in marriage by a worthy gentleman. Investigation brought to light the fact that in granting the divorce to Cereal, the woman was still looked upon as married, and forbidden to ever again enter upon wedlock while her husband lived.

“Thus Adela was forced to refuse the offer. She taught school; her people moved West; and she has experienced many strange vicissitudes of fortune, yet she vowed in my presence and in the sight of Heaven that the one indiscretion named was the last of her life—that her eyes were opened, her life saddened, and ever since the day her husband put her aside she has lived in the one hope that the time would come when she might redeem herself in his eyes. She has not lived in vain. Whenever the yellow fever raged in the South, there Adela could be found nursing the sick. She was the angel of light in Jacksonville when the dread scourge wasted Florida’s metropolis. Only for her own illness she would have been in Brunswick this summer. Her life is nearly spent—she has consumption now—and it is the prayer of her last days that before she goes he may forgive her; that some opportunity may yet arise whereby she can win that pardon.

“Now about her boy. Once she found him, but dared not make herself known, on account of the past. He suddenly disappeared from the city where he was attending a military academy, nor could she trace him again; but at the town photographer’s she found a picture of him which she has carried ever since, no doubt to cry over in her lonely hours, poor woman.”

Aleck hands over a card photograph. It is not a stylish picture, such as our artists of to-day produce, but faithful to the life. It represents a young fellow of about fifteen, a handsome, independent-looking chap, with something of a Southern air about him, which is heightened by the cadet suit of gray he wears.

“This settles all doubt,” remarks Wycherley; “it’s the young miner from Colorado, whom we saw with Dorothy—her brother; and at the same time I can see the poor lady I helped out of the Hotel des Vagabonde fire.”

“You had your room in that tenement, Claude?”

“Yes,” reddening a trifle.

“And all your books, your bachelor trophies, your many comforts were lost?”

“Everything. My luxurious divan, my chair, the like of which could not be found in a Vanderbilt mansion, the wonderful oil paintings, gems of art, the original collection of curios which a Sypher might not despise—all went. But, Aleck, my boy, my entire loss didn’t exceed five dollars, I assure you. What is that to a man who has won a million.”

“Ah! your speculation then was a success?” smiling.

“A stupendous one. Wiped out all past debts and have a million ahead. No time to figure it up yet; may be a couple of hundred thousand either way, but that is a matter of small importance.”

Craig never ceases to be amused at the strange idiosyncracies of his queer companion. He realizes by this time—perhaps from the enormous dinner Wycherley is making—that the other has no means, and it is really ridiculous to see a man without a dollar in his pocket declaring so carelessly that a quarter of a million one way or the other is a matter of little importance.

“One thing about this matter gives me pain,” the Canadian says presently.

“You refer to Bob Rocket and his mission?” remarks the actor, still busy with knife and fork.

“Yes. He comes to arrest John Phœnix, whom we know to be the son of Samson Cereal.”

“That is unfortunate, but the young man has embezzled fifty thousand dollars from the mining company, and the outraged law of Colorado must take its course. You wouldn’t think of hindering Rocket in the discharge of his duty, Aleck?”

“Oh, no! far from it. At the same time, I cannot help regretting the circumstance. It will be a blow to Dorothy, who seems to think a good deal of this half brother. They must have met before.”

“Perhaps corresponded. As for myself, I am amazed at the young man’s foolhardiness. Why has he allowed the fatal attraction of the Fair to detain him here when he should be across the lakes in Canada. That’s the trouble with most men—they don’t use common sense under such circumstances.”

“We’ve got more than we want of them over in Canada. If my country should ever become a member of your Union, which, I grant you, is a possible thing, though I’m not one in favor of it, there will be such an exodus of boodle aldermen and other rascals as has never been seen before; and no honest man in the Dominion will shed a tear. Why, some among us favor annexation simply to save Canada from being the dumping ground of your swindlers.”

Wycherley laughs at this, and hands his plate to the staring waiter with an aside “a little more of that delicious roast beef—and be sure to have it rare.”

“You visit the Cereal manse to-night, I believe, Aleck. I wonder if John will be there. Perhaps he and his father in times gone by have had a falling out, and Dorothy is patching up the peace between them. Very clever of her. She’s a girl in a thousand, and remembering who her mother was—begging your pardon, my dear boy, as she may yet be a mother-in-law to you—I am amazed and wonder where she got her sensible ways. Then there’s Bob Rocket—I know the man to a dot—he’ll be around, and if it should so happen that he receives his telegram in the midst of the festivities, he’ll arrest his man right there. Twenty millionaires wouldn’t awe him, nor would he respect the palace of the Czar of Russia. With the majesty of the law back of him he’d do his duty.”

“Then we’ll hope that his instructions, having been delayed so long, will continue to dally, at least until the evening is well spent. If Mr. Cereal is reconciled to his son, it would be too humiliating to have the boy arrested at his house. At any rate, I shall keep clear of it, and for Dorothy’s sake would like to see John get away.”

This absorbing topic has monopolized their conversation thus far, but having in a measure exhausted it, they branch out upon other subjects.

At length the dinner is ended. Aleck presses his companion to relate the stirring scene of the previous night, and is accommodated with a yarn that has many comical features to it, for the actor is a genius in discovering the ridiculous side of anything, though Craig declares he is certain the affair was anything but humorous to those concerned.

All the while the Canadian is planning as to how he may make his friend accept a loan, without hurting his feelings. In the end he decides that the best way to do is to go squarely at the matter, in a frank manner.

“Since you lost all you had in the fire, Claude, you must allow me to make you a little loan. There, not a word, sir—I shall feel insulted if you refuse”—passing over a fifty-dollar note.

Wycherley fumbles the bill with trembling fingers. “Great Heavens, Aleck,” he says huskily, “it’s been many a long day since I’ve held a bill like this in my hands. It makes me feel like something of importance. Bless you, my dear boy. I shall repay it if I live.”

Together they leave the dining room.

“Try a weed,” proposes Aleck; and as he draws the fragrant smoke Wycherley is fain to believe his morning sacrifice has met with its reward, heaped up and running over.

Together they sit in the cool rotunda of the hotel, enjoying their postprandial smoke, and exchanging remarks about various things of mutual interest.

While thus engaged a tall gentleman with a gray mustache, and a face on which great shrewdness is marked, saunters past and glances at them. Then he returns and stops.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but the clerk told me Mr. Aleck Craig was over here. Do either of you happen to bear that name?”

He looks straight at the Canadian, as though easily picking him out to be the man.

“That is my name, sir,” replies Aleck quickly.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Craig. I have a little business with you. My name is Samson Cereal.”

CHAPTER XVI.

ENGAGED.

It is a name to conjure with in the markets of the World’s Fair city. Besides, this gentleman with the iron-gray mustache is Dorothy’s father.

Both Craig and Wycherley spring to their feet. The latter smiles in a peculiar way, as though he sees in this a heaven-sent chance to rise. Perhaps his education in stocks, his enormous wagering against the uncertainties of the market, may meet a reward. Everything comes to those who wait, is the philosophy of this strange adventurer.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Cereal. My friend Wycherley, sir. I have had the pleasure of your daughter’s acquaintance since last winter.”

The elderly gentleman smiles. Aleck notes the firm mouth under the mustache, and believes poor Adela will wait a long time ere she hears words of forgiveness for that error so far back in the past, the fearful blunder that ruined her life. Perhaps he does Samson Cereal a wrong, but judging from his strong features he believes him to be a stern man with whom justice goes before mercy.

“I have heard something about your meeting up at Montreal, and my daughter has told me certain facts that occurred last night—facts that stamp you a hero——”

“Sir!”

“Facts that make me proud to know you, young man. Let no false modesty cause you to belittle the deed. I claim that when a man takes his life in his hands and imperils it for parties unknown to him, who may be in danger, he rises above the ordinary plane and becomes a hero. Let us not argue the subject then. I am glad to meet you for your own sake—glad to know you. Let us sit down again. I have something to say that is of deepest importance to me.”

He drops into a chair, with one of them on either side. Both the young men show signs of excitement, and the veteran speculator is the cool one. Aleck is saying to himself:

“Dorothy has told him how she came to know me—what can he want to see me for,” and his bachelor heart persists in keeping up a trip-hammer accompaniment that is rather singular in a man who has been born and reared in the country of ice and snow.

As for Wycherley, his thoughts run about in this wise:

“Here’s Samson Cereal, the great grain operator, king of the wheat pit. Let me study him well, since fate has decided that I am to be in the same line. What would he say if he knew I had plunged on the markets and came out two million ahead on yesterday’s deal—what, indeed? I must use my ears—who knows but what in the course of his everyday talk he may drop some hints that I may seize upon, and use as a ladder upon which to mount to future success.”

“Mr. Craig, am I right in presuming that this is the gentleman who was with you last night on the Midway?” begins the operator.

“We were together much of the evening. In one sense he has as much claim upon your thanks as myself, for only through him was I enabled to do Miss Dorothy a service,” replies Aleck, with the generous impulse of making his comrade “solid” with the great manipulator of wheat.

Samson Cereal gravely turns and holds out his hand.

“Allow me, sir; I appreciate the favor,” he says in the singularly deep voice that has many a time electrified the swaying masses of brokers and operators on change.

“You are perfectly free to speak upon any subject, sir,” adds Aleck.

“That being the case, I will no longer pique your curiosity, gentlemen. Am I right in believing that you have through accident learned certain things connected with a very wretched episode in my life?”

Aleck’s cheeks flush under his gaze, for somehow he feels as though Samson reproaches him.

“I beg you to believe, sir, I have not pried into your private affairs through morbid curiosity. A peculiar chain of circumstances, link fastened to link, one thing leading to another, has given me some knowledge of certain unhappy events far back in your life. I have not sought them, and once in my possession they shall go no further, depend upon it.”

His earnest manner, his frank expression, serve to convince the wheat king that what he says he means.

“Mr. Craig, I earnestly hope you will never have to encounter the family troubles that have darkened my past.”

Aleck secretly indorses this. It is bad enough for a bachelor of some thirty summers to think of being wedded once, let alone several times.

“Twice have I breasted the stormy seas of matrimony, and some fatality seemed to follow me. Both ventures ended in my being bereft. My first wife was a Kentucky girl. I have sealed that book so long ago that it may not be torn open now if I can help it. The boy who came to me as the fruits of that unhappy union resembled his mother so closely in features that I could not bear to look upon him. He was at school, a military academy, until seventeen. Then something like remorse came upon me. I had married again, and my little Dorothy was more than twelve. I believe she influenced me—God bless the sunbeam! At any rate I sent for the lad, and started him in life.

“All went well for a short time. Then another blow fell upon me. I was being systematically robbed. In my office was a safe. I had numerous clerks, and John was one. Never dreaming of the truth I set a detective on the watch, and one day he brought me his report. It incriminated my own son. At first I was amazed, horror-stricken. Then my anger arose. I sent for John. He came in smiling, for he was light of heart. I told him deliberately what I had found out. He turned very pale and trembled. Fool that I was, I believed these were evidences of guilt. Then he looked at me proudly and denied it all. I have a furious temper, Heaven forgive me! I upbraided him, called him names, and even coupled his mother’s disgrace with his downfall; declaring that her treacherous nature had descended to him. Then I told him to go. I remember how proudly he drew himself up and said:

“'You are my father—you send me from you without a hearing. I will go—I will change my name and never see you again until this blot is removed from my character.’

“I have never seen him from that time, but he is in the city to-day—he will be at my house to-night. Dorothy did it all. Through some woman who was nursing a poor sick man, she received word to come to the Hahnemann hospital, where he had been taken. She went, and found a dying man with a confession written and witnessed—a wretched man who claimed to be the detective I employed. He had found no trouble in locating the guilty party, but being eager to make more money had compromised with the thief and agreed to implicate John.

“It seems Dorothy and John have corresponded all this while, and she wrote him to come on at once, telling him of his vindication. An agreement was made to meet in the shadow of the Ferris wheel, and hence she has haunted that place of late.

“I am a stern man, but I hope a just one. Feeling that I have wronged my boy, I am eager to apologize, to make amends. Unfitted for business, even on this day when of all others I should be at my office, for I have momentous deals on foot, I decided to step in here and meet you, for I can assure you, Mr. Craig, I take a deep interest in your welfare. Perhaps you are not aware of it, but I know several of your people up in Montreal and Toronto, and can remember nothing but kindness received at their hands.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir. On my part I feel it my duty to inform you that one whom you have looked upon as dead is in Chicago,” says Aleck, while Wycherley chuckles as he wonders which one is meant, and then fearing lest his ill-timed merriment may cause the great operator to look upon him with suspicion, he turns it off into a cough.

Samson Cereal fastens his eyes upon Craig, as though he would read his soul.

“You refer to whom?”

“The lady you ran away with twenty years ago, near the Bosphorus—the mother of Dorothy.”

“Good God, man, is she alive and in Chicago? And now I remember—he is here—we met on the Midway and scowled like two pirates. He has not forgotten—but she alive! Then they two must be leagued to do me injury, perhaps through Dorothy.”

“You are both wrong and right, sir. He came here to execute the vengeance that has slumbered twenty years, but knew nothing of her presence until last night, when he snatched off the gauzy covering from the face of the Veiled Fortune Teller of Cairo Street, and beheld—Marda, once your wife, stolen from his servants. I don’t know her motive in coming here, nor where she has been all these years, but have some reason to believe it is the natural mother love for her child that has brought her—perhaps she comes to stand between Aroun Scutari and his prey.”

Samson Cereal reflects. He is no longer excited, but singularly cool. When personal danger threatens, this man can be like a block of ice. It is this trait that has helped him reach the front rank in his chosen profession.

“You speak of his vengeance—have you an idea what he means to do?”

“Ah! I see Miss Dorothy failed to tell you all.”

“Then suppose you supply the missing link.”

“This Turk plays a game of tit for tat. You stole his bride. Patiently has he waited as only a Turk could wait. Now he comes to win a bride by running away with your daughter.”

“Curse his impudence! I’ll have his life for it! I’ll lock him up or wring his neck.”

“Good enough, sir, but I’d let him get to the end of his tether first. Give him rope enough, and he’ll hang himself.”

“I expect you’re right, Mr. Craig. Pardon my impetuosity. It’s seldom I’m aroused like that. I wanted to make your acquaintance, for something tells me we are fated to see more of each other. You are coming around to-night, of course. Bring your friend with you. I must be off to see if that confounded telegram has arrived.”

Aleck and Wycherley look at each other.

“He’s looking for a telegram too,” mutters the latter; “wonder if one will come for me from Vanderbilt or George Gould, asking me to take charge.”

“Well, gentlemen, I wish you good-day. Market’s on the rise—a little excitement—Consolidated——”

Wycherley clutches his arm.

“Don’t tell me sir, it’s gone higher?” he exclaims, his face elongated, his eyes distended.

“Why, yes—two cents above yesterday’s highest quotation.”

The actor puts one hand on his heart, and his whole attitude is one of bliss.

“Aleck, my dear boy—do you hear that? I had the audacity to back Consolidated again with half my pile. It means another million to me.”

“What!” roars the big operator, aghast.

Mr. Wycherley recovers himself, while Aleck turns aside so that his smile may not offend the peculiar fellow he calls friend—the warm-hearted oddity who has in times past tried nearly every vocation on the list, only to find himself a round peg in a square hole, and who is still vainly groping for his true business in life.

Wycherley does not lose his usual assurance in this moment of trial:

“I backed Consolidated yesterday, together with some mining stock, and the rise boomed me to the skies, two million or so ahead. Indications warned me to hang on to Consolidated longer, and I went in heavy; with the result that to-day I am again a million ahead.”

He proudly takes out that wonderful notebook and shows the figures that tell the story.

Samson Cereal looks at the book and then again at the owner.

“Who were these tremendous deals made with, if it is proper for me to ask?”

“One Claude Wycherley.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Myself.”

Now a light begins to dawn upon the mind of the old speculator; a grim smile breaks over his face showing that he is amused.

“Oh, I see! How long have you been indulging in this romantic pastime, Mr. Wycherley?”

“About three weeks.”

“Faithfully every day?”

“Just as the market held out. I never bought haphazard. My early experience told me that was ruinous policy—that it was like a game of chess—each move was but the single play of a series—each move must have a meaning.”

Again that shrewd head of the veteran wags—such talk pleases him.

“What success have you had from the start?”

“In the beginning, very bad. You can see here I went deep in the mire. Then I began to reason, and had gleams of success. The second week was a see-saw, with Claude Wycherley a million or two in the soup. This last week everything I touched turned to gold, and I’m three times a millionaire—on paper.”

“Young men, good-day. You may come around to my office to-morrow, if at liberty. I have a place for you to fill. We’ll harness this genius of yours to common-sense dollars.”

Then he leaves the hotel.

“Aleck, my dear fellow, catch me—I’m going to faint. Did you hear what he said? In a week it will read Cereal & Wycherley. Think of it, ye gods! Fortune at one bound. I’m in the saddle at last. Good-by, follies of the past with your haunting ghosts—welcome a golden future; perhaps, who knows, egad, a wife!”

BOOK THREE.

What Happened at the Grain King’s Palace.

CHAPTER XVII.

COLONEL BOB WAITS FOR HIS MESSAGE.

