The Spider’s Web

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

The Most Popular Series of Books Ever Printed

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

THESE BOOKS CAN BE HAD IN NO OTHER SERIES

THE SPIDER’S WEB

BY

ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

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

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
81 Fulton Street

Copyrighted 1896 by Street & Smith.
Copyrighted 1898 by Street & Smith.

CONTENTS.

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.