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.”