Ablaze with light is the palatial mansion of the millionaire operator. Sweet strains of music float out upon the misty moonlight, and are lost in dying cadence upon the waters of the great lake, that gently lap the pebbly shore so near the stately pile.

All that wealth can do to beautify and adorn the house has been done with a liberal hand. In these days of magic all one has to do is to press the golden button, and master minds accomplish the rest.

The parlors look like fairy bowers. Green plants and rare exotics are everywhere, and the taste with which they are placed reflects credit on the decorator artist. Among these scenes wander many of Chicago’s gallant sons and fair daughters.

Dorothy as the hostess is as lovely a vision as the eye of man ever beheld, and her father looks the wealthy merchant prince to perfection, though perhaps one might see an uneasy gleam in his eyes at times, and he glances toward the door frequently, as though expecting someone of more than ordinary importance.

The gay reception is in full swing when Aleck and Wycherley arrive. Both are of course in evening dress, for the ex-actor under the circumstances has wisely invested the loan made by his companion. As the future possible partner of the great Samson Cereal, he must make a creditable entree into society. Besides, a dress suit is a good nucleus for a loan at “my uncle’s” on a rainy day.

Once inside they make their way to where Miss Dorothy, assisted by a lady friend, receives, and meet a hearty welcome from both herself and her father. If Aleck was far gone before, his case is hopeless now, for the young woman presents such a picture of feminine beauty that he is even awed to think of his boldness in daring to aspire to win her. Still, deep down in his heart, he secretly exults to remember that less than twenty-four hours previous he held all this loveliness in his arms. Aleck is quiet, a thorough gentleman always, and for reasons of his own he keeps near Mr. Cereal. Knowing the secret of the other, he feels that he has a deep interest there.

As to Wycherley, he makes himself right at home, and being introduced moves among the guests with charming freedom. An old traveler of his stamp can adapt himself to either terminus of “society,” and under other circumstances, should fortune throw him among a herd of tramps, or into a camp of darkies, he would be found the jolliest fellow of them all, telling tough yarns, singing songs, and picking the banjo. A wonderfully versatile chap is this same Wycherley. To see him now, as he saunters gracefully about, one would believe him a representative of Chicago’s highest circles, and much curiosity is aroused as to who he may be. His bearing, his name, both are very distingué, and many speculations are indulged in as to whether he is from Boston or New York.

“Ah! Aleck, my dear boy, this is living. Just think what fortune has done for me in a short twenty-four hours. I believe I’m on the highroad to success. There are many lovely girls here, and backed by substantial dads, but I shall not commit myself. I can’t quite forget the black eyes of the Spanish cigar girl at the Fair, who made such a sieve of my heart that it would do for a housewife’s use. But this is very pleasant, dear boy, exceedingly so. I fancy our host looks careworn.”

“I’ve seen that all along. It may be anxiety about the coming of his son John, who, as you may have noticed, has not yet shown up.”

“Yes, and it may be with reference to that momentous telegram he was expecting,” declares Wycherley, who has not forgotten.

“Have you seen anything of the Turk?”

“Jove! you didn’t expect him here—no, you’re joking; but I have met someone I know. What did I tell you about his ability to get there?”

“I’m in a fog, Claude.”

“Well, look down the room—just bowing over the hand of Miss Dorothy—I never dreamed he was a society man.”

“Bless me! Why, it’s Rocket!”

“Bob Rocket, dead sure. Listen, the old gentleman introduces him to the banker’s wife—she who sparkles with a fortune of diamonds worth a king’s ransom. What does he say?”

“Mrs. Bondclipper, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Colonel Robert Rocket of Colorado. I met him on a Western trip years ago, when he was in the Legislature. Our Western men are coming to the front, you know, and I believe the colonel represents some of these great mines you hear so much about in the papers.”

“Well done for Bob! Of course his only object in coming here is to keep an eye on John. I only hope and pray for my part—I mean Mr. Cereal’s peace of mind—the exposure doesn’t take place before all this company.”

“It would be needless. We must, if necessary, find some means of avoiding that.”

“Ah! you don’t know Bob. Just as soon as he gets that telegram, he’ll make direct for his man, and all Hades couldn’t stop him.”

“Very good. We must watch him, then. Just as soon as a message comes, if it does arrive, one of us—myself—must see John and inveigle him out of the room, while you fall in with the colonel and distract his attention.”

“Count on me to do my best. Both of us are interested now in avoiding a scene on account of our prospective relations with Samson Cereal. There now, don’t give up, Aleck. Ah! he comes.”

“Who—the messenger boy?”

“Pshaw! no, it’s John.”

The young man has entered the room. He makes a decidedly striking appearance, for, although not quite six feet in height, his figure is that of an athlete. Aleck takes to him on sight.

“What a shame such a young god should have descended to the rôle of a defaulter,” mutters Wycherley in the Canadian’s ear.

Aleck does not reply. He has the queerest feeling pass over him—a flush succeeded by a chill. It is hard to believe this fine, frank looking man can be a fugitive from justice, but strange things happen in this life, and we grow accustomed to many facts which at first seem impossible.

Samson Cereal goes to him, his eager hand outstretched, his eye kindled with emotion. They meet close to where our friends stand.

“My boy, is the past forgiven? I have learned of my wretched mistake, and stand here ready to tell you how sorry I have been,” is what the father says in a husky voice.

His hand is taken in a strong clasp.

“Say no more, father. The past is forgotten. Let us never speak of it again. I have come to-night because Dorothy bade me, God bless her! Take me to her, sir.”

Then they move off. The expected scene does not materialize, but speedily it is noised about that Samson Cereal’s son is in the room. Few of his Chicago acquaintances knew he had a son, and much surprise ensues; but when John is introduced a little flutter spreads among the fair buds and those who have been in the market several seasons, such a flutter as the advent of a new and very desirable catch must always cause.

Aleck keeps an eye on Colonel Bob.

That remarkable personage seems to be quite amused at the coming of John. He is accustomed to seeing daring games played by the men whom he has business with, and there are times when he can admire the nerve that is needed to carry them through. All the while he keeps one eye on the door. There is not a moment that he does not expect a message of some sort, letter or telegram, having left instructions behind for either coming to his address to be delivered at once.

There are other elements in the game which Aleck has not forgotten, and he is forcibly reminded of this fact. Standing by himself in a portion of the rear parlor or music room, while Cereal is proudly introducing his stalwart son to many of his friends, Aleck is positive he hears a long-drawn sigh, and then the whispered words:

“God bless him!”

He turns his head.

There is a door near by, a hallway beyond. Someone stands just beyond this door—a woman, wearing a white apron and a lace cap, a jaunty bit of feathery material on top of her gray hair. He has had one or two glimpses of her before, and knows she has been employed in the rear room assisting the ladies to remove their wraps, a sort of femme de chambre.

Attracted by the words that escaped her lips, Aleck looks more closely at her face than he has done before. It is changed indeed, but he suddenly remembers that he talked with this woman not many hours before.

Again he looks—her eyes meet his gaze, and she shrinks back. He follows her, and just before she can enter the ladies’ dressing room, calls:

“I wish to see you, Adela.”

At the sound of that name she turns and clasps her hands. Upon her sad face comes a look so full of entreaty that the young Canadian is touched.

“Do not mention that name again under this roof, I beg. I admit I am the wretched woman you talked with, but do not betray me—I pray this by the memory of the mother you love,” she says feebly.

CHAPTER XVIII.

BY SPECIAL DELIVERY.

The words, the tone in which they are spoken, and what he knows of the woman cause Aleck to sympathize with her. At the same time he is surprised to find her in Samson Cereal’s mansion. A suspicion flashes into his mind that perhaps she is here for no good purpose, but he immediately dismisses it with scorn.

“What brings you here—I feel as though I had a right to ask?” he says.

“A double reason—my desire to see my boy, for he is mine even though the cruel law took him from me—and the longing that for one night I might be under the same roof that shelters them both. Once in the long ago we made a happy family. O God! that Satan’s hand came between! Years of atonement have followed—will suffering never wash out a sin like that? But I forget myself—I vowed I would control my feelings if I came. You will not betray one so wretched?”

“Not for worlds. But you must tell me how you managed to gain access here.”

“I know his housekeeper. She was a nurse in the hospital when I was head nurse, and she owed me some gratitude. When I asked this favor she readily granted it, though of course utterly ignorant of my motive.”

He has not forgotten what she declared was her hope—that Heaven would give her a chance to prove her love, her repentance, before the grim Destroyer, who had fastened upon her, came to claim his victim.

Thus he is assured that she will do no harm, though he can hardly believe she is wise in enduring the melancholy pleasure of gazing upon forbidden fruit.

“Have you met him?” he asks, curious to know whether Samson Cereal could suspect.

“Oh, yes! but I am utterly unlike the Adela he married in the long ago. Besides, these glasses which I carry give me a different look.”

She puts them on, and Aleck admits he would not have known her.

“He failed to recognize you, then?”

“Yes. I trembled a little, for he looked at me steadily with those stern eyes; but believing me to be dead years ago, he did not suspect. Oh, sir! imagine my feelings in this house, where but for that one fatal indiscretion I even now might be the proud and happy mistress. God give me courage and strength to warn others to avoid the rocks upon which my life was wrecked.”

“Amen!” says Aleck solemnly, for he feels as though he is in the presence of a priestess.

She turns and leaves him, as some ladies need her assistance. Aleck reflects upon the strange combination of circumstances that have been grouped amid these scenes of pleasure and beauty. The guests move about, singing takes place, with occasional gentle serenades by the company of musicians hidden among the palms and ferns; and none of them even suspect what an undercurrent of human tragedy is occurring beneath the placid surface. Apparently all is mirth and good cheer; people nowadays do not carry their hearts on their sleeves. The swan is said to sing as it dies. Brave mariners on the stormy deep go down with colors flying. So, in this day of sudden changes, men have laughed and joked merrily over yawning financial graves, taking the old saying to heart, “Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.”

Will a thunderbolt drop from this clear sky and bring consternation among those present?

Again he observes Samson Cereal and notes a certain fact. His son has come, and everything passed off well, yet the look of concern is still upon the father’s face, and he glances ever and anon in the direction of the door, as though he longs for yet dreads the coming of something.

Surely this man cannot fear the Turk. Aleck shakes his head negatively at the thought. There is something of the lion in the operator’s make-up. He was a soldier in the war—a young captain at the time he fell in love with the Kentucky girl, Adela; and his reputation has always been that of a brave man. Many a time has he met the masses on the financial battleground, and rolled back the mad assault with the strength of his will. This is hardly the man to fear Scutari at home, when he braved the powerful pasha upon the latter’s own ground. Something else worries him, of which Aleck is ignorant.

He puts two or three things together and then readies a decision.

“I believe it is the expected telegram. Perhaps he has big issues at stake. The life of a speculator is not all rose-colored, I can see,” the Canadian mutters.

By and by Aleck chances to run across the man from Colorado, who greets him with the warmth that is a part of his nature; and the hand-shake that follows is marked by unusual vigor.

“No need of my asking why you are here, Colonel Rocket,” he says meaningly.

“Well, you understood what brought me from Colorado. Business is business with me. I knew Cereal, and took advantage of a former meeting to call, when he asked me to drop in. I’m not in the habit of wearing these duds, you see; and privately, between you and the gate post, Mr. Craig, I rented out this suit from a costumer; but my life has taken me among all classes of men, and I’m pretty much at home wherever I chance to go. Quite a swell gathering here, and I reckon there’ll be a dandy spread to top off with. What d’ye think of him any way?” with a crook of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Do you mean our host?”

“The deuce, no! It’s John.”

“He makes a fine looking gentleman.”

“Correct, Mr. Craig! Now I’ve had a long experience, and you can bet I’ve seen some strange ones in my day, but I give you my word for it I’ve never set eyes on so smooth a customer. Why, he’d fool the keenest of ’em. His face bears the stamp of honesty. Reckon that’s how he came to have such a good chance to rake in so big a pile.”

“Colonel, have you ever known mistakes to occur in such things?”

Bob Rocket turns his eagle eye upon the other.

“Certainly I have—why?”

“Might it not be possible under these circumstances?”

“Hardly! You saw the picture yourself, and you can see he owns to the name of Phœnix—at least they call him John.”

“Of course I know little or nothing about the many secrets of your business. My only guide is the reading of character on the face, and I admit that is very deceptive.”

“Yes, you have much to learn, sir. It’s been a business with me to study human nature since I was knee high to a duck. I’d be glad, for the old gentleman’s sake, if his boy turned out innocent, but there’s about one chance in fifty of its happening.”

“Speaking of Phœnix reminds me of something. It had slipped my mind before. There’s a young fellow in Chicago from your region who seems to know him.”

“That information might be valuable to me, under certain conditions. Who is he?”

“Bless me, the only name I heard him give was Happy Jack!”

“Not very much to the point.”

“He is stopping at the Sherman House. I met him last night on the Midway under peculiar circumstances,” and Aleck proceeds to relate the adventure near the western exit, when the Turk and his hired myrmidons attempted to carry off a daughter of Chicago.

“Come, I’m interested in Happy Jack. From the words he dropped while in that stupid state it’s plain he’s a Western man; a miner, I reckon. Knows John Phœnix, does he—I may yet have to call upon him to identify my man, so that I can get the necessary requisition papers. I’ll just make a note of the fact—always jot ’em down—memory might confuse things. There, that settles it beyond all question. Folks must think we’re making a trade. Such things are allowable in the house of a big plunger like Cereal, eh?”

The sheriff from Colorado laughs in a good-natured way, as though he enjoys the joke; but somehow Aleck has found a new matter upon which to ponder, an idea that opens up an avenue the end of which no man can see.

“We’ll wait and see how you turn out, colonel. Meanwhile I’ve written something on this piece of paper—I put it in this envelope and sealed it up. There, place it in your pocket. Now, when the crisis of your game occurs, open this and see how near the truth I’ve come.”

“Quite a clever idea. I’ll do it, by Jove. Here comes some of the ladies, bless ’em! Won’t leave me alone—Cereal been telling some of my adventures and making out I’m a Buffalo Bill sort of a dashing hero. All I want is to keep my man in sight. Only for him and duty, how I would enjoy this 'ere racket. Ladies, your servant. What can I do for you?”

The Colorado sheriff bows with the grace of a Chesterfield, and a chorus of feminine voices arises:

“Oh, Colonel Rocket, Mr. Cereal has just been telling us about the time you rescued a lovely maiden from the Indians who raided the border. He was unable to finish the romance and sent us to you. What became of Mary?”

The colonel’s eyes twinkle.

“Oh! she married a worthless scamp out in Denver afterward, and I reckon has been sorry for it ever since,” he says nonchalantly.

A chorus of indignant exclamations arises.

“It was a shame—after you risked your life to save her!”

The colonel, as they flit away like a bevy of butterflies, turns to Aleck and adds dryly:

“Mary is my wife.”

At this the Canadian bursts out laughing.

“Why didn’t you say so, then?”

“Ah! I’ve cut my eye-teeth, Mr. Craig. So long as they believe me a bachelor there’s a halo of romance around my head, no matter how homely I may be. Once stamp me a married man, and I’m left to amuse myself—the glamour is gone. Now, my private affairs have nothing to do with these giddy young rosebuds, and I don’t care to have my family under microscopic examination. Hence my silence.”

Aleck falls to musing.

“Wycherley would say you were right. At least I could depend on him until to-night, but he seems to have turned over a new leaf, and there you have him cutting a heavy swell with the banker’s daughter, and playing the devoted. Jove! he’s the most remarkable of men.”

“Quite a clever fellow, and you can bet I’m ready to yell myself hoarse if success comes to him. I wanted to see him on the top wave. He deserves it all. The little sister who is now living with my wife and family never forgets to pray for Claude Wycherley.”

“Well, I think he’s on the road to success, for Samson Cereal has taken to him, and means to utilize some talent he has for reading between the lines of stock quotations.”

“I see—feeling the pulse of the market as it were. Pardon me, every ring at the bell attracts my attention. I must keep an eye on the door. The colored footman opens it. Eureka! a messenger boy with a note. He refuses to deliver it over. Wise chap—long head! Such important matters ought only be given to those they’re meant for. My telegram has arrived. Now we’ll know what’s what, and be able to wind matters up. Ah, there! my colored friend, lead him this way, that’s right. Here I am. Colonel Robert Rocket of Colorado,” and with a broad smile of pleasure, and an eagerness he cannot disguise, the Western sheriff holds out his hand for the message.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FALL OF THE MIGHTY OAK.

The small uniformed myrmidon of the telegraph company stands in front of the big Western sheriff, and holds the message behind his back.

“Who are you?” he asks immediately.

“The one you’re looking for, I reckon—Colonel Robert Rocket.”

“Say, kin you read, boss?” demands the boy, a sharp-faced chap.

“Well, yes, a little,” returns the other, frowning, for he is impatient to receive his own.

“Then just cast your eyes on that 'ere enwelope, from a distance like, an’ tell me if you kin make Bob Rocket or Davy Crockett or any other firework show out o’ it.”

Plainly he reads the name of Samson Cereal, and the address below.

“The devil! I made a mistake. Boy, follow the nigger. It aint for me—yet!” And the sheriff falls back out of the way, a little ruffled, but still on deck.

Aleck has heard it all.

He knows that while relieved from one source of anxiety, another has shown its head. What reception will the great speculator give this message? True, he must often receive telegrams on many important subjects, but a man of his firmness would not show this intense anxiety over a matter unless it was of the utmost moment.

Naturally, therefore, Aleck, being decidedly interested, moves in the direction of the big operator.

By this time Samson Cereal has caught sight of the colored door-keeper leading the sagacious messenger boy to his quarter. The latter takes it all as a matter of course. There can be seen no trace of amazement on his face, though the decoration of the rooms is superb, and the toilets of the ladies charming. One of these imps would strut through the palace of a Czar with the indifference of a princeling to the manner born.

Now he addresses the lord of the manor, and puts to him questions regarding his identity that soon establish the fact.

“Put her on that 'ere line—an’ the time.”

Cereal hastily signs his name.

He realizes that a number of people are watching him curiously, and with a great effort maintains his self possession. His wonderful nerve serves him well in such an emergency as this. As if the matter is of little importance he thrusts the message unopened into his pocket and goes on chatting with the gentleman at his side.

“Well done!” says Aleck in admiration, for his eyes can see that the other is eager to get at the message.

Presently Craig misses him.

The library is at the back of the house. He has been in it before during the evening. From the open windows one can look out upon the lake, and the scene in the misty moonlight is one to conjure up all manner of romance. Moonlight, the gentle undulations of water, and love seem to go hand in hand.

To this quarter Aleck bends his steps, wondering if the operator went thither. The door of the library is open, and, looking in, he sees Samson Cereal. The operator is alone. He stands under the gas jet, and has with trembling hands torn the end from the little buff envelope.

He draws out the inclosure, and then, as if unable to look at it, drops his hand. This weakness is but momentary. With a harsh laugh he finally raises his hand, and his eyes take in the contents of the message.

Aleck sees him stagger back and clap a hand across his forehead, while to his ears float the words—how sadly they sound, with that soft music swelling from the retreat near by:

“Lost—everything lost! After all these years of building up, to be ruined now. Good God! I shall go mad—mad!”

When a man of his caliber gives way under a severe strain, there is a terrible danger of his mind going. Aleck Craig once studied for a doctor, and realizes the desperate nature of the situation. The operator has apparently forgotten all about the fact that his mansion is filled with guests. Upon his mind weighs the one terrible thought of ruin. It glares at him from the walls in malignant letters—everywhere he sees in letters of fire the awful word that is seared upon his brain.

A proud man Samson Cereal has been. Up to this time he has been very conservative, and small-sized panics have passed him unharmed. This summer’s dullness in trade has tempted him to make a break in a direction whither he has never before trod. By degrees he has gone in deeper and deeper until everything that he has in the wide world is risked; and this during a time when, owing to the public alarm, one cannot raise a thousand dollars on securities worth twenty times the amount. Instead of diminishing, the old man’s agitation seems to increase. He staggers as he walks, and then suddenly drops into a chair, where his chin falls upon his breast. Such an attitude of dejection Aleck never before looked upon.

He remembers that it is his duty to tell the children of this man that Samson Cereal may be dying there in his chair. Heaven knows he looks about as much like a dying man as the human mind could conceive. A tragedy seems imminent, and yet Aleck feels that the fact should not be made known if it is possible to keep it a secret. These people have come here for pleasure—why then should they be disturbed in their search for it. They have no especial interest in Samson Cereal, beyond the fact that he is rich and gives entertainments that it is an honor to attend. The speculator may sink out of sight and his disappearance create but a slight ripple on the sea in which he swims.

Aleck has some such idea as this in his brain, as he gently closes the library door, and moves away to find the son and daughter.

Somehow the gay scene has lost all its attractions for him. He can remember only the agony he has seen depicted upon the face of the man in the library—the man who wrestles with the pent-up feelings of his soul, now bursting their barriers and flowing over.

Among the guests he sees Dorothy, and as he looks upon the fair vision he hates himself because necessity compels him to bring pain to her. If it were possible he would shield her—that is the thought that flashes into his mind, and it proves how far the young Canadian is gone in the realm of love.

Now he catches her eye and makes a quick motion with his hand. She seems to understand and, leaving her friends, comes up to him. Upon her face is a look of inquiry—perhaps even a shade of alarm. Of course her first thought is in connection with John.

He knows curious eyes must be upon her most of the time, and desires to protect her.

“Miss Dorothy, can you be brave to take a sudden shock without showing these people that something has happened?” he says quietly.

There leaps into her eyes a swift gleam of alarm. Then she realizes what he refers to and seeks to avoid—pride comes to the rescue.

“Yes, I believe so, Mr. Craig. Tell me what has happened. It is something terrible, I know, for your face is so very sober. John——”

“No, it is your father, Miss Dorothy.”

He has with some diplomacy managed to turn her back toward the good people who fill the room. The music, one of Schumann’s weird creations, rises and falls in sobs and strange, almost unearthly sounds, until it seems to Aleck the elements have united in mourning over Samson Cereal’s downfall.

“Tell me the worst, I can stand it. See, I have more courage than you give me credit for, but for Heaven’s sake be quick!”

He realizes that there is need of haste, for it must be agony to her, each second’s delay.

“Your father has received a telegram—it must have contained news of a distressing character, for I found him in the library, giving way to his emotion and speaking of being ruined.”

“Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Craig! My poor papa!”

“I understand that you would hardly care to have these people eye-witnesses of the scene, and so I closed the door. Then I sought you and looked for John.”

“Let us go to him at once. If there is suffering I should share it with my poor father.”

“Perhaps,” says Aleck wisely, “we had better look for your brother.”

It pleases him to look upon their relationship in this light. Once he felt the pangs of jealousy when thinking of this same young miner. Then again, at the mention of John’s name, a sudden regret flashes into his mind. He remembers that there is also a sword hanging over him, liable to descend at any moment—a sword in the hands of Bob Rocket, who waits for final instructions, unaccountably delayed, before arresting his man.

Surely a cruel fate has conspired to bring about this crisis on the very night when gayety abounds in the speculator’s mansion.

Dorothy realizes the wisdom of his words. Whatever he may seem to Aleck, who has the privilege of reading between the lines and looking behind the scenes, to her John is a bulwark of strength, and in a crisis like this can be depended on.

As luck will have it the object of their search is near at hand, and catching his eye Aleck beckons. When John joins them he is told in a few brief sentences what has occurred.

They approach the library door, but Colonel Rocket, not willing to lose sight of his man even for a minute, saunters after.

Upon opening the door they discover the old speculator with his head lying on both arms, which are thrown upon the table. He does not move, does not apparently hear their entrance. His manner is that of one entirely given over to despair. It would be difficult indeed to recognize in this bowed, broken figure the bold speculator whom previous storms have failed to bend. When the sturdy oak goes before the tempest, it is with a mighty crash.

Aleck closes the door. He would lock it, but finds no key. Dorothy has already flown to the side of her father, and drops on her knees.

So long as he lives Craig can never forget the picture thus presented—the fair girl dressed in her exquisite reception robes, a princess by right of beauty, kneeling there and fondly stroking the silvered head of the old wheat king.

“Dear father, what is the matter? Some terrible trouble has come upon you, some crushing sorrow. I am your child, your Dorothy. Let me share it with you—confide in me, dear.”

She fondly pats his head while speaking thus, just as though it were a child she addressed. The speculator looks up. His face is very, very white, and lines of pain show upon it, but through this he smiles, oh, so sweetly, as his eyes fall upon the fair face so near his own.

“My dear girl, I thank God I secured an annuity for you some years ago. That at least is saved. I have received bad news—the worst that could have happened has arrived, and I am afraid, my dear girl, that your father is—a ruined man!”

CHAPTER XX.

SAMSON CEREAL AND SON.

Unseen by any of them the door has opened a trifle. Colonel Bob’s curiosity has been aroused by such singular happenings, and he is determined to see for himself what it means. He has some idea that John is connected with the business—that perhaps his father’s telegram was from the authorities or some friend in Denver, telling the sad facts of John’s downfall, and it behooves the sheriff, under these conditions, to keep a keen lookout lest the young man should give him the slip. After going to such trouble it is hardly his policy to let John escape, not if a dozen receptions have to be broken up.

So Colonel Bob posts himself by the door to hear what is said, and his quick intuition tells him the true state of affairs.

John has held back while Dorothy attempts to arouse her father, but at the mention of the word “ruin” he can restrain himself no longer.

“What does this mean, father? I think that I have a right to know,” he says, bending over his despondent parent.

Samson Cereal raises his eyes wearily.

“Ah! it’s you, John. Yes, you are my son, and you have a right to know. The markets have been so infernally dull, with no business in the country, that in order to keep myself going I looked up some new sources of speculation, and had such wonderful faith in them that I went in deeper than I knew, it being my object to get the control of the company. Majority rules, and the minority can be frozen out.

“Lately it has taken everything I can raise to meet my liabilities. I knew a crisis was at hand. One man remained to be bought. His name is Dickerson. He owns the controlling share. Nominally it is worth five hundred dollars. My agent has him cornered in St. Louis, and was instructed to offer him five thousand for his share. I have hoped he would not know that he held the balance of power. But the other parties are after him, and the keystone, without which my arch is useless, is placed far beyond my reach. Read that telegram—read it aloud, John.”

The young man takes the message:

“Dickerson offered forty thousand cash by the syndicate. Has under oath promised to deliver me his share, provided fifty thousand is telegraphed him by noon to-morrow, the fourteenth. Otherwise it is lost. Answer.

“Max.”

“And at this time I could raise fifty million as easily as that many thousand. I’m tied hand and foot. If it could be done the control of a very rich property would be in my hands, but without it the syndicate will dictate terms, and I am ruined beyond all hope.”

“But cheer up, father. Surely you do not need despair. You have weathered storms before,” says John cheerily.

“Oh, yes! many of them; but I always had an anchor to windward, and knew the nature of the holding ground. Now I am at sea, with the storm dashing over my doomed bark. All is lost but my honor—that, thank God, no man can rob me of!” And the crushed speculator raises his head a little after his proud manner of yore, but it is only a momentary movement, for he quickly falls back into the same despondent attitude as before.

“Do you mean to tell me you have no friends who would loan you that amount?” asks John.

“That only shows how little you Denver people appreciate the stringency of the money market. In all my years of business I never saw anything to compare with it. My friends couldn’t assist me if they would—they are all about as badly off as I am, and staggering under a heavy load. There is no help under heaven for me—I must go down.”

To a proud man of great business tact, who has carried the standard of his house successfully for nearly twenty years, this is indeed the most bitter hour of life. No wonder some men have been so crushed that they never arose again.

“See here, father, you forget me,” says John, laying a hand with some tenderness on the shoulder of his parent.

“In what way, my boy?” asks the speculator, almost dreamily.

“I may be able to assist you, sir.”

Aleck starts at the words—he wonders what they mean. Does John intend to give up his ill-gotten gains in order to save his father? That would be a singular thing indeed. Besides, Craig is enough of a business man to know it would not hold—that if the young man from Denver is arrested the funds he has embezzled must be seized, no matter in whose hands they happen to be at the time.

Nevertheless he is greatly interested by the intensely dramatic nature of the situation, and watches the three actors, who, engrossed in their own affairs, have entirely forgotten his presence. Dorothy, with her hands clasped before her, is surveying the other two, her eyes, filled with unshed tears, fixed upon John, as though his words have filled her with a sudden hope.

As for the speculator he raises his hand and places it on John’s, but there is no change in his despondent attitude. Only a convulsive movement running through his frame tells of the rush of emotion. This boy whom he so cruelly wronged loves him after all. It may be remorse that eats Samson Cereal’s soul. God knows!

“John, my boy, you are kind, but I know it is only done to cheer me up. I shall get over this, perhaps, but the shock has well-nigh unsettled my reason. Give me time to brush these cobwebs from my mind,” says Cereal soberly.

“That might be too late. Whatever is done must be done at once,” remarks John firmly.

He speaks with such an air of authority in his voice that the great operator raises his head, and draws a hand across his eyes. Used to depending wholly upon himself, this experience of having a staff to lean upon is something new.

“I like to hear you talk like that—it reminds me of what I have been in business. No difficulty was too great for me to attack and conquer. But this terrible summer, was its like ever known? Firms in which I had the most implicit confidence have gone under, and each one dragged me lower, until this last demand finishes all. Your intentions are good, John, but unless you are a wizard and can make fifty thousand dollars grow on a tree, I see no escape”—sadly, still patting the hand that rests on his.

John smiles, and Aleck groans—groans because he has been able to peep behind the scenes and see what dénouements are in store. It is just as though he has read the concluding chapter of the novel first, and knows all the while, no matter how ardent the love scenes, that Edmond never marries Juliet, who dies before the happy consummation of their vows; and having this previous knowledge, he cannot take the interest in the thrilling scenes that would naturally be expected.

“Father, you forget I am no longer a boy—that I have spent years in the West, where fortunes are made and lost even more rapidly than in Chicago. If fifty thousand dollars will be of use to you——”

“John—reflect, boy!”

“I can put it at your service, sir.”

“Good God! don’t arouse any false hopes, my dear boy—a second shock would kill me,” says the old speculator, struggling out of his chair and standing there with one clenched hand upon the library table, a picture of intense, strained eagerness. Every eye is glued upon the face of the man from Denver, who smiles in a way that is reassuring.

“I am making sure of what I say, sir, and I repeat it. Circumstances enable me to offer you the amount you need. Will you accept?”

“Now—do you mean at once?” asks his father.

“At any time. I can get you the money as soon as business opens in the morning. It can be wired on to this man in plenty of time to secure you the deciding share.”

“Dorothy, are you there, child?”

“Yes, yes, father. What can I do for you,” flying to his side so eagerly.

“Pinch me, my dear.”

“Oh, father! what can you mean—are you losing your mind?” she cries, aghast.

“No, no; but it seems too good to be true; I must be dreaming. So pinch me and I can tell by the pain if I am asleep or awake. If this be a dream, I hope I may never arouse.”

She playfully complies with his request, and the manipulator of wheat utters an exclamation.

“There, there, child, that is quite sufficient. I know now it is a reality,” rubbing his arm vigorously, and then adding; “but, John, my boy, you understand me—this money I will only accept as a loan at ten per cent., unless you would rather go into this business with me. The street is so terribly dull that I have decided to branch out as manager in a great concern. That can be settled later on, however. It would please me to have my son associated with me. This shock to-night has taught me that my nerves are not so much like steel as they once were.”

“Father, you are better now?” asks Dorothy.

“Better? why, of course I am. Dr. John has given me a dose that is bound to cure. I shall soon be myself; but it was a horrible experience, and I feel like a man who has just aroused from a nightmare, trembling and cold. I can see now where Providence worked in this matter; and to you, more than anyone else, my dear daughter, is due the praise.”

“It makes me happy to know that things have come out so well. I believed John could be depended on to show his real affection for you if the time ever came,” returns Dorothy.

“Tell me, do they—our guests—know that something of a shock has come to me?” he asks, smoothing his heavy gray hair with his fingers, an old habit of his.

“I do not think so,” remarks Aleck.

“Ah! you there, Craig? Pretty tough, such an experience to a man of fifty, but there’s a gleam of sunshine through it all, for I have learned one glorious fact, that my children love me.”

He looks proudly upon them, as they stand there one on either side. It is indeed a revelation to this singular man who has led such an isolated life, wrapped up in business.

“Depend upon it, sir, 'there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.’ Behind this there is some purpose which sooner or later will be made manifest. I saw you here, in abject misery, and guessing the cause, managed to get your son and daughter in without attracting attention. It might be well for all of us to go out among the guests again. Some whisper may go around, and in these times men are quick to seize upon the slightest suspicion and magnify it.”

“You are right, Mr. Craig. I am ready to go. If anyone mentions that I look pale, tell them I have had a little attack of—well, heart trouble.”

“Before we go, father, let us decide this business.”

“The morning will do, John.”

“Pardon me, the morning might be too late. My habits have become set in this way—I would get out of bed to carry an idea to completion.”

“Just as you say, John—I am guided entirely by your wishes in this matter,” says the speculator, but his eyes twinkle in something like their old-time way—this resolute manner which John assumes tickles him immensely, for he awakens to the fact that his son is no longer a boy, but capable of managing any business.

“The message says fifty thousand. I have been careful not to get tied up during this period of financial panic, and happen to have that amount in one of your Chicago banks at this moment. The easiest thing to be done under such circumstances is for me to sit right down at this desk, where everything seems so very handy, and make you out a check for the amount. Luckily I have a blank one with me. To save time I would, if I were you, send a message to-night—now, to your agent, telling him to close the deal.”

“Just as you say, John. I confess my head is slightly rattled to-night—it shall be as you suggest,” and he proceeds to write at the table on the back of the message he had received.

Finally John jumps up.

“There you are, father,” handing him a check. “We will arrange the minor details to-morrow.”

“It is all right, John—you have saved the old house of Samson Cereal—God bless you, my boy!”

But it is far from being all right as yet, and Aleck realizes this when he hears the library door suddenly pushed back.

CHAPTER XXI.

AN ACCOMMODATING SHERIFF.

Turning his head at hearing the door open Aleck sees one whom he knows, and a cold chill passes over him as he recognizes the face of the Colorado colonel.

Bob Rocket steps into the library and closes the door behind him. This action of course attracts the attention of all concerned, and the Western sheriff finds himself the cynosure of inquiring eyes.

John’s hand is stayed in the very act of handing the check to his father—the smile remains on Dorothy’s face, and as for the old speculator, he looks with displeasure upon the interloper.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, ladies,” says the other in his bass voice, speaking very slowly and methodically, “but a stern sense of duty compels me to break in upon your family party.”

“Duty, Colonel Rocket!” exclaims the speculator, turning red with rising wrath.

“That was what I said, sir. Duty with me must always rise even above the courtesy a guest owes to his host. You were kind enough to invite me to your house to-night, Mr. Cereal, and it served my purpose to accept. I have passed a pleasant evening. I thank you for it. But, sir, that shall not stand in the way of my fulfilling the mission which brought me to Chicago.”

“Indeed!”

“And has even taken me to this house.”

“Rocket, have you been too often at the sideboard?” asks the great operator, frowning.

“You see yourself, sir, that I am not under the influence of liquor. My hand is as steady as a die. I am sorry for you, Mr. Cereal—doubly sorry for this charming young lady——”

“Hang it, Rocket, why mince matters? What the devil do you want here?”

“I’m coming to it gradually, sir. Don’t want the shock to be too severe. In the first place you don’t know, because I failed to tell you, that at present I am a sheriff out at Denver.”

“A sheriff!” repeats Dorothy uneasily.

“Denver, eh?” says John, arching his eyebrows.

“I have been sent to Chicago on the track of a shrewd young scoundrel who has absconded with over fifty thousand dollars in funds.”

“My God!” groans the old operator, for the striking similarity in the sums causes him to have a sudden horrible suspicion, which he endeavors to tear loose and cast away.

Aleck darts a quick glance at John, and is surprised to see that the young man simply flushes a little under the meaning words of the sheriff.

“The company that was so neatly robbed has offered me five thousand dollars for the capture of the thief, and double that if I save the funds. I am here in the interest of the great Hecla Mining Company.”

At this John changes his tactics—silence, contemptuous silence, he maintains no longer, but utters an angry exclamation.

“You say the Hecla, of Denver?” he demands.

“Those were my words, young man. It has been kept dark until this chase could be brought to a successful termination. I had hoped to lay low until receiving an answer to a message I sent, but circumstances combine to force my hand. Mr. Cereal, my dear sir, it pains me to do this thing, but duty leaves me no choice. You cannot cash that check, sir.”

“Why not?” demands John quietly.

“Because the money it covers is the property of the Hecla Mining Company.”

“Granted it was once, but is so no longer,” continues this remarkable young man, and Sheriff Bob secretly confesses that he never before ran across so collected a customer.

“O John!” cries Dorothy, taking his words for open confession and defiance.

“My son, explain this thing,” says the operator, again resting his weight on the table.

“My dear father, be calm. You do not see me at all excited. I am entirely innocent of this charge, and can afford to laugh at it as a good joke. I assure you solemnly, there is nothing to fear,” the young man says, disturbed by the visible agitation of those who are near and dear to him.

As for Rocket, he merely humps his shoulders, and keeps both hands behind him under the spiked tails of his dress coat. His manner is in a measure contemptuous, for he believes in his case, and that the young man simply plays such a bold game as would be natural to one who had succeeded in making a clever haul of fifty thousand.

Turning upon the sheriff, John asks:

“Will you answer a few questions, sir?”

“Oh, yes! provided I can do so in the line of professional duty,” drawls the deep bass.

“Thank you, sir. Tell me first of all the name of the defaulter.”

“Cheerfully—John Cereal, known in Denver as John Phœnix.”

Again the two near by utter moans of grief, but John, who has more at stake than anyone else—John, who is thus boldly accused of a terrible crime—simply smiles and nods.

“I thought so. You don’t know as much about this case as you supposed, Mr. Rocket. I give you the benefit of the doubt, and believe your work has been caused by a blunder, and not malice. In the first place, I am John Cereal. In Denver I have always been known as John Atherton, because that is my middle name. The Phœnix you speak of was my confidential secretary, and I am amazed and grieved to learn that Jack has gone to the bad. There are men in this city who know me—when the morning comes I shall have little difficulty in proving, even to your satisfaction, sir, that I am John Atherton, President and Manager of the Hecla.”

At this Samson Cereal takes courage and raises his head again. He is just in time to see the sheriff draw something out from his inner pocket, which he holds up.

“Do you see that? Would you call it a good photograph of one John Phœnix?” he asks.

“Not much. That is my counterfeit resemblance. I kept it in a drawer of my desk, and I remember Jack’s was there too. See here, Mr. Rocket, do you mean to tell me someone in the office sent you that picture and said it was Phœnix, the defaulter?”

“That’s exactly what was done, sir,” replies the sheriff, not quite so confident as he was, though keeping a sharp lookout for tricks. He has a constitutional uneasiness about rogues who are playing big games.

“It was a miserable blunder, and inexcusable. They could not have discovered it as yet, or a message would have been sent explaining matters. Now, my dear colonel, let’s be reasonable in this matter. To create a disturbance at this time in my father’s house would be inexcusable—damnable, sir. I am anxious to avoid a scene. When the guests are gone I will room with you where you will, and when morning comes it will be my turn to prove my identity, after which an apology must be in order from you, sir. I am not at all disturbed by your accusation. In my other coat I have letters, various things to show you who I am. Look at this ring with the monogram J. A. C. Then here is my watch marked the same way.”

“The devil! this seems an odd thing, I declare, but I’m a martinet when it comes to duty, and until you prove your innocence, nothing remains for me but to believe you guilty. You understand it—this photograph is my authority; if it proves false, I’ll willingly apologize. Until then you must be—my prisoner.”

“Very good! We shall laugh at this joke in less than ten hours. Father, send your message, and depend on me that it’s all right. Were it twice the sum I could raise it in an hour after the banks open. Someone down in Denver will have to pay the piper for this outrageous blunder. That a picture of Phœnix! Why, hang it, we’re as much opposites as you and I, Colonel Rocket, and in disposition too. I am quiet, sedate, while I doubt if in all Denver, or the West, you could find a jollier fellow than Happy Jack.”

Aleck Craig gives a cry.

“What was that name?” he demands hastily.

“We usually called Phœnix Happy Jack, on account of his rollicking ways,” returns John.

“Wonderful!” murmurs the Canadian.

As for the colonel, his red face glows with a sudden zeal. His manner reminds one of the setter quivering with excitement, upon scenting the game close at hand.

“Craig, tell me, wasn’t that the name of the gay young dog who was with you last night? When you related that adventure a while ago, I’m dead certain you called him Happy Jack, and that he said he knew Phœnix?”

“Just so, colonel, and unless he’s flown you’ll find him at the Sherman House.”

“Good Heavens! was ever a man so beset?”

“What now, Rocket?” asks John, smiling.

“Too much of a good thing. I feel like the poor devil who was undecided which girl to marry, and who in his dilemma sung: 'How happy could I be with either, were t’ other dear charmer away.’ I’ve got my hand on one party, and the other is at the Sherman House. If I leave one I may lose both, and a bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush.” John is the coolest, most unconcerned man in the house. He actually laughs.

“Poor colonel!” he says.

“Perfectly heartless! Young man, what am I to do under these distressing circumstances?”

“Oh! I’ll accompany you to the Sherman. Perhaps Jack will break down and confess the truth when he sees me. We can get out without attracting attention, I reckon.”

“Oh! brother John!”

A rap comes on the door, which Aleck opens.

“Beg pardon—is Colonel Bob Rocket in here?” asks the colored door-keeper.

“On deck, parson. Has it come?” demands that worthy.

“De messenger boy, sah.”

Rocket snatches the envelope and tears it open. Then he says something under his breath.

“Mr. Cereal, this explains it—John Atherton, pardon my bothering you, and kick this ass who signs himself 'Jim,’ when you see him again, for sending me the wrong picture. Gentlemen—ladies—adieu. Duty calls me from this realm of bliss—believe me, only that could tear Bob Rocket away so near supper time. To the Sherman, then, and Happy Jack! Again I say, au revoir!”

CHAPTER XXII.

HAPPY JACK!

Thus he bows himself out, this strange Sheriff Bob. For once at least he has made a serious blunder, and almost precipitated a most unseemly disturbance. No wonder he is wrathy over the blunder of the Denver clerk who could so carelessly send a photograph without examining it, and almost cause the arrest of his own employer.

After he has gone the little party in the library draw together again. John is good-natured, as he can well afford to be. Conscious of his innocence, he has at no time felt anything beyond mere annoyance.

As for Aleck, he has a feeling of positive relief that amounts to delight. The heaviness of spirits is gone. Not only is John what he has professed to be, but the load that has weighed the old speculator down is gone. Dorothy smiles through her tears, Dorothy is happy, and this raises the mercury of Aleck’s thermometer several degrees.

Samson Cereal is quickly becoming his old self, though perhaps an inquiring eye might discover that something has occurred to upset the usually stern and self-possessed king of the wheat pit.

The dramatic scene has shifted the setting of the stage, and the actors too appear to have a different look. Instead of tears and woe there are smiles and rejoicing. No one misses Colonel Bob, since his mission was to uphold the majesty of the law, and they can put him away from their minds without trouble.

Again they speak of mingling with the guests, as the absence of all belonging to the household may be noticed and commented upon, but it seems as though some peculiar fortune persists in interfering with these plans.

They hear voices outside the door, and Aleck finds his attention riveted when someone mentions his name.

“I must see Aleck Craig! It is very important.”

“Wait,” says another voice.

Then there is a knock at the door—not a timid rap, but one that means business. Aleck is closer than any of the others, so he takes upon himself to open it.

It is Wycherley. Another figure stands behind him which has a familiar look.

“Ah! my dear boy, here’s a party who wants to see you. Nothing I could do would put him off. He says it’s very, very particular. The easiest way to get rid of him was to bring him in, and here he is.”

With that he stands aside, and the man who has kept in the background steps briskly up. Aleck can hardly believe his eyes.

“Happy Jack!” he exclaims.

Of all the singular happenings of this night it surely takes the lead. Where did he come from, and what does he want with Craig?

The Canadian recovers himself quickly, as he sees an outstretched hand before him and hears the young roysterer say:

“Bound to find you, Craig. Heard at the Sherman you were here. Obstacles no object in my way, and here I am.”

“Come into the library. Such a weighty secret as you carry should not be bruited around into the curious ears of the public. Closed doors would be more in keeping for it,” says Aleck.

He has not the remotest idea what the other may be at, but discretion is a part of his character, and it strikes him that under the circumstances he had better get the defaulter into the library.

If he has business of importance with him, then the precaution will be well taken. On the other hand, it may prove that he has followed out some hair-brained scheme, and considers it a joke to return a pocket knife or some such article, which Aleck may have lost, and which he is determined to deliver to the owner. Such jokes appear smart to men who have looked upon the wine when it is red. They make much capital out of them.

Under such circumstances as these the Canadian athlete believes he has a trump card to play. Once the door is shut Happy Jack may not find it so easy to get out again.

He manages to give Wycherley a wink and a nod which that individual rightly interprets, and he also enters the room, remaining with his back against the door, thus serving as a barrier to ingress or escape.

One thing Aleck notes. John has turned his back upon them the very instant he heard the name of Happy Jack mentioned; so when that individual enters the room he does not know, after his sweeping glance around, who is present.

Happy Jack has one trait that in times past has served him well. This is assurance that would well become a New York alderman. Nothing appears to daunt him. Put him down at Her Majesty’s reception, and he would do his little part after his own way, if not quite to the Queen’s taste.

He is not clad in a dress suit, but this fact has no weight with him. Happy Jack Phœnix in his business Scotch cheviot is perfectly at home even amid the satins and diamonds of the finest reception Chicago has seen during the season.

“Mr. Craig, you will, I know, pardon my boldness in hunting you down, when you learn the reason for such a move. Singular man at all times. When I get my mind set on anything all earth and the lower regions—beg pardon, young lady—can’t persuade me otherwise,” he says, as placing both hands on the back of a chair he faces the Canadian, beyond whom are Cereal and his daughter, both looking in open-eyed wonder at this uninvited guest.

“That’s so!” mutters John, and he has had good reason in the past to lament this trait which Jack mentions.

“Eh! did anyone speak? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Craig, I’m set in my way. I can’t be turned aside. If I was walking along a railroad track and an engine came at me, there’d be trouble, and two to one it wouldn’t be me that suffered. That’s my nature. Now, fortune threw in my way certain information. It concerned a gentleman whose acquaintance I formed last night. I said to myself, 'Happy Jack, not a wink of sleep for you until you see him and put a flea in his ear.’ That is why I am here. I have brought the flea with me.

“You wonder why I go to all this trouble for one almost a stranger. It pleases me. I’m always doing something for others—expect to become a philanthropist after sowing the last of my wild oats. Then, there’s another reason. My friend, the way you sent that rascally Turk spinning last night won my heart. Something of a gymnast myself in a small way, a believer in the manly art of self-defense, and I said to myself: 'The chap who can give a fellow such a whirl takes my heart.’

“Pardon this long but necessary digression, as the fellow in the novel says. Now, having made myself solid, I’ll come down to common horse sense, and talk business.”

“Thank Heaven!” mutters John, still keeping his back toward the newcomer.

Phœnix glances sharply toward him, as if his ears have caught this last remark, and then he throws an inquiring look at Craig, who smiles and touches his forehead in a meaning way which brings a knowing expression on the other’s face.

“A little off, eh? That’s all right—no offense taken, I assure you. Now see here, Mr. Craig, when you tossed that copper-colored Turk over to me last night on the Midway, like a bundle of rags, you thought that was the end of him—that he was out of the game. I know you did, but you never made a greater mistake in all your life, sir.

“I have made a study of these vagrants of the Midway. Was a tramp myself once and can understand their ways, you know. Queer people, the Turks, and their leading characteristic, sir, is revenge. Even a lapse of twenty years will not make them forget.”

This may be an accidental thrust, and probably is, but it strikes home. Samson Cereal starts and looks anxious, feeling that he has some concern in this game.

“As I wandered about that entrancing region early this evening, my ear charmed with the sweet music of the never ceasing tom-tom, or the cry of the bum-bum candy vendor, my eyes feasting on the beauties of Samoan and Lapland architecture, I chanced to catch a glimpse of the Turkish nabob. Ever since I had that whirl at him last night I have been in low spirits. I wanted to repeat it. If no one got in the way I believed I could even see your throw and go one better.

“So it entered my mind to follow the Turk and watch for a chance. Gentlemen, behold the working of fate! I dogged his steps. Presently from the gorgeous Turkish village he sought the classic shades of Cairo Street, where I was quite at home.”

“I could swear to that!” says John, but having been warned, the narrator of the Modern Arabian Nights pays no attention to this interruption beyond a shrug of the shoulders.

“It was a question with me, I assure you, whether I should hire a donkey and run Mr. Turk down, or mount a camel and chase him the length of the street, for you see my animosity was aroused. Then I began to notice that he was holding mysterious confabs. First he met two fellows just outside the Turkish barber shop and handed over some money. Then, further down the street, two more turned up.

“By this time I believed a conspiracy was on foot to loot the Midway. A man could retire for life if he did that. I resolved to save the Fair, no matter what the loss of time and money was to me; and, gentlemen, under certain existing circumstances of which you are not aware, I assure you the former weighed more with me than the latter.”

“Don’t doubt it!” from John.

“Having made up my mind to sacrifice my own interests to those of suffering humanity, I set to work eavesdropping. Now, my education as a detective has been woefully scant, but in my peregrinations before condescending to settle down in Denver I have had some rough experiences, and they taught me how this thing must be accomplished.

“Gentlemen, with me it was veni, vidi, vici! for I came and saw and conquered. Near the group lay an old blanket used on one of the camels during the wedding procession. Under this dirty cloth of gold I hid myself, and then edged along until I was close behind the conspirators. I happen to have remarkable ears—you notice they stick out like a rabbit’s—they give me the power of catching a whisper, and these chaps were so earnest in discussing their sweet plot that they talked right out in meeting.

“Fortune blessed the brave—their delightful conversation was carried on in English, pigeon English as we men of the border would call it. It happened that two of those present were not Turks, but Americans, and that is what saved me from listening to a jargon of heathen talk that would have been a blank to me.

“Piece by piece I put their sentences together; at first, sir, it was a puzzle, but as each section filled a gap I finally found I was handling as masterly and bold a scheme as was ever hatched on American soil.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHAT THE OLD CAMEL BLANKET CONCEALED.

“Happy Jack” knows enough of dramatic rules of rhetoric to pause after this climax. He changes his posture, thrusts one hand into the breast of his coat, à la Napoleon, while the other emphasizes his words with pointed and quivering finger. Taken in all, he makes a fine study. Those present, realizing that the fellow really has something of importance to tell, listen with attention, and this gives him courage to pose as might a Cicero addressing the Roman courts of old.

“I have not had the pleasure of being introduced, sir, but I take it that you are the lordly host of the manor, Samson Cereal. Glad to see you—happy to have been of service to your daughter last night—delighted to meet you now, for it is against the king of the wheat pit the Turk’s arrows are directed.

“He’s a good hater, I knew that as soon as I set eyes on him; and it would make your flesh creep to hear him tell the many things he would do to wipe out the past, if ever he caught one Samson Cereal on Turkish soil. That is not to the point, however. They settled down to business after a while, and we had it all.

“Now pay attention, friends, and I will tell you what is in the wind. This vendetta of Cairo Street aims to carry out the will of a master mind. Against two persons the grudge is held, one of them our Canadian friend, who has interfered with the nabob’s plans in several ways, the other King Cereal himself.

“I learned that one of the men was in your employ, sir, and you may recognize him by the name of Anthony, which I heard him called.”

“The rascal, the traitor—and I have done so much for him!” says the operator angrily.

“Never mind. He is an ungrateful dog, and the Turk’s gold bought him. I understand that you expect a friend or two here to-morrow, and have arranged to show them the Midway in the evening, as they are especially interested in the foreign countries or something in that line; didn’t bother my head to catch the particulars. Well, sir, these fellows have got it in for you and Craig. The trap will be set and baited, and before another day dawns on Chicago, Turkish vengeance wins.

“This is to be brought about by strategy, gentlemen, in which a woman figures whom the said Samson Cereal has long believed dead.”

“Don’t mention her again,” says the operator, turning deathly white, and thinking of Dorothy, who must hear every word; but although the sudden warning causes Phœnix to be more guarded in his speech, what he has already said has aroused a curiosity in the mind of Dorothy that will grow rapidly, until it brings her in at the grand climax.

“In palmy days of yore, before I took to tramping in order to see the undercurrent of life, I used to be a shorthand reporter, and my old tricks of the trade cling to me still. Under that miserable old camel blanket, with a gleam of electric light coming in at a hole, I did some of the tallest scribbling of my experience, jotting down whatever seemed of importance. Lo, the result, messieurs, of that enterprise!”

He takes from his pocket a notebook, and shows page after page of scribbling, the strange hieroglyphics of the stenographer. The lines awry and the characters often faulty, but, considering the peculiar circumstances under which it was written, the work is rather creditable to the scribe.

“A little out of practice, I fear, gentlemen, but on the whole I reckon you can have it easily written out into everyday English. Between these covers lies a story as thrilling, as weird as any I ever read in Puck. It will a tale unfold to harrow up your soul and make your blood run cold.

“This, then, I leave as a legacy. Hire some poor hungry devil of a shorthand writer to spin the yarn. My word for it, you will be amply repaid. I would dearly love to undertake the task myself, without hope of reward, but two things prevent. I always hated rendering into prosy English the poetic signs of shorthand. Then again my time is limited in this romantic city by the lakeside. I am uneasy—like the Wandering Jew I find no rest, but must cross the border to Canada’s domain. An important engagement necessitates my leaving on the next train. Hence, you will excuse me if I retire. Aleck, my dear boy, always remember you with pleasure. Look you up in Montreal if I settle there. Reckon I’ll make a good Canuck in the end. Mr. Cereal, yours to command. Young lady, proud to have served one so lovely. As to you, sir,” addressing the party who still persists in keeping his back turned, “if you will step outside with me, where we run no chance of disturbing the elements of this charming gathering, the question of your right to break upon my narrative with insulting grunts that are significant of contempt will speedily be settled,” and with this explosive shot the man from Denver takes a step toward the door.

“We can settle the whole business right here and now, Phœnix, my boy,” says John suddenly.

At the sound of that voice, together with the mention of his name, Happy Jack whirls around, uttering a sharp cry. John’s back is no longer toward him—they look into each other’s face. Phœnix is terribly stricken. As if by magic the jaunty air leaves him, his knees quake, and his whole appearance is that of a man upon whom a thunderbolt has descended without the slightest warning.

“Good God! John Atherton—here!”

“Why not—my father’s house. The question is what brings you here—you whose duty lay in faithful service while I was away. Ah, Jack! your eyes fall. I was terribly mistaken in you. We know all. Colonel Bob Rocket, a sheriff from Denver, left this house not more than fifteen minutes ago. He wants you.”

The young man’s appearance has undergone a terrible change. Sudden fear sets its stamp upon his face. For days he has kept this panic away from his mind by continual libations, so that he has been in a hilarious condition. Without warning the mask drops and he finds himself face to face with the man who has trusted him. All is known. The end is at hand—the terrible termination that generally winds up such cases as his. Before his eyes looms up the penitentiary or perhaps the dreadful fate of a suicide.

Caught!

No wonder his head hangs in shame—no wonder he dares not meet the eye of the man he so basely deceived.

“Jack, how much of that money have you squandered?” asks the president firmly.

“Less than a thousand, sir.”

Jack seems to feel compelled to talk, even against his will. He has been accustomed to manifest the deepest respect for John Atherton.

“Have you the rest of it with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it.”

He acts like one in a dream, taking out a roll of bills and handing it to Atherton.

“You may not believe me, sir, but I’m really glad it’s off my person. The temptation came; like a fool I yielded, and I’ve had not a minute of peace since. Now, do with me what you please. I deserve no mercy.”

“Jack, you have a mother.”

“For God’s sake, sir, don’t remind me of that! It’s the thought of her that’s set me almost crazy. My ruin will kill her,” and a shudder convulses his frame.

If he had only considered his mother more before starting into this ugly business, he might have avoided the disgrace.

Atherton is in a position to be lenient. Besides, he has always had a great interest in the young man.

“Have you anything left, Jack?” he asks.

“A few dollars, I believe, sir,” fumbling in his pockets, as if to chase the fugitive pieces.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Here is one hundred dollars.”

“Sir?” gasps Phœnix.

“I may be compounding a felony, but I’ll take my chances of that. Leave this city and cross over, as you intended, to Canada. There endeavor to be a better man. This will all be hushed up, and your mother need never know of it. I do this, Jack, my boy, to give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

At this Phœnix breaks completely down, his form shakes as great sobs rack his frame.

“Oh, Mr. Atherton! what a vile wretch I have been to abuse your confidence. A man never had a better friend than you have been to me. How can I ever thank you enough for giving me this chance. In her name, my poor mother’s, I bless you. Yes, I will go to Canada, and in the sight of Heaven I swear that if I live to threescore years and ten nothing can ever tempt me to fall again. This lesson has taught me I am not made for a rascal; my peace of mind demands that I have a clear conscience. Would you condescend to shake hands with me before I go, sir?”

“Willingly, Jack; and if you can show me a year from now what you have done—if you can prove to me that this lesson has sunk into your heart, I’ll give you another trial, Jack.”

“God bless you, sir. You will hear from me if I live.”

Unable to say another word the young man turns and leaves the library. If any of the guests see him as he quits the house, their curiosity must be aroused by his manifest signs of emotion.

“There will be one disappointed man in Chicago, I warrant,” says Aleck, whose eyes are moist.

“You mean Bob Rocket. I can fix the matter up with him. In that case it’s only a question of dollars and cents. Under the circumstances I feel as though I had made a wise move. Almost the entire sum recovered, and poor Jack given a chance to redeem himself. What a strange fatality led him to this place to-night. It was probably a fortunate thing for him, as the colonel by this time would have had hold of him.”

There is much that Wycherley does not understand, but he is not in a position to ask questions, so he guesses how things have gone. Aleck is relieved in several ways. There remains one more cause for speculation—the presence of Adela under this roof. Will she continue to keep her presence a secret from the man who was once her husband? Seeing her boy must indeed be a source of mingled joy and grief, since, yearning to make herself known, she dares not for fear of being repulsed.

If the opportunity comes, he means to see her again and find out if something cannot be done to ease her last steps through life, for the end is not far away—Aleck is enough of a physician to read that in the hectic flush on her cheeks.

They pass out among the guests. At the first opportunity Aleck tells Wycherley about her presence here, and that worthy is surprised, but knowing her story, soon grasps the situation. Can anything be done to aid her cause? They hardly dare approach the stern old man with the story, not being able to hazard a guess as to how he will take it. Something they have not counted on takes a hand in the game—the same power that brought Jack Phœnix to the house where his employer chanced to be—that peculiar combination of circumstances known as Fate.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HER ATONEMENT.

The strains of music from the hidden orchestra rise and fall to the time of a popular march. No longer the low serenade or the sad sweet lullaby that falls like the rippling of running water on the ears of those who converse, but the strong, joyous marching music that means in so many words, “get your partner and advance upon the food that has been prepared by the first caterer of the World’s Fair City.”

Double doors glide open and a royal spread is disclosed, as only a millionaire can afford in such tight times. There is the usual delightful bustle; a dozen seem imbued with the same thought, and seek out Miss Dorothy only to find that the “young wooer from over the border” has been too quick for Chicago, since she is already at the head of the line, with Aleck Craig at her side.

The feast is a jolly time. Light of heart are those present. The hard times give them no occasion for worry. Not once does a soul present, in the midst of this abundance, cast a single thought upon the thousands who see the coming of fall and winter with dread because that they have no work.

These butterflies of fashion know little of corroding care. The value of the gems sparkling upon the persons of millionaires’ wives and daughters at Samson Cereal’s reception would keep food in the families of all Chicago’s poor for a twelvemonth.

At last the feast is over, and they repair again to the brilliant drawing and ball rooms where there is to be singing and dancing. What remains of the night will be passed thus; and, as is usual, the last stragglers cannot be expected to go until the small hours of the morning.

Aleck would under ordinary circumstances have gone long before, but somehow he cannot tear himself away while others remain. Nor can he understand what it is that chains him unless it is love that fills his heart. It begins to appear a very serious business, and Craig takes himself to task several times about it.

The company has dwindled down to a few, and Aleck resolves upon leaving. Wycherley has gone, actually seeing a banker’s daughter home like the audacious fellow he is.

Craig has promised to come around in the morning and help translate the tale Phœnix left behind him in shorthand—which is to disclose the intended plans of the wily Turk.

Feeling very much at peace with himself and the world in general, Aleck is descending the stairs after having donned his light overcoat, and secured his hat, when there rings through the house the sudden shriek of a woman.

He knows that it comes from the ladies’ dressing room, and without losing a second makes a dash in that direction. On the way he overtakes Samson Cereal, and together the two push through the door into the apartment.

What they see is an appalling spectacle!

There has been a fire in the grate, for the night air is chilly, and society ladies are not too warmly clad. How it happened no one may discover, but Dorothy in passing must have gone too near, and her train swept into contact with the fire. At any rate she was ablaze almost in a flash, her light drapery burning like matchwood.

Not from her lips did that shriek issue, for sudden fright palsied her voice; but the attendant gave the alarm; she, regardless of her own safety, threw herself bodily on the lovely young girl and beat out the fire with her hands.

In this she is successful, but the flames communicated to her own clothes. She throws Dorothy from her, just as the gentlemen rush in through the doorway.

Aleck takes in the situation at a glance. He snatches up a costly rug from the floor. Without a second’s delay he throws this around the blazing form and effectually extinguishes the fire. She looks into his face, and Aleck is amazed to see so little fright there—indeed, he imagines he can detect a smile upon the countenance of the poor lady.

As for Cereal, he has rushed to his daughter and stamps upon the still smoldering train.

“Great Heavens! Dorothy, tell me, my darling, how did this happen—are you injured?” he cries.

“An accident, father. I am not hurt in the least, but I might have been burned to death only for her devotion, her bravery. Oh! I fear she has been dreadfully injured! Leave me—go to her, father. I will send for Dr. Edison, who has just gone home.”

Relieved of his sudden fears, and with a spasm of gratitude welling up in his heart, Samson Cereal turns to the woman who at the risk of her own life has saved his daughter.

She looks him in the face now; it is the first time, for hitherto she has not attracted his attention. As he looks he seems to be electrified—carried back nearly thirty years and face to face with the romance of his youth.

“Good God! Adela—you!” falls from his lips.

Suffering intense pain as she must be, the divorced wife still smiles.

“Ah, Samson! I have prayed for this hour, when Heaven would let me wipe out the past. I have saved her for you, this lovely child whom the greedy flames would have ruined for life. God has heard my prayer. I have not long to live. Welcome death, now!”

Then she swoons.

The old man is thoroughly aroused. He will not even allow Aleck to carry her over to the bed, but raises the slight form himself. God alone knows the rush of holy feelings that sweep over him as his arms encircle this fragile body, once as dear to him as the apple of his eye. They see his tear-dewed eyes and must guess the rest.

He places a tender hand upon her brow and smooths back the white hair. John has come in, after seeing a young lady home, and as the old man notices him he beckons.

“My son,” he says brokenly, “the story of the bitter past can no longer be withheld from you. There is your mother!”

Amazed, John falls on his knees beside the bed. The poor woman opens her eyes and looks up in his face, startled, frightened.

“My poor mother!” John murmurs—he does not comprehend beyond the one fact that she suffers agony. Out from the rug struggle the poor burned hands and clasp him in a fierce embrace as though she would never let him go again. For years her heart has yearned for him, yet fear of his reproach has kept her aloof. Now the pent-up emotion of a lifetime breaks forth.

Her lips move as if uttering a prayer, and then exhausted nature again causes her to swoon.

The doctor comes and drives them all from the room save Samson and the housekeeper, who is a trained nurse. All the guests have gone but Aleck, and with John he sits in the deserted parlor, talking, while Dorothy changes her dress upstairs.

John is feverish with impatience, and, as best he can, Aleck tells him the sad story of the past. It causes him intense agony, but the depths of his heart are stirred with love for the poor mother who so bitterly paid the penalty the world exacts for a single sin.

When Craig describes with enthusiasm how his friend Wycherley saved the poor woman from the burning tenement John is running over with gratitude toward the actor. Indeed, all of them have pretty much the same feeling for him.

Then Dorothy joins them, looking very sweet, Craig thinks, in her dark robe, though the color has left her cheeks, and a look of sadness and fear haunts her eyes.

While they talk in subdued tones Samson Cereal joins them. His face is not as of old—the stern lines are softened, the eyes tender. It is with a trembling hand that he draws Dorothy into his embrace.

“It was a narrow escape, my darling. Only for her heroism you must have been lost to me. I hardly know what to say. God in his goodness has, I trust, forgiven me. This is the way he has chosen to open my eyes. Adela sinned, and it was right that we should part, but I have been wicked to keep alive in my heart the elements of bitterness and anger, instead of forgiving the wrong of the past. Now the scales are removed and I see my lamentable fault. Her last days shall be passed in peace,” he says brokenly.

“Oh, father! is she then fatally burned—has she given her life for me?” cries Dorothy.

“It is not that, my child. Her burns, though of a painful nature, are not fatal; but she is the victim of disease—consumption has claimed her for its own. God knows how it was contracted; perhaps through a lack of the necessaries of life, or it may be through nursing those who suffered from that terrible disease, for she tells me she has been a nurse in the hospitals, and through several yellow fever epidemics down South, trying to wash out her sin by doing good. The doctor has told me that she cannot live through another winter. Dorothy, shall this home be hers to the end?”

“A thousand times, yes, father; and it shall be my pleasure to wait upon her as though she were my own mother.”

John in the fullness of his heart draws her toward him and kisses her reverently.

“God bless you, sister,” he says brokenly; while her words have caused Aleck to suddenly remember the fortune teller of Cairo Street and wonder what part she will have in the last scene of this strange play, the dramatic climax arranged by the wily Turk.

“John,” says Samson Cereal, “you have heard this sad story from our good friend Craig. Do you hate me for the part I have played in it?”

“No, no, father. I can imagine your painful position. I blame no one. It is, as you say, a sad thing, indeed. The only way now is to forget the past.”

“That is right, John, you speak sensibly.”

“And endeavor to make my poor mother’s last days as easy as may be. She erred, but she has nobly atoned for the past. Let us not judge lest we be judged.”

“How is she? May we not see her, father?”

“Here comes the doctor. He has made her as easy as possible. Ask him!”

The physician can see no harm in it. He has given her a sleeping potion, but knows that a glimpse of happiness will do even more to bring ease of mind; so, with a warning, he grants them permission.

Aleck takes his leave. He shakes hands with each in parting, for it seems to him he is in some way affiliated with these good people, since circumstances control his destiny and places it side by side with theirs. Perhaps he squeezes the small hand Dorothy places in his; at any rate she blushes beautifully at the words he says, so low that other ears hear not, and when he has gone, glances smilingly at the mark upon her finger made by the setting of a ring, which is ocular proof regarding the warmth of a Canadian handshake.

BOOK FOUR.

The Spider’s Web of Cairo Street.

CHAPTER XXV.

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

Craig is as good as his word. At the hour appointed he appears at the house of the great grain manipulator. John meets him at the door and welcomes him, but is on the way down town to attend to some important business for his father connected with the deal that has given the operator new life.

“I thought I saw our friend the sheriff down on Clark Street, aboard a car,” Craig remarks, at which the other smiles.

“Yes, he was here. I had a long chat with Bob, and he starts home to-night satisfied. He put in the night watching the Sherman, but of course Phœnix never turned up again. By this time he is in Canada, if he caught that late train. I will be back in an hour or two. Stay to dinner.”

“Thanks,” returns Aleck, mentally deciding to await an invitation from Dorothy or her father before committing himself.

“You’ll find father in the library, I believe; walk right in, Craig, I must be gone.”

Aleck knows the way. That library will never be forgotten by him, since the strange occurrences of the preceding night.

But Mr. Cereal is not there. On the contrary, as Aleck opens the door and enters, he finds himself in the presence of Dorothy—in tears. This, of course, confounds him; no man knows how to act under such circumstances. Bold enough to face any danger, the hero feels weak in the presence of a weeping woman.

She looks up and sees him, then smiles through her tears; it is like the April sunshine peeping out amid the clouds, and Aleck can mentally see the rainbow of promise.

“Oh, Mr. Craig! how silly I must appear in your eyes; but want of sleep and nervous exhaustion have made me hysterical,” she hastens to say, holding out a hand, then quickly withdrawing it.

“I trust nothing further of a serious nature has happened,” he remarks anxiously.

“No, no! She is getting along nicely. Father is at her side much of the time. He has forgiven all and is eager to make her happy. She knows the end is not far distant, and you would be surprised to see how contented she is. I doubt whether in the whole of Chicago to-day you could find a woman so happy as Adela. It is because she is going—if she had to live she would fear for the future. The future seems bright and heavenly now to her, poor Adela.”

“And you are crying over her woes! Ah, Miss Dorothy! you have seen little of this world’s sorrows. All around they lie, but the loving care of your father has kept you free from them.”

“Yes, I have been reflecting. It never came to me before. Adela’s sad story has shamed me. From this hour, Mr. Craig, I am resolved to be of some account in the world. I grow sick at heart to think that I have lived nearly twenty years and never have I gone out of my way to minister to the sick, the suffering. This poor woman has been an angel. She has taught me a lesson. I will tell father you are here, Mr. Craig,” she says, possibly anxious to escape from his observation after the recent scene.

Presently Samson Cereal appears. He has not slept all night, and at his age such things show. His eyes look red, but his face is cheerful. Aleck fails to discover the stern lines of old. Perhaps the barriers to his heart have been overthrown by the strong rush of sympathy, and he is humbled with the discovery that all these years he has been bitter toward a helpless woman, striving with might and main to retrieve the past.

“Ah! Craig, my dear fellow, you’re on time. Glad to see you. Seems to me your destiny is strangely interwoven with that of my family, and even now I am forced to call on you for counsel, perhaps assistance.”

“Indeed! I shall be happy to continue the pleasant relation that a strange fortune has brought about between us. In what way can I serve you, Mr. Cereal?”

“It concerns that notebook placed in my hands by Jack Phœnix. The fellow is good at heart—his actions prove it, and I am glad to know John gave him another chance.”

“You want me to translate it into long hand? I’m somewhat out of practice, but in all probability I can get the sense of it all.”

“I anticipated you there, Mr. Craig. Chancing to know a smart stenographer who lives down on Superior Street, I sent word to him early this morning, and he came to see me. Half an hour’s time reduced the jumble to sense. There were a few things he could not make out, but on the whole Jack Phœnix did admirably, considering that he worked under such disadvantages. I have it written out, but can tell you briefly in narrative shape what these men have discovered, and the plan they have arranged to satisfy the old Turk’s crazy desire for revenge.”

“That will answer just as well, and save time,” replies Aleck, seating himself.

The operator produces a box of prime Conchas.

“Have a weed, Craig, and I’ll give you a synopsis of the game for to-night’s desperate play, which of course is to be carried out within the classic shades of the Midway Plaisance.”

When both of them are comfortably settled, and the cigars pronounced excellent, Samson Cereal opens fire upon the peculiar subject that must next demand their attention—the plotting of the Oriental, Aroun Scutari.

“How the devil they learned of it—except through that treacherous valet of mine, who has, it seems, gone hand and glove with this pirate, on account of some Turkish dancer he’s fallen in love with—I’m at a loss to know; but they seem to understand that I have an engagement in the Midway with two gentlemen this evening. They are bent on seeing it by electric light. What their object is I really don’t know, but I suspect they mean to reproduce something of the sort, it has proved so popular—perhaps on the stages of the East; it may be within the grounds of the Mid-winter Exposition at San Francisco. That’s not my business. They are both friends, and I’m under obligations to them.

“Since they request me to accompany them, I have agreed. Besides, I never tire of seeing the Congress of Nations, though, truth to tell, as you yourself know, my boy, I have no reason to look upon anything Turkish with love.

“This duty takes me there, and by the exercise of a little diplomacy I may be inveigled into some trap, for there are many unsuspected ones in that same Plaisance, don’t forget it. This is only the prelude. Listen to what follows, and for devilish ingenuity it takes the cake:

“The valet—I ought to call him varlet, for if ever a treacherous dog lived, it is this same Anthony Wayne whom I have loaded with favors—this valet now plays his miserable part in the drama.

“He is a penman—he can imitate my fist to perfection, and I have more than once in a joke plainly told him this faculty and gift would get him into trouble yet. He will write a note in my hand, and himself be the bearer to Dorothy.”

“The deuce! does that miserable Turk still hope to run away with her? I see very plainly I—that is, your pardon, sir, someone—will have to wring his neck for him yet,” bursts out Aleck with much animation, and not a little confusion at seeing the smile on Samson’s face.

“Glad to relegate that task to you, Craig, if the proper occasion arises. Now with regard to this note—what will it contain, you ask? Some startling intelligence for Dorothy—nothing more nor less than the fact that I have been injured in a personal encounter with my old enemy Scutari, who is used up worse than myself, and that I am being taken care of by—who do you think?”

“Marda, the fortune teller of Cairo Street—once your wife and her mother! Would they use such a lever as that to open her heart and blind her eyes?” says Craig, frowning.

“Bah! you don’t know these Turks. They are utterly devoid of the tender feelings we cherish. They buy their wives, and I tell you the average Turkish woman is almost as much to be pitied as some of the women of India, who, once married, retire to their husband’s house to look no more on a man’s face other than his, and at his death consider themselves lucky not to be buried with him. Ah, Craig! our girls, bless them, never realize what privileges they enjoy until they visit Turkey, India, and China, where women are marketable articles. But to return to this remarkable tale from Aladdin or some of the Arabian Nights’ entertainments.

“The letter is expected to deceive Dorothy, and cause her to accompany Anthony Wayne, who has long been with me, and shares my confidence. Her first thought would be to take her maid, but Anthony will see to it that she is indisposed—he can easily drug the poor girl in some way. It is the purpose of the scoundrels to bring Dorothy to the Midway, for half of the Turk’s pleasure would be lost if I met my fate ignorant of his full purpose.”

“Good Heavens, Mr. Cereal! you speak so calmly about it, I am amazed. Do you really mean that it is his intention to—injure you bodily—to make away with you?”

“I have reason to believe so, though ready to confess the Turk is a puzzle to me. Beyond a certain point this description of their plan does not go. Enough is known for me to block their little game in the start, if I so desire, by calling upon the police and having them arrested.”

“You will do so, of course.”

Samson Cereal gives a dry chuckle.

“That would be the allopathic way—putting an obstacle in front of the runaway horse, Fever, and checking him with a smash. I’m a homeopath, and my principle is to start another horse after him, gradually overtake the flying rascal, and bring him to terms. Thence, I shall meet cunning with cunning—similia similibus curantur.”

“But—my dear sir, will you allow Dorothy—I beg pardon, Miss Cereal—to undergo these terrible chances?”

Aleck is worried—he is a Canadian, and hardly understands what a reckless American speculator like Samson Cereal might be tempted to do, once a wild freak seized upon him.

“No occasion for worry, my dear Craig. We’ll arrange it so that you and your friend may be on hand at the climax. Oh! I’ve got a part for each of you to play, never fear. The curtain rises on the grand finale when our trustworthy Anthony enters with the lady he has brought from here in a carriage——”

“Then you do—oh, Mr. Cereal, think——”

“The lady,” continues the operator calmly, flipping the ashes from his cigar with his little finger, and not noticing Aleck’s excited interruption, “who is veiled, who appears terribly uneasy, and sobs now and then, yet who has not spoken a word on the long journey to the Midway. In short, Mr. Craig, it is my intention to personate my daughter with one of the keenest detectives in Chicago, who can play his part to a dot, up to the climax.”

“Mr. Cereal, I beg pardon. I had not grasped your idea. Now I can commend it as splendid, sir,” says Craig heartily.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AGAIN UNDER THE WITCHERY OF CAIRO STREET.

Another summer day is drawing to a close, and lights are springing up along the merry Midway as if by magic. If a strange, eerie place during the day, with its curious inhabitants and remarkable specimens of world-wide architecture from humble South Sea Island huts to Turkish mosques, Persian palaces, and Chinese pagodas, the effect is greatly lightened when these wonders are viewed by the aid of thousands upon thousands of lamps, colored lanterns, and electric lights.

After the numerous villages and streets, bazaars and countless shops had once got into full working order, each day and night was pretty much like another along the Midway. Only a downfall of rain made a perceptible difference in the crowds that haunted its classic shades. The same weird noises came from every hand, and a succession of sights that made one doubt very much whether he was in the ancient city on the Nile or the modern Babylon, Chicago.

When Aleck Craig and his friend Wycherley turn under the Intra-Mural railway and enter upon the Plaisance, it is just evening, and their thoughts naturally go toward supper. They might have had a much finer meal at any of the restaurants in the open grounds of the Fair, but as in the case of many others, they experience a certain amount of pleasure in dining where they can look upon the shifting panorama of sight-seers and fez-covered Orientals forever drifting past.

All is merriment in the Midway. It is to the great Fair what the variety stage may be in connection with theatricals in general. People go to tragedy to be instructed—to learn of human passions. They look at comedy to see life as it occurs—to weep with misery, to rejoice over the triumph of virtue; but when, wearied with business cares, and anxious to forget trouble for the time being, they desire to laugh, it is farce to which they turn. That is why the variety theater has gained such a hold upon the masses.

Intense devotion to business demands a relaxation that shall be complete.

So with the famous Midway.

Tens of thousands viewed the glories of the Fair with interest and awe. Its magnitude appalled them. They could not remember one thousandth part of what they saw. A sense of heaviness came upon mind and body. This was too much like work, and they had come here for a holiday.

Hence, about two or three in the afternoon, they could be seen entering the wonderful Street of Nations in squads, most of them to remain until nine or ten in the evening.

Here they found relief; here light and gayety and good cheer abounded. Very, very many who haunted these grounds, over which an indescribable charm forever rested, were people of good taste and education. They found here the balm in Gilead, the peace of mind that was denied them in the whirl of Machinery Hall or the endless displays in the Liberal Arts. And so from one cause or another the Midway always carried its great crowd every afternoon and evening; the fakirs rattled the dry bones and shouted themselves hoarse in endeavoring to draw the shekels out of pockets that were only too willing; the bazaars glittered with their tinsel and chaff; and over the whole scene was spread a glamour the like of which was never before known on American soil; all the ancient countries of the world bringing their gew gaws and costumes and ways of living, to spread them out to the gaze of the youngest nation on earth, the giant of the West.

The Canadian and his friend seat themselves at a table where they can see this shifting panorama, and order supper. Near by rises the great Ferris wheel, now ablaze with electric fires, and revolving on its axis with steady “clank, clank, clank, clank.”

Looking up at its tremendous dimensions, Aleck finds it hard to believe what strange things have occurred to him since he took his memorable ride two nights previous. It all passes in review before his mental vision like a dream, and yet he has much cause for feeling cheerful. At that time he was searching for somebody, with a hope that daily grew less—now he has found the object of his pursuit, and uncertainty has given way to definite hope.

Wycherley is as merry as ever. His fortunes have taken a sudden turn since the time he and Aleck met with their adventures in this same Midway, and one would hardly recognize the man in his neat business suit. It is doubtful whether Claude is lighter of heart than before. Now cares have come to bring lines upon his face, responsibility will be apt to sober him down a little. With some men, light of pocket means light of heart; fill their purse and you bring corroding care, anxiety, fear of robbery, and the kindred evils which in their needy state they never knew.

“You’ve arranged business with Mr. Cereal, I believe you said, Wycherley,” remarks Aleck, as, having finished their light repast, they buy the waiter body and soul with a fee, and then proceed to enjoy a cigar while watching the endless procession stroll by.

“Yes, he has taken me under his wing, and I’m quite content to let him mold me into whatever he likes. Presume he sees something in a fellow of my build that can be made available. Of course nothing is settled yet, and probably won’t be until we wind up Mr. Turk from the Bosphorus and his rascally game, but I expect to be the Co. of the Samson Cereal concern some day in the near future.”

He does not say this boastingly, but with a quiet assurance that goes to the point. Already the ex-actor is changing.

“Speaking of that same Turk, there he goes.”

“By my life, you speak truly, milord. He has not seen us, I trow. It might be well to hang our heads so that, if he looks this way, he will fail to believe we are anything more than the ordinary footpads who haunt this classic ground, demanding the coin of the realm to fill their bulging Turkish pockets.”

His meaning is clear enough, though to one who did not know his ways, the words might seem ambiguous. They continue to watch Aroun Scutari, though careful not to show their faces.

The Turk is heading for the large bazaar near by, but comes to a halt just at the corner of the Persian Palace. As he stands there another man joins him, and the two converse with much animation, judging from their gestures.

“Why not follow them; it will bring us to the trap quicker than in any other way?”

Wycherley it is who suggests the idea, and his companion falls in with it at once. They are anxious to be on the move at any rate. Some around them, looking weary and haggard, are only too glad of a chance to rest.

In a crowd like that which haunts the spectacular Midway, it is not as difficult to follow a person undetected as might be believed. All that is necessary is to keep him in view, never losing him for a second, and making sure to have a squad just in front, behind which one is safe from observation in case the pursued is suspicious and casts many glances over his shoulder.

In this way they follow the Turk to Cairo Street. He enters, and Aleck turns to his companion.

“We had better follow,” he says, knowing that the final act in the drama is to be worked out in the shadow of these buildings that so nearly represent a street from the banks of the Nile.

“Good, I’m with you,” returns Wycherley, as he actually buys two tickets and hands them to the Arab boy at the door, who stares at him, and even runs after him, making signs, which the reformed actor calmly ignores.

Aleck is laughing in a quiet way—the scene is really ridiculous—the supreme indifference of the lordly Wycherley—the belief of the Arab youth that he has discovered an old enemy, with whom he has had many encounters, only to be worsted time and again, and his wonder at the passive submission of the man who heretofore made it a point never to pay.

“What amuses you, comrade?” demands the ex-actor soberly.

“The leopard has changed his spots. Only two nights ago you bulldozed that same youth into letting us in free. He is amazed—bewildered at your allowing yourself to be mulcted now.”

“Ah! that was Wycherley the vagabond, sailing on the strength of past affiliation with tramps and nomads of all kinds. Presto! behold Wycherley the broker, the partner of a millionaire. Is it possible that you don’t see that I must reform? When I clothed myself in that dress suit last night, I put off the old life, as if it had never been. That is my privilege. Don’t believe, my dear fellow, that I can ever be anything but a merry dog; but there’s a way of drawing the line, and I’ve chalked it out. The dead line at Andersonville was of small moment compared with it. Over that line I never step again, so long as fortune smiles.”

“On the whole a very sensible way of arranging it. Does you credit, my boy. Now our man the enemy is pushing down the street. Shall we follow? is the question, or hold aloof with the crowd here that jeers at the camel riders and mocks those who bestride the long-eared donkeys. Everybody laughs; it’s in the air. Let’s stop and see the fun, meanwhile keeping an eye beyond the mosque for signs of the spider’s web across Cairo Street,” replies Aleck.

“When does Samson Cereal expect to bring up in this den of lions?”

“Between eight and half-past.”

“Then we’ve got a little time. I suggest a rise in the world. Look at that balcony above. We can gain it by a little silver. No one is there. It will give us a view of the whole scene. We may pull our hats down and keep an eye on everything that occurs.”

“A good scheme. This crowd is too jovial by half. Look at the donkey boys plunging their little jacks directly through it, and you hear only feminine shrieks or the hoarse laughter of men; not an angry word. I’ve never before seen an American crowd put up with so much abuse and humbug. It’s miraculous.” And Aleck is right; many marvel at the sight, and can only believe there must be some witchery in the air.

From the odd balcony of the house in Cairo Street the view is entrancing, and once seen can never be forgotten. Our friends do not forget the business that brings them to the place, and while smiling at the ludicrous sights presented below, with amateur camel riders hugging each other upon the swaying ships of the desert, and letting out volleys of shrieks that are music to Arab ears, they keep continually on the watch for those who are to start the serious part of the drama into action.

Suddenly Wycherley utters an exclamation.

“What do you see?” asks his companion, in doubt as to whether the other has made a pleasing discovery or the opposite, for he remembers the Spanish cigar girl and Wycherley has not yet renounced his claims in that quarter, though only the night before paying gallant attention to a banker’s daughter.

“Observe yonder camel and his riders,” replies Claude.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE OLD GAME OF THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

“Jove! there he is, sure enough, and riding a camel too. What is come over Samson Cereal, the sedate king of the wheat pit? I am amazed!” declares the Canadian.

“My dear fellow, you should be surprised at nothing here. I tell you it’s in the air. Haven’t I seen one of the most learned professors of Yale perched on the hump of a camel, grinning from ear to ear; while his companion, a preacher whose name is a household word from the Atlantic to the Pacific, whose sermons are weekly printed wherever the English language is spoken, trotted up and down this street on a diminutive donkey, his feet scraping the ground. I’d have given something for a snap-shot camera at that time. Look at our friend—he’s enjoying the lark as much as would a schoolboy.”

“Very true, and under ordinary circumstances I can see how this might be; but to-night he is to face a crisis in his affairs, and carry out his own scheme for defeating Aroun Scutari.”

“Just so, Aleck, and give him credit for appearing quite natural. His friends are here to take in the Street, and as a Chicagoan Samson has to join them in the frolic. Here they come up the aisle again. Did you ever see such a sight as when the camel runs, jolting them out of breath. It’s an hilarious old time the boys have in this place. Everybody grows young again.”

“Let us descend. The time for action draws near.”

“How about weapons?” asks Wycherley.

“I have none save what nature gave me, and in times past have been taught to depend upon them in emergencies. I reckon I shall be able to render a good account of myself when the crisis comes. How about you, Claude?”

“I’m a Western man, you know, and in my peregrinations I’ve learned to know the value of a cold deck. Trust a tramp for that. Besides, I’ve been in Texas in my time. They’ve got odd ideas down there. You can’t trust to appearances. I saw a man arrested once, the most innocent looking party imaginable, as meek as Moses, and at sight I’d swear he was an itinerant circuit rider, a 'saddlebags,’ as we call ’em; yet when they came to search him they found seven packs of cards on his person, and enough revolvers and bowie knives to fit out a whole regiment of Rangers. So you see when a fellow’s spent some time among such scenes, he naturally imbibes the same ideas.”

“But I never knew you to go armed before.”

“My dear man, that was because I had nothing to lose; in all probability my curiosities were in hock. Now that I’m a respectable member of society again, with silver jingling in my pocket, I stand a chance of being robbed. Someone may envy me this fine suit of clothes. One of my first acts was to redeem an old pet of mine—and here you are.”

With that he unbuttons his loose sack coat. As he throws it open Aleck stares. A belt encircles Wycherley’s waist, and fastened in this is a revolver. Aleck is not a man of war, but at the same time something of a sportsman, and familiar with firearms.

“Let me see it, Claude—a little old-fashioned, but a good weapon. You treasure it—why?”

“It was given to me once upon a time by a man I valued as a friend. I was hardly more than a boy at the time. That weapon has sounded the deathknell of many a man.”

“Indeed! not in your hands, I hope?”

At this Claude laughs.

“No, indeed. I’ve never fired it in all these years. You have heard of an eccentric genius known by the name of Wild Bill—it belonged to him. I was enabled to do him a favor, and he insisted on giving me this. A month later he passed in his checks, poor fellow.”

“You mean he was killed?”

“Yes, and the man who shot Hickok was too much of a coward to face him, but entered the room where he played cards, and shot Wild Bill in the back. He paid the piper, though.”

“Judge Lynch held court?”

“Well, he got away at first, but the boys just up and howled. There was a trial, and in the end the matter was settled.”

“By the way, is it loaded?”

“I reckon not, but that don’t count. I depend on the general appearance of things to intimidate. If that fails me, here is another Texan trick.”

How he does it the Canadian never knows, but this wonderful genius, once actor, tramp, cowboy, and now stockbroker, puts his hand up to the back of his neck and draws out a most formidable weapon—half knife, half sword—a curiosity that would charm a collector, rusty in spots, even nicked and shabby, yet showing signs of former splendor as a Texan bowie.

“You see I had my choice of this and a Mexican machete I own among my curios, and I took this because it lies so charmingly along one’s back under the coat—its shape was adapted to that very purpose by Colonel Bowie, who invented it, and I assure you, Aleck, I have positive proof that this is the identical weapon he fashioned himself and used to such advantage.”

Craig throws up his hands.

“I no longer doubt the outcome. If those poor Turks ever set their eyes on that saber, their wretched knees will knock together like Spanish castanets and the Street of Cairo which once was haunted with their presence will know them never again.”

“Craig, you are heartless—cruel. Sir, in the land of the Texan this is reckoned only as a play toy.”

“For Heaven’s sake put it away. The sight of it is enough to bring up thoughts of hari kari. If one hated himself he could not wish for anything more desperate with which to end his existence than that same old rusty blade,” says Aleck.

“Rusty old blade, forsooth! You have no reverence for relics, Craig. In the hands of one entirely great, the bowie is mightier than the sword.”

“Well, come along, my boy. Tempus fugit, and I see Samson Cereal with his friends sauntering down the avenue. When he separates from them, as will soon be the case, the Turkish spider will throw his wonderful web across the street, and the American fly be asked to 'walk into my little parlor!’”

Wycherley buttons up his coat and carefully conceals his array of weapons. No one looking at him now would dream he was such a walking arsenal. Appearances are deceptive, and many a person who goes about this Midway Plaisance wears a mask.

Thus they leave their eyrie, and once more rub elbows with the jostling, good-natured crowd, that surges about the spot where the camels kneel to receive and deposit their squealing burdens.

Sauntering down Cairo Street, they keep at a respectable distance behind the great operator and his two companions.

The time for action is near at hand. No doubt the Turk fumes at seeing how Samson’s friends stick closer than brothers, and doubtless he is exercising his mind in the endeavor to invent some way of separating them.

He need not worry. Samson himself will arrange all that. The two gentlemen appear to be ordinary business men, one stout and red-faced, the other tall and cadaverous. They survey the scene as though indelibly stamping it on their minds for production, and are interested in all the details.

Finally they drew near the bend. Here on the left Cairo Street, more narrow than before, runs down to the stables of the donkeys and camels, beyond which rise the needles of Cleopatra, guarding the entrance of the Egyptian Temple of Luxor. On the right the main street continues a short distance, terminating in the theater where the dancing girls amaze and disgust most of those who go in to see their gyrations.

At the point of division is the well remembered “cold drink” café, where Turkish and Egyptian flavors are given to weak American lemonade, or ice cream of a like character served in a glass. It is second habit for the pilgrims of Cairo Street to try every novelty, and so they purchase a horchata as the people of Spain call these refrescos—expressed juice of the fruit, mingled with sugar and cold water.

While they discuss the merits of the beverage the three friends talk of their plans, and presently the two who have come to take in all the sights, on business principles, leave Samson Cereal standing there, while they enter the door of the theater, through which the Turkish bridegroom runs, carrying his bride, at the termination of the ridiculous “bridal procession,” given several times each afternoon and evening, with all the pomp of gayly caparisoned camels, mounted swordsmen, flashy palanquin and the most excruciating music that ever assailed American ears.

“At last—alone!” says Wycherley, and Aleck is compelled to smile at the reference, for only an hour or so previous, both of them have been admiring the picture of the young husband folding his bride in his arms after the wedding guests have gone.

Now is the time for the Turk to start his little game of Oriental duplicity. Having but a faint idea of the manner in which Scutari intends to act, Aleck is, of course, deeply interested in the whole business. He and Wycherley have halted at a convenient distance, and watch for the spider to send his emissary forth.

Just across the way is the room of the veiled fortune teller, though no flaming sign announces her presence, only the modest wording given before. That it is through her in some way the manipulator of wheat is to be trapped, Aleck does not doubt, and yet he cannot fully believe the woman is in league with Scutari. They only met two evenings before, and he seemed astonished at her presence in Cairo Street. Perhaps he has not seen her in these twenty years. Why should she enter into a league with the Turk—she has no reason to hate her former husband, and least of all should the mother conspire to throw her child into the hands of one she loathes.

Of course the tricky Aroun knows how to utilize certain forces—he has made a study of woman, Turkish women at least, and believes he can bend them to his will. Through cunning, then, he may cause Marda to be the bait that will draw the foolish fly into the net.

“Look!” says Wycherley.

Samson is no longer alone.

Standing at his side is an Arab boy—such a lad as races the donkeys up and down, and takes a fiendish pleasure in scaring old ladies half to death by shouting in their ear as his long-eared charge rubs against their arm in passing. This dark skinned youth rises on his toes to deliver a card to the American with the gray mustache, and then makes a low salaam, sweeping his arms in the direction of the wall, where over the narrow door and under the odd latticed balcony window one can read the sign of

Saidee—the Veiled Fortune Teller.

“What will he do with it?” mutters the irrepressible Wycherley in Aleck’s ears, but the intended joke is Greek to the Canadian, who, while half an American at heart, has never been educated up to the standard of American humor.

“He reads it—see that start, that eager glance around. Well done, Samson, old boy. I’ll have you playing first walking gent in my traveling combination before you’re many moons older. Now his gaze is fastened on the door. He advances like a lamb to the slaughter, and hands in his little quarter. Shout, ye Turkish hosts, for the game is apparently won!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

DOROTHY.

The ex-actor has reported matters in pretty much the way they occur. Samson plays his part in a manner that need never shame him, and perhaps secretly enjoys the situation. To a man engaged in his business, where he daily matches his wit and shrewdness against the diplomacy of others, the constant friction must of necessity polish these qualities. There is no danger of rust with a wide-awake operator on 'Change. This, then, really comes in line with his daily business, only now he deals with a tricky Turk instead of howling brokers, and the stake is not a fortune—it may be his life.

It is characteristic of the man that he insists upon managing his own game and beating his old-time enemy in person. Most men, under similar conditions, would gladly turn the whole business over to the police, and put the Turk from the Golden Horn through a course of American law and justice that would prevent his reappearance in his old haunts until the holding of the next World’s Fair in Russia.

Not so Samson Cereal.

He has depended upon himself so many years, to reward his friends and punish his enemies, that it never occurs to him to shirk the responsibility.

Hence, in accordance with his well-arranged plans he walks over to the narrow doorway at exactly ten minutes of nine and enters. The camels have been withdrawn from the scene, and make ready to fill their places in the delayed bridal procession which will soon take possession of the narrow street. Now the donkey boys have full swing, and how they do belabor the tough little beasts. Really it is astonishing that the officers of the S. P. C. A. do not interfere, unless it has been previously proven to their satisfaction that from the days of Balaam and his talking ass, the stubborn little animals are insensible to pain. Besides, this beating is all done with so much good nature, one can hardly find an excuse for interfering.

“How long do we wait?” asks Wycherley, as he raises his hand to his neck, which significant action causes the Canadian to laugh softly and move away from him.

“Oh, I’m perfectly harmless, I assure you, my dear boy. Not the least bit excited. Icicles are nothing in comparison. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“It may be five, it may be ten minutes. He will be kept waiting in there. The prophetess must charm him, and hold him until the noise of the passing procession fills the whole street. Then Scutari’s blow will fall. We will leave here when the booming of guns below announces that the camels are coming.”

“Ah, yes!” and Wycherley, of course, begins to whistle the old Scotch song that once upon a time, to a band of desperate Britons caged in beleaguered Lucknow in India, was heard when hope had almost left them, and, wafted over the hills, came to their ears as the sweetest sound on God’s earth.

“No one else enters—see, a couple have just been turned away,” Aleck remarks.

“Yet there goes a red fez in. Turks are welcome—standing room only, greatest success of the Midway. I’m all of a quiver to see the grand entrance of Anthony Wayne, the valet, and the detective who is to represent Miss Dorothy. Great head, that of my respected partner. He believes in fighting fire with fire. Was that the drum signal?”

“No; they’re not ready yet—plenty of time. Be patient, comrade.”

“Jove! there’s my lovely senorita.”

“What, the Spanish cigar girl?”

“Sauntering along with a dandy dude, and casting coquettish looks up into his stupid face.”

“You don’t appear excited at all. How is this?” pretending to feel his pulse.

“That was Vagabond Claude. The gentleman Wycherley casts his eyes higher.”

“H’m! a banker’s daughter. That’s the way the wind blows, is it?”

“I protest—I’ve admitted nothing, only that an unfathomable gulf lies between the old life and the new.”

“Oh, Mr. Craig!”

“Good Heavens! who spoke?” exclaims Aleck, suddenly grasping his friend’s arm.

He looks around. There are people pushing this way and that—sight-seers, pilgrims, foreigners, and all the varieties of the genus homo daily seen upon this gay passage—this cleft of folly. None of them gives any token of being the speaker. Besides the voice was that of a woman, and its tones thrilled Aleck through and through.

“Who called my name?” he asks again in bewilderment, as his companion has failed to make a reply.

“I pass, Aleck. Give me something easy,” returns that mystified individual.

“But you heard it?”

“Correct.”

“Do you think you know the voice?”

“Jove! now, I wouldn’t swear to it, but, somehow, it put me in mind of—Dorothy.”

“Just as I thought. She is here. In spite of her father’s precautions they have inveigled her to the spider’s web.” And filled with a new spirit of alarm, the young Canadian again begins to glance at each person near by, as though he suspects the speculator’s lovely daughter would come here in the disguise of an old woman with bonnet and blue glasses, or a dashing sport swinging a delicate cane and wearing eye-glasses.

In the midst of his dilemma he again hears his name called:

“Oh, Mr. Craig! look this way. I am in this little shop. I wish to speak to you. At first I dared not, but I saw my father enter there and as my necessity grew greater my courage arose. I need a friend’s advice. Will you give it to me?”

Before half of this speech is finished Aleck has fastened his eyes upon the speaker. The little shop is dim, and he can only see that it is a female form, for a heavy veil conceals the face.

Instantly Craig remembers what was said by Happy Jack concerning the hatred of Aroun Scutari for him, on account of the interference with his plans, in connection with the strange Ferris wheel game, and that should the opportunity offer he has a rod in pickle for the Canadian.

He has read of the ancient Circe, the stories of mythical mermaids who sang so sweetly to mariners of old, and, strange as it may appear, these things flash into his mind now.

Can it be a trap? Have his enemies arranged a nice little web to entangle the Canadian fly?

That voice—no other could thrill him as it has done. He hesitates only a few seconds, and she has hardly finished speaking when his mind is quite made up.

To enter the booth it is necessary to drop down and under the counter at one corner. Wycherley makes no effort to follow him, but stands guard just outside, watching the couple for fear lest some evil befall his companion, and casting an occasional glance across the way at the sign of the fortune teller, while he listens for the beginning of the infernal racket that will announce the wedding procession’s start from the lower end of Cairo Street.

When Aleck has entered the booth, he pays no attention to the girl who has charge of it and who has befriended Dorothy. All his doubt is removed, for the latter has raised her veil. He is amazed to see her here, after being assured by Samson Cereal that she would not be notified of the plot.

Her agitation shows that she knows something of the danger. Time presses, and Aleck awakens to the fact that whatever he does must be done with speed.

“Miss Dorothy, how come you to be here?” he asks, pressing the hand held out to him.

“It is too long a story to tell in detail. I heard something last night, when that wild young man, Mr. Phœnix, was present, that not only aroused my curiosity but my anxiety. It came back to me again and again, how my father bade him be silent about the woman in Cairo Street whom he had long believed dead. I could see from his actions that there was a mystery behind it all. This evening when I sat alone after supper I received a note. I don’t know how it came to the house, but someone put it in my hands.

“This note—I can recall every word of it—was written in a hand evidently unused to our language, but I made it out. It ran like this:

“I beg of you, sweet Dorothy, to come with your maid, or your half-brother, to the Street in Cairo to-night at nine. I can no longer remain silent. If I die for it I must see you, talk with you. Ask for Saidee, the fortune teller. Your heart will tell you who it is signs herself.

“One You Have Long Believed Dead.

“Oh, Mr. Craig! I could guess—my heart indeed told me that this was my mother. From my father I have never heard the story of the past, but it would be strange if, living to almost twenty, I were unable to discover something of the truth. I have never known a mother’s love, and though she may have sinned like the other one, yet she is my mother. I would see her, must see her. I knew not what to do at first. John was out, my maid sick. I am not easily balked in anything of this nature. There is too much of Samson Cereal’s blood in my veins for that. We have a faithful coachman. I sent for Pat, and, as well as I could, explained that I wanted his company. He would lay down his life for me, and although dreading my father’s wrath, he consented to come.

“So we started. The elevated brought us here, and Pat stands just a dozen feet yonder, ready to do anything I tell him, from fight to running away. My heart failed me as the time drew near. I sought shelter here and waited in trembling suspense. Imagine my surprise when I saw my father entering yonder place. While I debated upon my course, and became more and more excited as the minutes flew by, I was suddenly relieved, for you came and stood near by. On several other occasions, Mr. Craig, you have been able to assist me in times of great distress. Forgive me if I am importunate, but I must see this woman who calls out for me. John has found his mother, and strange though it may seem to you, I would look upon the face of the one who once loved me as a babe.

“You can help me, will help me, I feel sure, for I am determined to solve this mystery, come what may.”

She waits for an answer.

Aleck fears that Mr. Cereal may take him to task for it, but he cannot prevent her from going, at any rate, and in his company she will be safer. Besides, once in the presence of those eyes, now tear-dimmed, he is powerless to refuse her anything. There never was a more helpless captive.

“Miss Dorothy, your wishes are law to me. I had hoped you would be safe at home while this singular climax of the drama was taking place in Cairo Street, but since you are here, I cannot refuse your request.”

“I thank you from my heart, sir. It is this craving to look upon her face, to hear her speak, to call her that dear name—for she is my mother no matter how guilty or how sadly wronged—that has made me dare all. When shall we enter? It is surely nine o’clock.”

Her manner is eager; she trembles not with fear, but with the excitement of anticipation.

“We will go now,” replies Aleck, for the boom of drums announces the coming of the weird wedding procession.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE PASHA CLAPS HIS HANDS.

Wycherley has not been able to hear the conversation inside the booth, but he catches the martial music from the streets, and is just about to inform the Canadian that they must delay no longer when he sees Aleck coming out.

“It is Miss Dorothy, Claude, and she knows who is in yonder building. She desires to see the fortune teller. It would be useless to argue the matter. We must take her with us. Surely, in company with such a walking arsenal as yourself, she need not fear.”

What can Wycherley say? He has been completely disarmed after hearing this compliment to his prowess.

“Then let us be going, my dear boy. Miss Cereal, have no fears. This is not exactly according to contract, but we must accept the situation as we find it. Hark! the wedding march; Lohengrin not in it. Straight across the street to the door. See how that stout herald swings his sword—what fierceness—what scowls—now a benign smile comes over his face. Bah! it is all mere show, like so many of their exhibitions. I turn my back on it. Here we are. What! the door closed in our faces; not if Claude Wycherley knows it.”

The boy at the door does indeed attempt to shut it, but a foot thrust forward prevents him, and before he can gather his wits to give an alarm, Wycherley has flung wide the door and seized him.

For half a minute he indulges in some of his former pyrotechnics, a combination of quick gestures and scowls, and the Turkish lad, as if in mortal fear, tries to slink away; but as the others have already entered, Claude gives the boy a sudden whirl that lands him, a dazed heap, outside the door, which is immediately closed upon him.

Thus they can call their first assault upon the enemy’s castle a victory. If it is a sample of what awaits them just beyond, they can congratulate themselves.

They are under the roof of the fortune teller. The space beyond the door forms a small hallway. Further on, through a winding passage they will find Saidee’s reception chamber, where the veiled seeress from the Orient has received those who seek her occult aid, and reads the future from the lines of their hands.

Aleck has a grave sensation steal over him. It is as though someone he loves is about to meet peril. It may be Dorothy! What cruel fate has brought her here at this dread hour when the vengeance that has slumbered these twenty years is about to break forth; when the Turk who was outwitted on his own ground by Samson Cereal now figures on making the score even?

Craig fears the worst, and in his desire to stand between Dorothy and harm, he draws her hand through his left arm, while his right fist is clenched. Woe betide the luckless Turk who feels the weight of the young athlete’s hand on this particular night, for he is aroused to send a blow that would do John L. Sullivan credit!

And Wycherley?

That strange rover has seen many queer things in his life, and, heavily armed with the weapons he carries, might be looked upon as a dangerous customer. After ejecting the youth in such an unceremonious manner, and closing the door, to which there is no bolt or lock, his next act is to unfasten his coat, so that the terrible weapon in his belt may be disclosed, and strike fear to the enemy’s heart. Then he raises his hand to his neck.

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t draw that terrible blade yet,” whispers Aleck, watching the motion.

“The appeal is carried, but it’s only a question of time,” answers the other, sotto voce.

“Come, we must advance. Lead the way, my dear fellow,” announces Craig, for the thunder of Turkish music in the narrow street deadens the sound of voices so thoroughly that they need have little fear of being overheard.

Thus they move along the erratic passage. Wycherley serves as the picket line, stealing on tiptoe, his whole demeanor that of a person upon whom the success or failure of the play depends.

Beyond them hang heavy curtains. Here they will find the room of the fortune teller. Having passed these portals on a former occasion, both Claude and the Canadian know what to expect, so they have no hesitation about drawing them aside and looking beyond.

Instead of doing this in the middle, Wycherley goes to one side while Aleck draws his lovely companion to the other.

“Courage,” he whispers in her ear, for as the sound of voices reaches their ears, coming from the interior, she begins to tremble.

It so happens, whether intentionally or not, that in thus finding a means of gazing beyond the passage, both the men clutch the heavy draperies and in a measure conceal their forms from the view of anyone who might come after. They do not forget they are in the house of enemies—that a dark plot has been formed against Dorothy’s father, and until the old speculator has a chance of showing his hand, they would do well to remain unseen.

It is, perhaps, a wise plan.

When Aleck takes a peep into the apartment beyond, he sees a stirring spectacle, and yet it does not differ a particle from what he expected.

The first figure his eyes light upon is that of Samson Cereal. Standing there the man has assumed a dramatic pose that must fill Wycherley’s heart with delight as he thinks of him as his “first walking old gentleman.”

Not five feet away stands Saidee.

The indications of her former beauty are still apparent upon her face, upon every line of it intense emotion is expressed. Tears course down her cheeks, her long hair sweeps over her shoulders, both hands are stretched out beseechingly.

That is the picture Aleck sees, and he can feel his companion quiver with suppressed excitement as she, too, gazes upon it, and, for the first time since her babyhood, sees the face of her mother.

He fears lest she may faint, nor thinks it strange under the peculiar circumstances that he should slip an arm around her waist. She does not resent it—at such a time the strong arm of an honest man is not to be despised.

Saidee is pleading her cause. She is not in the plot of the cunning pasha, and believes Samson Cereal has come here to upbraid her because her heart yearned for her child. She speaks good English, though in her eagerness and emotion she sometimes trips in her speech as though the words were too weak to express her meaning. This is what they hear, and the words sink deeply into one heart at least:

“You have had her love all these years; can you deny me one look, one kiss, and my heart so hungry for it? Ah! Samson Cereal, you believe me bad, but it is not so. I was only crazy to again see my home; I believed I should die in this cold Chicago. Then I laid a plan. My brother came, you knew it not. We meant to take my little one and fly to our home, but at the last a move of yours ruined my hopes, and I had to leave my Dorothy behind.

“Alas! those years. I wrote to you, but my letters came back unopened. Then I went to England, where my brother had charge of a great work. I labored with him for years. We are known and honored in London. All this while I hungered to see my child, yet dared not come. At last the Fair—I conceived a plan, and behold you see me! Twice have I looked upon her, but she did not know it. Ah! so fair, so sweet; it almost drove me wild to think I could not take her in my arms and say, 'I am thy mother.’

“Unable to longer endure it, I wrote her a note. Perhaps I did wrong: the God to whom you taught me to pray shall judge. Instead of my child, the stern father comes to judge, to condemn.

“Well, what can I say? My only fault was that, homesick and weak, I left you in this cold city and fled with my brother. When I repented and would have returned—on my knees begging your forgiveness—you scorned me, never even reading my plea. We women of Georgia are proud; it is our nature. I could not seek you again. Now you know all. Once you loved me—is that feeling utterly dead in your heart? If I could bring you overwhelming proof that I have ever been true as the needle to the pole, that my only fault was in giving way to this terrible home sickness, would you, oh, Samson Cereal, hate me, scorn me still?”

He lets his head fall on his breast and groans; surely such a scene as this was not in the contract when he planned to meet and defeat Aroun Scutari. He has expected that this woman is in sympathy with the Turk, that she will gloat over his capture, and laugh in derision while he fumes. Instead, she appeals to his heart, batters down the walls of his prejudice, and awakens feelings that have lain dormant, frozen, almost a score of years.

“I do not ask,” she goes on, choking back her sobs, “to be your wife again—that I know is impossible; but, in the name of mercy, allow me only once to hear her lips call me 'mother,’ and then welcome death. This is my prayer. See, I am at your feet—I beseech, entreat you not to say me nay. By all the love you once bore me, by the affection you felt toward your own angel mother, grant me this!”

He may be made of ice, this man. Her wild entreaty thaws him out.

“It shall be as you say, woman.”

“God be praised!”

“When your brother comes, I will investigate this claim you make. If you can prove its truth—well, I can say nothing more, only that, never having been divorced, you are still my wife in the eye of the law.”

“It is very, very sad!” interrupts a voice, and turning, they behold the spider who has spun his web across Cairo Street—the sneering Turk who has never forgotten what happened twenty years ago.

The woman shudders and trembles, but not so Samson Cereal, who stands there like the rock that has breasted many a storm in the panic days on 'Change.

The wily Turk shrugs his shoulders and rubs his brown hands together, just as might an ideal miser contemplating his store of gold.

“Yes, it is too very sad. It makes me think of ze play I gaze upon one night in She-cago. All ze years two loving hearts are wide apart. I myself bring them together, I am ze magician who plan ze meeting. For what? In order zat zay may continue to love as before, and build a bridge across ze dark chasm over which to walk again into life—into love? Bah! not much. By ze beard of ze Prophet, I am Aroun Scutari, a pasha—my hate lives forever! I do not forget that she belonged to me—my gold bought her—you stole her away, dog of an American! No longer it is night—day comes, and with it sweet vengeance. For this I have waited—for this I have lived. It pleased me to leave all and come here as a merchant, that I might repay my debt. That hour is here. It is my time to laugh. You shall see!” With which sarcastic words the Turkish plotter claps his hands loudly together.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE LAST ACT.

In all Eastern countries, where call bells are unknown, servants are summoned by the clapping of hands, a custom handed down from Bible times. So when Aroun Scutari makes this signal he expects to have an answer. Nor does he make a mistake.

From some other means of ingress figures appear—men ready to obey his bidding. They appear as though by magic; one, two, three in all, and their looks are certainly fierce enough to inspire alarm.

Again the pasha claps his hands with all the gusto of a master of ceremonies. This business suits him exactly, he is quite at home.

The second signal brings a new surprise, for as the heavy curtains part, a man, who is plainly an American, is seen, leading a veiled woman. Of course this is Anthony Wayne and the one he believes to be Miss Dorothy, for Samson Cereal has played his game well, and the party employed to personate his daughter is one of the shrewdest detectives in Chicago.

The operator assumes much surprise at sight of his secretary and valet.

“What, you, too, Anthony!” he exclaims, in much the same tone Cæsar must have employed when he saw Brutus among his assailants.

“Ze company is all here. There is no cause for longer delay. For this hour I waited; everything comes to him who waits. Listen now, you wretch, who stole my bride years ago. To pay me, you must even now give Aroun Scutari your daughter for a wife.”

“It is you who are the wretch. I would sooner see her dead than your wife. You are many, I am one; but despair never gnawed at my heart. Let him lay hands on me who dares,” and the speculator of the Chicago Bourse draws himself up defiantly.

None of them seem to be in any hurry, but perhaps it is because they are so sure—because they have other means at hand.

“Bah! shout if you will—no one can hear you. It is our turn to laugh, and we shall enjoy it, I assure you. I have asked for your daughter—you refuse. Bismillah! she comes to me of her own will.”

He points his trembling forefinger at the veiled figure standing beside Anthony, and his mocking laugh is enough to make one’s blood run cold. These old Turks know how to make of their revenge sweetness long drawn out—they can lacerate their victims’ feelings even as vultures pick the flesh from the bones of the dead placed in the Towers of Silence.

“Man, behold your child come to fill ze place you made vacant in my heart when you stole her mother from me. So shall ze revenge of Aroun Scutari be complete. Look upon her for ze last time, I tell you, for you go not forth from here again. It is decreed.”

With these last cutting words the Turk steps forward and tears the veil away. His manner is proud, disdainful. He feels as though he has the destiny of all present within the grasp of his hand, just as might a reckless man who holds a dynamite bomb, and looks around upon the men he hates.

As he does this, he receives the greatest shock of his life. It almost paralyzes him. He stares like a man demented.

Instead of the lovely features of Dorothy, he sees the face of a man, and a very homely face it is, to boot. The fellow shuts one eye and ogles him in a ridiculous fashion. Aroun Scutari is aghast at this failure of his plan. He turns his gaze upon Wayne.

“Where is she—what have you brought to me—zis thing? Speak, you slave, you dog of an unbeliever!”

Perhaps it is his looks, but more probably the gleaming yataghan he flashes from its sheath that scares the amazed valet into speech.

“I don’t know—I played my part—I believed it was Miss Dorothy—there’s some trickery here?” is what he gasps.

“Trickery! yes, I see; he believes he has again outwitted a pasha. Once more I am robbed of a bride, but this blade shall drink his blood. It was forged in the fire of revenge! Nothing can save you now, dog of a Christian!”

The Turk has gone mad—his appearance is positively fearful. Dante could find inspiration for his pictures of the Inferno by looking upon his frenzied countenance, scowling and blazing with the wrath that has been bottled up all these years, to burst its bonds at last.

He means every word he speaks, and backs it up by swinging on high the flashing blade.

The extraordinary temper of Damascus steel has long been the theme of song and story, and the skill which the Saracens of old displayed in handling their precious blades has been sung again and again. With a strong and well-trained arm, vengeance-driven, using such a weapon, it would not be difficult to sever a man’s head from his body at a single stroke.

As this yataghan, the pet weapon of Arab and Algerian, cuts the air in flashing curves, the tragedy of the Midway seems about to reach its climax.

A scream breaks forth. Saidee, the fortune teller, has thrown her form in front of the old speculator.

“You shall not strike him save through my heart, pasha!” she shrieks.

The Turk has started back as she comes between his weapon and its intended victim; but his confusion is only momentary. Then over his dark face spreads a smile that is absolutely fiendish. He intended taking one victim—two will do just as well.

“Together, then, you shall die! I have made a vow! A Turk always keeps his word.”

“Pardon me, but I’m afraid you lie, pasha,” says Wycherley, as he strikes the yataghan out of Scutari’s hand with a cudgel he picks up from the floor. Then as he places his foot upon the weapon, he continues calmly: “My dear man, don’t you know the race isn’t always to the swift? When you come to America and buck against Chicago brain and muscle it’s ten to one you go home a sadder and a wiser man. That’s right, scowl as you please, I’m quite impervious to it. Now you feel for another weapon and start for me! Well, I’m cheerfully on deck, every time. Come on with your circus, band-wagon and all. The show has begun and I am ready to play my part.”

With considerable adroitness the ex-actor has whipped out his bowie, and the other hand withdraws the revolver that Wild Bill once handled. Such a display might well cause dismay even in the breast of a fire-eater, and perhaps the Turk might have paused before rushing to impale himself, but the detective in woman’s clothes, feeling that he is expected to do something more in order to earn his fat fee, now fastens upon the back of the pasha, just as the Old Man of the Sea did upon Sinbad, and, pinioning his arms to his sides, despite his mad bellowings, prevents him from either flight or any dangerous move.

Anthony Wayne turns to fly, but Aleck gives him a whirl that sends him into a corner. The three Turkish adherents of the pasha have already dashed from the room by means of the other exit.

Another scene is taking place on the right. Dorothy has left Aleck’s side. Straight as an arrow in its flight she passes to the woman still kneeling at Samson’s feet. She bends, she places her arms about Marda’s neck, and into her ear she sobs:

“Oh, my mother, my mother!”

The woman snatches her in a fierce embrace. Cheated by a cruel fate all these long years, still the mother-love for its child has remained within her heart, and now asserts its power.

Samson Cereal cannot gaze upon the spectacle without deep emotion. Strange indeed that two specters of his early life should thus be resurrected so close together. It is true that our destiny is often molded by unseen hands.

Aleck goes over and takes hold of the valet who has played his master false. He brings him to the speculator, cowering and trembling.

“Turn him around—so. I only want one kick at the dog that could bite the hand which has fed him. Now, go, and never let me see your face again, you base wretch!”

Urged on by the impetus of the old operator’s boot, Wayne flies through the passage, bawling like a calf, but the dulcet sounds of the wedding procession music still swell through the narrow street, and no one would be apt to pay any attention to such a small outburst of anguish and fright as the discharged valet gives vent to while he runs.

There remains only the Turk.

Having exhausted his fit of passion, and finding he cannot break away from the strong arms that pinion him, Scutari stands there and glares into the face of his foe.

“What shall be done with this pretty thing?” says that inveterate cuckoo, Wycherley. “I think he can be locked up for five or ten years at hard labor.”

The pasha hears; at first he looks defiant, but at the mention of work he wilts like a blighted flower. Such a fate would scare the average Turk half to death.

“Anything but that! take my life if you will, but to work like a slave, Allah deliver me! I swear to you on the Koran that if you allow me to depart, I will return to Stamboul and never again remember that you live!” he cries eagerly.

Samson Cereal hesitates, but from an unexpected quarter help comes for the Turk.

“You can believe him. What a pasha swears on the Koran, that he will do.”

It is Marda who speaks, and the speculator makes up his mind.

“Pasha, you have played a bold game and you have lost. Make up your mind to accept the inevitable. As your people so philosophically say, 'Kismet—it is fate.’ Go then to your home, to your wives, on the Bosphorous. Forget that we live. May our lives never again cross.”

The pasha keeps his word, and before another sun has set his face is turned toward the Orient.

Under charge of Aleck and Wycherley the two ladies—for they refuse to be separated—go to the princely home of the wheat king. Samson Cereal soon leaves his friends and joins them, for, even before the proof Marda has promised is forthcoming, his heart acquits her.

A singular meeting truly, between the two women this man has loved, but both have been purified by suffering, and Adela, knowing her days are few, rejoices in the fact that the girl she has already learned to love has found a mother.

THE END.

EAGLE LIBRARY

A weekly publication devoted to good literature.
By subscription. $5 per year. July 4 1898
Entered as second-class matter at N. Y. post-office.

NO. 71

Hall’s

Vegetable
Sicilian

Hair Renewer

Restores color to faded or gray hair. Makes the hair grow. Stops falling of the hair. Cures dandruff. Prevents baldness.

If your druggist cannot supply you, send one dollar to R. P. Hall & Co., Nashua, N. H.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Many page numbers in the table of contents are incorrect, but these have been left as originally printed.

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Table of Contents

- The Spider’s Web

- CONTENTS.

- THE SPIDER’S WEB;

- BOOK ONE.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- BOOK TWO.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- BOOK THREE.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- BOOK FOUR.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- Transcriber’s Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE