"We will break this proud spirit of yours, John Craig—what you scorn now you will beg for after awhile, when it is too late!"

He wonders whether this is a prophecy.

The men hurry him along a narrow hall, for many of these Maltese houses are built in a queer way, nor do they treat him with consideration, but rather the contrary.

When he ventures to protest, the man who opened the door orders silence and enforces it with a cowardly blow from his fist.

John looks him straight in the eye and says:

"You coward! I will remember that," at which the man turns his head away and swears under his breath.

Presently they halt in front of a door, which the leader unlocks. At a word from him the young American is pushed inside.

John, receiving such an impetus, staggers and throws out his hands for support, but failing to find anything of this kind, pitches over, just as the door slams shut.

He recovers himself and sits up, a trifle bruised, but not otherwise injured through his rough treatment.

This is a nice predicament, to be shut up in a house of Valetta, while, perhaps, Philander Sharpe returns to the hotel with a story of his succumbing to the wiles of a beautiful enchantress.

The steamer will sail without him, and the duse must be to pay generally.

John begins, like a man, to wonder if he can do anything for himself; that spirit so distinctive, so Chicago like, will not allow him to sit down and repine.

Surrounded by gloom, how will he find out the nature of his prison?

He endeavors to penetrate the darkness—a trace of light finds an entrance under the door and relieves the somber blank. It does more, for all at once John's eyes discover something that rivets his attention.

There are two of them—eyes that gleam in the darkness like those of a great cat.

A thrill sweeps over the doctor; can it be possible they have shut him in here with some great fierce animal that will tear him limb from limb? Is this Pauline Potter's dramatic revenge?

Who can blame him for a sudden quaking in the region of his heart—such a fate is too terrible to calmly contemplate; but this qualm is only momentary, and then Doctor Chicago is himself again, brave and self-reliant.



CHAPTER VIII.

HER DEBT CANCELED.

He begins to reason, to strain his mind in search of all the things he ever heard with relation to a meeting between unarmed men and wild beasts.

The power of the human eye has been held up as an example, and surely here is a chance to try it—the stake, his life.

By this time he becomes cognizant of a certain fact that renders him uneasy; the yellow orbs do not seem as far away as before, and it is evident that they approach gradually nearer.

He can even imagine the great body of the animal, perhaps a tiger from African shores, creeping on its belly, inch by inch shortening the distance between itself and its prey.

John cannot retreat—already he is in a corner, with the wall behind, so that all he can do is to await developments.

Nearer still, until scarcely five feet separate him from the glowing orbs, he can even hear the animal's stentorian breathing.

John prepares for a terrible struggle; he holds his hands out so as to clutch the great beast by the throat as he advances, and his muscles are strained in order to sustain the shock.

Just when he expects to hear the roar of a hunger-stricken beast, he is astonished beyond measure at what occurs.

"Scat! you rascal!" exclaims a voice, and there is heard a great threshing sound, as though some one endeavors to intimidate by the swinging of arms as well as by sound.

"What! is that you, Professor Sharpe?" demands the doctor, amazed, delighted, not because he has a companion in misfortune, but on account of the dissipation of his fears respecting an assault.

In another minute the two are embracing; there is nothing like danger to bring men together and make them brothers.

There is strength in union, and both of them feel better since the meeting.

Of course their thoughts are wholly bent on escape, and the talk is of this. Sharpe has not been so thoroughly searched as his companion, and soon produces a few matches, with which they proceed to examine their dungeon.

It is a gloomy prospect.

The walls are heavy and of stone; there is no opening beyond a mere slit in the corner through which comes wafts of the sweet air without.

As to the door, it would withstand the assault of giants.

Hopeless indeed does it all appear, and yet little do we poor mortals know what the next minute may bring forth.

While they are seated there, seeking to cheer up each other, it is John's keen ears that detect the presence of some one at the door.

This is not a new event that may be pregnant with hope—on the contrary, it is possibly the next downward step in the line of Pauline Potter's revenge.

When the key turns in the lock, both men are on their feet ready to meet whatever may be in store for them.

The door swings open.

Instead of a man, they see a woman of Malta. Upon her arm hangs a lantern. She shades her eyes from its glare and looks upon the prisoners.

To say Doctor Chicago is surprised would be putting it feebly; he is amazed at the sight of a woman jailer.

Now she fastens her eyes on his face, he can almost feel her gaze. She advances a step or two.

"Chicago?" she says, inquiringly.

John hardly knows what she means.

"Answer her," says Sharpe, quickly; "she wants to know if you are from Chicago."

"Yes," returns Craig, nodding.

"Name?"

"John Craig, M.D."

"It is good. Come."

He is thrilled with a new hope. Can this mean escape? or does the clever Pauline play a new game with them?

"Shall we go, Sharpe?" he asks, in a whisper.

"Go—well, I reckon we'd be fools to let such a chance as this slip," returns the little man, instantly.

So they proceed to follow their strange guide, out of the dungeon door and along the narrow passage after her.

Again John suspects, and bends his head close to that of his comrade.

"Professor."

"Well, I'm wide awake. What is it you want?" returns the other.

"Do you really mean to trust her?"

"She seems friendly enough. We're out of that abominable place—bah! I'd as soon be shut up in the Calcutta Black Hole as there."

"But, Pauline—"

"Well, what of her?"

"She is a wonderfully shrewd girl, and this may only be one of her tricks."

"I don't believe it; she had us safe enough before. Besides, John, my dear boy, I seem to have discovered something that has not yet made itself apparent to you."

"Then tell me."

"You noticed how she stared at you and asked your name; why, it didn't matter if a dozen Philander Sharpe were near by."

"Yes, but get down to facts."

"She is repaying her debt."

"To me—she owes me nothing, man."

"You mistake. As you walk, doctor, don't you feel your left arm twinge some?"

"Hang it, yes; but what's that got to do with this Maltese woman with the lantern?"

"Softly—speak in whispers if you don't want to arouse the house. See, she turns and raises her forefinger warningly. Do you mean to say you don't remember her, John?"

"Her face is familiar, but—"

He hesitates, and faces the professor.

"I see, you've got it. You saved her child from the death fangs of the mad dog, and a kind Heaven has placed her in a position to return the favor, which she would do if the most terrible fate hung over her head."

"It seems incredible," mutters the doctor.

Nevertheless it is true; the one chance in ten thousand sometimes comes to pass.

Already has his afternoon's adventure borne fruit in more ways than one; first it restored him to his former place in the esteem of Lady Ruth, which his refusal to do her foolish errand had lost him, and now it works greater wonders, snatching him from the baleful power of the actress who, unable to rule, would ruin.

Truly he has no reason to regret that heart affection, that love for humanity which sent him out to snatch the dusky child of Malta from the fangs of the beast.

Now they have reached a door that is heavily barred, proving that their course has been different from the one by means of which they gained the dungeon.

The woman lays down her lantern and takes away the bars. Then she places her hand on John's arm.

"You saved my child, Chicago; I save you."

She smiles, this dusky daughter of Malta, as if greatly pleased at being able to frame her thoughts in English—smiles and nods at the young doctor.

"But you—she may punish you," he says, and she understands, shaking her head.

"She no dare; I am of Malta; also, I shall see her, this proud mistress, no more," which doubtless means that she intends taking French leave as soon as the Americans have gone.

John takes her hand and presses it to his lips; a dusky hand it is, but no cavalier of old ever kissed the slender member of a lady love with more reverence than he shows.

"Go, it is danger to stay," she says, with something of a look of alarm on her face, as from the interior of the dwelling comes some sort of clamor which may after all only turn out to be the barking of a dog confined in the court where the fountain plays, but which at any rate arouses her fears.

They are only too glad to do so; after being confined in that murky dungeon the outside air seems peculiarly sweet.

It must be very late, and in this quarter, at least, the noises of the earlier night have passed away.

The only sounds that come plainly to their ears are the booming of the heavy tide on the rocks, and the sweep of the night wind through the cypress trees.

When they turn again after making an effort to locate themselves, the door in the wall is closed, and the Maltese woman is gone.

There is no cause for them to linger, and they move away.

John Craig has nothing to say. The disappointment has been keen, and he does not yet see a ray of light ahead.

Hope had such a grasp upon his soul, when he started from the hotel, that the fall has been more disastrous.

Not so Philander Sharpe.

An evil fortune has kept him pretty quiet for quite a little while now, and he begins to make up for it in part, chirping away at a merry rate as they push their way along the street.

At first Doctor Chicago pays little heed to what he says, but presently certain words catch his ear and tell him that the professor is not merely speaking for oratorical effect or to hear himself talk.

"What's that you say, sir?" he asks.

Cheerfully Philander goes back to repeat.

"I was saying that I experienced queer sensations when I came to. They had carried you away to some more luxurious apartment, but I was left where I went to sleep—anything was good enough for Philander Sharpe.

"At first I was dazed; the soft murmur of the fountain came near putting me to sleep again with its droning voice. Then I suddenly remembered something—a charming face with the flashing eye of a fiend.

"That aroused me to a comprehension of the position, and I no longer cared to sleep. Action was necessary. I knew they cared little about Philander Sharpe, as it was you the trap had been set for—hence I was perhaps in a position to accomplish something.

"I left my chair and prowled around. They had disarmed me, and my first natural desire was to find some sort of weapon with which I could do service in case of necessity.

"In thus searching I came across a peculiar knife, perhaps used as a paper-cutter, but of a serviceable kind, which I pocketed.

"More than this, I discovered something that I thought would prove of importance to you, and this I hid upon my person, very wisely, too, for a short time later I was suddenly set upon by three miserable rogues, who crept upon me unawares, and in spite of my frantic and Spartan-like resistance, they bore me away along a dim passage, to finally chuck me into the vile den where you came later and alarmed me so dreadfully, as I fully believed it must be some tiger cat they had been pleased to shut in with me."

The little professor rattles off these long sentences without the least difficulty—words flow from his lips as readily as the floods roll over Niagara.

When John sees a chance to break in he hastily asks what it is the professor has discovered that interests him.

Whereupon Philander begins to feel in his various pockets, and pull out what has been stored there. At last he utters an exclamation of satisfaction.

"Eureka! here it is. Found it lying on a desk. Was attracted by the singular writing."

"Singular writing! that makes me believe it must have come from my mother."

"It is signed Sister Magdalen."

"Then that proves it; you remember what Lady Ruth said about meeting a Sister in Paris who resembled the miniature I have of my mother. It was a kind fate that brought this to you, professor."

"Well, you see, I always had a faculty for prying around—might have been a famous explorer of Egyptian tombs if I hadn't been taken in and done for by Gwen Makepeace."

"Was there anything particularly interesting in this letter?" asks John.

"I considered it so—you will see for yourself," is the reply.

All is darkness around them. John is possessed of patience to a reasonable extent, but he would like to see what this paper contains.

"Professor, you seem to have about everything; can you drum up a cigar and a match?"

"Both, luckily."

"Ah! thanks," accepting them eagerly.

"It may be dangerous to light up here," says Philander, cautiously, but the other is deaf to any advice of this sort.

There is a rustling of paper, then the match is struck, and Doctor Chicago is discovered bending low in order to keep it from the wind. His cigar is speedily lighted, and his eyes turned upon the paper which Philander has given him—Philander, who hovers over him now in eager distress, anxious to hear John's opinion, and yet fearful lest the rash act may bring danger upon them.

John's lips part to utter an exclamation of mingled amazement and delight, when from a point close to their shoulders an outcry proceeds; the burning match has betrayed them.



CHAPTER IX.

BRAVO, PHILANDER!

It is impossible for them to understand just at the moment what has occurred.

They are in a part of the Maltese city that Europeans might well hesitate to visit at the hour of midnight, however much they would frequent it in daylight.

The natives of Valetta have not all become reconciled to British rule, and although no open outbreak occurs, more than once has it been placed in evidence that there is a deep feeling of resentful distrust in certain quarters, which only awaits an opportunity to show its ugly teeth.

Knowing this fact, it is general principles more than anything else that causes Philander to have concern.

When those loud cries break forth close at hand, he knows his fears were not without foundation.

John Craig is also suddenly brought to a realization of the fact that he has hardly been prudent in his action.

He stows the paper away with a single movement of his hand. It is precious to him, and must be kept for future study.

Then he is ready to face those who, by their presence and outcries, announce themselves as the foes of foreigners.

There are many secret societies on the famous island besides the Knights of Malta, and it is not at all improbable that an organization exists which has for its main object the eventual uprising of the Maltese and their freedom from the British yoke.

This would naturally be kept a secret, and not proclaimed from the flat roofs of Valetta, or the platform of St. Lazarus.

Philander has shown remarkable traits upon this night of nights, traits which Doctor Chicago never suspected he possessed. He now proves that, in addition to these other commendable qualities, he has wonderful presence of mind, and that no sudden emergency can stupefy his senses.

Just as soon as the outcry is heard, he draws the small, cimeter-shaped paper-knife, which he claimed would make a serviceable weapon.

At the same time he cries out:

"We're in for it, John, my boy! Don't be too proud to run. Legs, do your duty!"

With which remark Philander starts his lower extremities into action, turning his head to make sure that his companion has not hesitated to follow.

If the professor is a small man, he has the faculty for getting over ground at quite an astonishing rate of speed. His short legs fairly twinkle as they measure off the yards; and, given a fair show, he would lead any ordinary runner a race.

The darkness, the uneven street, and his unfamiliarity with his surroundings, are all against him now, so that he cannot do himself justice.

Suddenly he misses his companion. John was close beside him ten seconds before—John, who is a sprinter from athletic education, and who could have distanced the professor with only half an effort had he wished, but who moderated his speed to conform with that of his less favored friend.

The shouts have continued all this while, proving that the citizens of Valetta have steadfastly pursued them with some dark purpose in view.

Just as soon as Philander Sharpe makes this discovery, his action is one that proves him a hero.

He stops in his tracks, and no longer keeps up his flight.

"Turn the other way, boys! At 'em like thunder! As Sheridan said at Cedar Creek: 'We'll lick 'em out of their boots,'" is the astonishing cry he sends forth, as he begins to travel over the back trail.

This speedily brings him upon the scene of action. Several dark figures have come to a halt around a prostrate object. They are the men of Valetta, who have organized this secret vendetta against all foreigners.

It is easy to understand why they thus halt. John Craig is the recumbent, struggling figure on the roadway; John Craig, who has possibly been lassoed by some expert among the pursuers, and who kicks with the vim and energy of a free American citizen.

This Philander understands instantly, and also comprehending that he must do something very speedily, throws himself into the midst of the dusky Maltese thugs.

The advent of a wild-cat could not produce more astonishment and consternation than this sudden coming of the energetic little man.

He accompanies his assault with the most energetic movements of both arms and legs, and his shrill voice keeps time to the music.

As he holds the cimeter-knife in one hand, his movements are not without certain painful accompaniments. The men fall back in dismay. A momentary panic is upon them. Philander is shrewd enough to know this will not last, and he does not attempt to pursue them.

Upon finding that for the time being the scene is left to him, and that he is the master of the situation, the professor bends down to free his companion from the noose that binds his arms.

Already has John managed to gain a sitting posture, as the fellow at the other end of the rope forgets to pull steadily upon it in his alarm at the new phase of affairs.

Before he can collect his wits, and once more stretch the line, Philander's keen blade of Damascus steel is pressed against the rope, and as it comes taut it instantly separates.

This is enough for John, who has now gained his feet, and throws aside the entangling loop.

His tumble has had a queer effect on the young doctor; usually cool and cautious, he has been transformed into a Hotspur; there is a sudden desire for revenge.

In his hand he holds a cudgel, which he snatched from the street as he arose. It is the spoke of a wheel belonging to some light vehicle, and which no doubt one of the assailants carried.

With this flourishing about his head, Doctor Chicago leaps in among the Maltese and belabors them right and left.

As Philander, seeing what is going on, and knowing his assistance would be appreciated, springs to his side, the dusky sons of Malta break and run.

They realize, perhaps, that they have waked up the wrong customers, and immediate flight is the only thing that will save them from the result of their impetuosity.

The two Americans make a pretense of pursuing them, but truth to tell their course really lies in an altogether different direction, and, as if by mutual consent, they suddenly turn right about face.

Taking advantage of the enemy's discomfiture, they are enabled to make good their escape, and presently reach the vicinity of the hotel, rather out of breath, and looking somewhat the worse for their strange adventures.

Professor Sharpe has been glowing with pride and satisfaction up to the moment they reach the caravansary, then all of a sudden he seems to collapse.

A sound comes from a window above; a clear, sibilant sound; a human voice uttering one word, but investing it with a volume of reproach beyond description.

That word:

"Philander!"

The doughty little professor, who has proved himself as brave as a lion in the face of actual and overwhelming danger, now shows positive signs of flunking. He clutches the arm of his fellow-adventurer, and whispers:

"John Craig, remember your solemn promise."

"Never fear; I'll stand by you, professor."

"Philander Sharpe!"

This time the inflection is more positive and acrid. It is no longer a tone of plaint and entreaty, but touches the Caudle lecture style. Of course, he can no longer ignore the presence of his better half.

"It's I, Gwendolin," he says, meekly.

"Oh, it is! You've condescended to take some notice of me at last. Well, I'm glad to see you. Come up stairs at once, and confess that you've treated me abominably, you bad man."

"For Heaven's sake let's get in before a crowd gathers," groans the professor, with a glance of horror up in the direction of the white-capped head protruding from, the second-story window.

Craig is amused, but takes pity on his companion, so they enter the hotel together.

"Will you tell her all?" he asks.

"She'll never rest content now until she discovers it," says Philander, sadly.

"Then make a clean breast. I give you permission to speak of my affairs, only—"

"What?"

"Somehow I'd rather not have Lady Ruth know about Pauline Potter, and the foolish whim that causes her to pursue me."

At this Philander chuckles, being able to see through a millstone with a hole in it.

"I'll warn Gwendolin, then. She entertains a warm feeling for you, John—always has since making your acquaintance; and after the event of to-day, or rather yesterday, since it is past the witching hour of midnight, she is ready to do anything for you."

"Well, good-night, professor," with a warm shake of the hand, for what they have passed through in common to-night will make these two the best of friends.

When John Craig finds himself alone, he does not at once retire to his small room. Sleep is one of the last things he thinks of just at present, his mind has been so wrought up by the events of the night.

The hotel remains open. It is not customary, for there are no late trains to come in at Valetta, and the people keep early hours, as a usual thing, but this is an exceptional time of the year, preceding Lent, and there may be some other reason besides that causes an all-night open house.

Doctor Chicago finds a chair, and seats himself, first of all to reflect upon the singular train of events that has marked a red cross in his career since the last sunrise.

His stricken arm pains him, but he has not the slightest fear as to the ultimate outcome of that episode; the self-inflicted scorching with the hot iron effectually ended that.

At last he draws out the piece of paper which Philander secured in the room that marked their downfall, the paper that bears the signature of Sister Magdalen.

Lady Ruth's reminiscence has thus proved of great value to him.

He takes out one of the notes which came periodically to him—it is the one that bore the postmark of Valetta, Malta. Holding the two side by side, he eagerly compares them.

"Yes, the same hand penned both—I would swear to that."

Long he muses, sitting there. The papers have been put away, his cigar falls unheeded to the floor, and his thoughts fly far away.

Finally he arises, with a sigh, and seeks his room, to rest very poorly, between the pain of his arm and the worry of his mind.

Another day dawns upon Valetta.

As yet the tourists, who sojourn at the city of Malta by the sea, have received no intimation that the disabled steamer is in a condition to proceed.

This means another day on the island, for which few are really sorry, as Valetta is not an unpleasant place in winter.

Our friends gather around the breakfast-table, and conversation is brisk. More than once Lady Ruth watches the face of John Craig. She is anxious to hear what success he met with on the preceding night, and will doubtless find an opportunity for a quiet little chat after the meal.

On his part, Craig is uneasy, feeling that he owes her a recital of facts, and yet loth to tell her anything about Pauline Potter, for he is ashamed of his boyish infatuation with regard to the Chicago actress.

So he dallies over his breakfast, hoping that something will turn up to lead their thoughts in another channel, and at least give them a longer respite. Perhaps a message will come from the steamer announcing an immediate sailing.

He is eager to be off. Whatever was in the note Philander picked up in the house of the Strada Mezzodi, it has given John a feverish anxiety to reach some other port.

Ah! here is the good captain of the Hyperion himself, a jolly sea-dog whom every passenger clings to in time of storm and trouble, and who buoys up trembling souls, fearful of the worst, with his hearty, good-natured manner.

He announces aloud for the benefit of his passengers that a notice just posted in the office of the hotel gives the time of the vessel's sailing at seven in the evening, and all passengers are requested to be on board before that hour, if possible.

This means another day on shore. It means that John Craig cannot longer elude the recital of his night's adventures to Lady Ruth.



CHAPTER X.

SPRUNG ALEAK!

Lady Ruth captures him very soon after breakfast by means of a clever little piece of diplomacy. John is really amused at the manner in which she manages this affair, and allows himself to be carried off to enjoy a bird's-eye view of the harbor which she has discovered at the end of the piazza, and which he must pass an opinion upon.

The others do not follow, Philander and Aunt Gwen, because they know what is going on, and Sir Lionel, on account of a bore of a British nobleman who has fastened upon him, and talks an incessant streak.

Miss Caprice, as Aunt Gwen has christened Lady Ruth, suddenly develops a new phase in the conversation.

"Do you know what time it was when you came in last night?" she says, shaking a finger at him, whereat John laughingly declares his ignorance, having failed to take note of it.

"Just a quarter of two."

"Is it possible? Really, I—"

"Now, it would be only justice to myself to tell how I happened to know. Awaking from sleep with a slight headache, I arose to get my smelling-salts, and noted the time.

"Just then I heard Aunt Gwen's angelic voice calling down. My first fear was that Uncle Philander had gone off on some sort of racket, and was returning in no condition for a gentleman, for which suspicion I humbly beg his pardon, for he's just as lovely as a man ever could be."

"A fine little fellow, I'll declare, and he stood by me like a hero," declares John, with great earnestness.

"Well, I'm a woman, you know, and curious. I poked my head out of the window, and saw that you were with the professor. Of course, I knew he was all right, then."

The charming naivette with which she makes this engaging remark almost takes John's breath away. He feels a mad desire to take her in his arms, and to call her "you blessed darling," or some other similarly foolish pet name.

Fortunately he contents himself with putting his feelings into a burning look, the ardor of which causes the cheeks of the young ma'mselle to grow as red as fire, and she looking the other way at the time.

"I promised to tell you what success I had in my search," he begins, knowing the confession to be inevitable.

Now she looks at him eagerly, expectantly.

"Yes, and I have tried to read the result in your face, but fear that it has not been flattering."

So he tells her all, dealing lightly with the matter of Miss Pauline, though she is such an important factor in the game that she cannot be ignored.

Lady Ruth looks him directly in the eyes with her own steel blue orbs, so honest, so strong, that John has always delighted to meet their gaze, nor does he avoid it now.

"Perhaps I have no business to ask, Doctor Craig, but this Pauline Potter—what is she to you, what was she to you that she goes to all this trouble? Have you a secret of hers which she desires to gain?"

"I desire to retain your good opinion, Lady Ruth, and consequently am anxious that you should know all. I shall not spare myself one iota."

So he explains how the fascinating actress caught his boyish fancy some two years previous, and how devoted he had been to her until he learned of her duplicity.

Then followed his denunciation in the presence of several admirers, after which he had not seen her again until the night before.

All of which is told in a frank way, and listened to with earnestness.

At the conclusion of his narrative, John looks again into Lady Ruth's face to see whether she condemns him or not, and is gratified to discover a smile there.

"I think you are little to blame, Doctor Chicago. Like all young men, you were dazzled by the bright star that flashed before your eyes; but your illusion lasted only a brief time, for which you may be thankful. As to this woman's endeavor to regain your regard, it shows what a brazen creature she is."

The fine contempt she feels is written on her face, and John is glad he made a full confession of the whole matter.

"I hope I will never see her again," he says, in a penitent way.

"So do I," she echoes, and then turns a trifle red, hastily adding: "for your sake, doctor. Now, tell me what you hope to do about finding your mother."

Thus, with the diplomacy of a general, upon finding herself growing uncomfortable she instantly changes the situation, and brings a new question to the fore.

John does not notice this. He is too well pleased with the fact that she overlooks his indiscretion, and still grants him her valued friendship.

He goes on to explain his plans.

They are not elaborate. The paper which Philander Sharpe discovered gives him a new clew, and this he means to push to the utmost.

He anticipates success, but is gradually learning to tone down his enthusiasm, realizing that difficulties beset his way.

Thus all has been told, and he has not lost rating with the proud English girl, for whose good opinion he is coming to be solicitous.

Presently Aunt Gwen is heard calling her niece, and they think it time to join the rest, as the plans of the day are being discussed.

There are still many things to be seen on the Island of Malta by the curious. A few even start for the city of Civita Vecchia in the center of the island, but our friends decide against such an expedition, as there is a chance of delay, and the captain may refuse to hold his vessel an hour longer than is absolutely necessary.

Again they start out, and in seeing various curious things the day is gradually passed.

John is glad that no sign is discovered that would indicate the presence of Pauline Potter near them.

He has feared lest the vindictive actress might take it into her head to suddenly appear, and publicly denounce him as her recreant lover, and thinking thus, is especially glad that he told Lady Ruth the whole story.

So the day ends.

It has been a remarkably pleasant one to all of them, and John has certainly enjoyed it to the utmost. When I say all, there should be an exception, for Sir Lionel is in anything but an angelic frame of mind.

He has been wont to look upon the young American's chances with regard to winning Lady Ruth as exceedingly slim, when such a hero as himself enters the field.

That is an Englishman's egotism sure enough. To him Doctor Chicago seems only a boy, and he looks upon John's daring to enter the lists against him as a specimen of Yankee assurance.

This day teaches Sir Lionel that nothing can account for the vagaries of a girl's mind. She even shows a decided preference for the society of the American, allows him to carry her parasol, to assist her up the steps when they visit the signal tower, and on several occasions they manage to slip off by themselves, and can be seen eagerly comparing notes and exchanging opinions respecting the magnificent views that are to be suddenly discovered at various points.

The British soldier is too old a campaigner not to know what all this signifies, though the bull-dog elements in his composition will not let him dream of giving up as yet.

"It's all owing to that beastly little affair of yesterday. The boy made a big jump in her estimation, when he saved that child. It was a brave act. I don't want to say a word to the contrary, and the lad has grit, more than I ever dreamed of; but I want Lady Ruth, by Jove, more than I ever wanted anything in all my life, and as I've said before, when a British soldier fails to succeed one way, he will another."

Thinking thus, Sir Lionel cudgels his brains during the day, in order to invent some coup de grace by means of which he may cleverly regain his lost prestige.

When a man allows his passions to get the better of his judgment and sense of fair play, he is really but a single step from being a scoundrel, and although Sir Lionel would have vehemently scouted the suspicion of his doing anything to sully his fair name, he nevertheless, in his desperation at being worsted in a love affair by a mere boy, goes about some things that are hardly fair.

It has been decided that the little party shall go aboard after supper, by the light of the young moon, which will be nearly overhead.

Two boats have been engaged to wait for them at the quay.

It is at this time Sir Lionel hopes to make his point, and to accomplish it he does not hesitate to descend to a low plane, and even imperil human life.

When they reach the quay a breeze is blowing, but not strong enough to cause any uneasiness.

The party place their luggage in one boat.

Then comes a pretty piece of by-play that really reflects credit upon the engineering skill of the soldier, for it is his hand that pulls the strings.

Lady Ruth steps into one boat. One of the men having stopped John to ask him something, the colonel is given a chance to occupy the same boat, and, when Doctor Chicago arrives, he is told by the boatman that this craft having two passengers, and being smaller than the other, can carry no more.

Sir Lionel as they push off sings out to him, pleasantly:

"A Roland for an Oliver, Chicago."

John smothers his chagrin and enters the other, boat with Aunt Gwen and the professor. After all, it is only for a brief time, and surely he can afford to give Sir Lionel that pleasure.

Thus they set out.

Lady Ruth appears to be in good spirits, for they can hear her voice in song, blending with the bass of the baronet, floating over the waves, which are really rougher than any of them had anticipated.

The lights of the steamer can be seen, and they head for her.

Suddenly the song ceases to float across the water. It comes so suddenly to a stop that John Craig sits up in the other boat and clutches the arm of the professor.

"Listen! I thought I heard a slight scream."

"Nonsense!" exclaims Aunt Gwen.

"That British prig—"

"Sir Lionel is a gentleman. He would not sully his reputation by a word or deed."

"There—again."

"That time I heard it, too. Boatman, bend to your oars, and pull. There is something wrong with the other boat," cries the professor.

Then across the bounding waters comes a hail, in the lion-like voice of the Briton. A hail that stirs the blood in their veins until it runs like molten lava—a hail that tells of danger.

"Ho! there, this way, quick! We're sinking! sprung aleak!"

Such is the cry that comes to them.

All are at once alarmed. The boatman is pulling well, but, to John's excited fancy, it seems as though they hardly move.

He springs up, and takes one of the oars.

"Professor, mind the helm!" he cries.

"Ay, ay!" sings out that worthy, adapting himself immediately to the situation.

The young American is hardly an athlete, although he belongs to one of Chicago's best boat clubs.

He has an incentive now which causes him to strain every muscle, and under the united strength of two men the boat dances over the billows in the quarter whence the cry of help was heard.

It nevertheless takes them nearly five minutes to reach the scene, and this is the longest five minutes John ever knew.

Only the voice of the boatman is heard, still calling, and by this they know that the climax has already come.

A dreadful fear almost palsies John's heart as they reach the scene.

The boatman is discovered, clinging to the oars, and showing some evidence of alarm. Perhaps he has had more than he bargained for.

John helps him in.

"Where are the others?" he cries, hoarsely.

"I am afraid, lost."

"Just Heaven! What has happened?"

"Boat sprung leak—go down fast. Soldier say he save lady, but struck his head on boat and lose senses. I saw them no more."

It is horrible!

"Did the boat sink?" asks John, huskily.

"I do not know."

"Would it sink under such circumstances?" he asks their own boatman, who also has the appearance of being rattled. When they entered into a little trickery with Sir Lionel, they had no idea it would turn out so tragically, and the possible serious consequences now staring them in the face make them uneasy.

"No; it could not," returns that worthy.

"Then, if floating still, we must find it. Our only chance lies there."

Fortunately John is, in a measure, self-possessed. He at least shows himself equal to the emergency.

They pull in the direction where it is most likely they will find what they seek.

John twists his neck as he rows, and endeavors to scan the sea around them. Again and again he calls out, hoping in the fullness of his heart that some answering cry may come back.

What leaden seconds those are—never can they forget them.

"I see something!" says Aunt Gwen, who is crouching in the bow, regardless of the spray that now and then spatters her.

"Where away?" demands John, eagerly.

"Straight ahead."

They pull with fierce energy.

"Can you make it out?"

"It's the swamped boat," replies Aunt Gwen, who has remarkable eyes for one of her age.

John shouts again.

"Boat ahoy!"

This time an answer comes back, but not in the roar of the British lion.

"Here—come quickly—I am nearly worn-out!"

John's heart gives a great bound.

"Thank Heaven! It is Lady Ruth!" he says.



CHAPTER XI.

AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER.

John can hold back no longer, but gives his oar to the boatman, and seeks the bow in place of Aunt Gwen, who allows him the privilege.

They are now almost upon the floating swamped boat.

"Careful now. Don't run into the wreck. I see her," and with the last words, John, who has kicked off his shoes in almost a second of time, throws coat and vest down in the boat and leaps overboard.

His hands seize upon the gunwale of the nearly submerged boat, over which each wave breaks. He pulls himself along, and thus reaches Lady Ruth whom he finds holding on to one of the tiller ropes which has formed a loop, through which her arm is passed.

"Thank Heaven! You are safe! Here comes the boat! You must let me help you in, Lady Ruth!" he says, dodging a wave and ready to clutch her if she lets go.

"I am not alone. You must take him in first," she gasps.

Then John for the first time becomes aware that she is supporting Sir Lionel, whose arm has also been passed through the rounded tiller rope.

He seems to hang a dead weight.

Amazed at the action of the brave English girl, John at once takes hold of the soldier. The boat by this time comes up.

In getting him aboard a spill is narrowly averted, and now a new trouble arises. The boat will hold no more, and is dangerously loaded even now.

What can be done? Lady Ruth must be taken aboard. Her strength is almost gone, and John, in deadly fear lest one of the hungry waves should tear her away before their very eyes, passes an arm around her waist.

He takes in the situation.

"Here, you!" to the already wet boatman, "tumble overboard, quick now. We can hold on behind, I reckon."

The man hesitates, and this is a bad time for deliberation.

Professor Sharpe suddenly seizes upon him, and in almost the twinkling of an eye has the fellow overboard, more through a quick movement than any show of strength.

"There's a boat from the steamer coming this way. Hail it, Philander!" exclaims Aunt Gwen, and this gives them new life.

Lady Ruth is now taken into the boat with some degree of caution.

Sir Lionel shows no sign of life, and both ladies are extremely solicitous about him, so the professor bends down to make a cursory examination.

"He'll be all right when the water is pumped out of him," he announces.

The boat from the steamer comes up, led to the spot by Philander's shrill whoops, and the men in the water are rescued.

In ten minutes they reach the side of the steamer and go aboard. A terrible disaster has been narrowly averted, and John cannot but feel amazed at the wonderful grit shown by this girl, who saved the baronet from a watery grave.

It proves his estimation of her qualities at the time she assisted to bind up his arm was not out of the way.

As the two boatmen are about to go down into their craft again, the one who has not been in the water beckons John, who has not yet sought his cabin-room to change his soaked clothes.

"Will the gentleman recover?" he asks.

"You mean Sir Lionel? Oh, yes! He is already back in his senses. Strangely enough the first question he asked upon learning that Lady Ruth was saved, concerned your companion, and when he learned that the boatman had also survived, he said: 'The devil!'"

At this the man chuckles.

"I understand—perhaps you can. I like you, sir, while his ways make me mad. He thinks we Maltese dogs. I say no more—only look out for him. It easy to sink when plank in boat loosened."

Without another word the fellow slides down the rope to his boat, and pushes off with his soaked companion.

When John turns and heads for his state-room, he has something to think about, and the consciousness that there has been some foul play about this accident makes him decidedly uneasy.

Now they are off, the passengers who in the morning started on a pilgrimage to Civita Vecchia having returned in good time.

When Doctor Chicago once more comes on deck, clad in warm, dry clothes, the lights of Valetta are astern, and the steamer is putting miles between them.

He paces up and down, reflecting upon the startling event of the evening.

What can the significant words of the boatman mean, if not what he suspects.

John would not wrong any one, and he believes it policy to keep this to himself. At the same time he realizes that the game is taking on a desperate phase, when a gentleman of Sir Lionel's caliber descends to such treachery, in order to make himself a favorite with the fair English maid.

Of course, it was his intention to save Lady Ruth and appear the hero. He trusted in his well-known ability as an expert swimmer to accomplish this, and never once thought fate would step in and deal him such a blow.

As near as can be learned from what the wet boatman said when picked up, just when the craft was sinking Sir Lionel must have stumbled and fallen, striking his head upon the gunwale, which rendered him unconscious.

John walks up and down, smoking and pondering, and, when his thoughts go toward Lady Ruth, he smiles as if they are pleasant.

Twice he goes to seek the stewardess to make inquiries concerning the young woman, and is gratified to hear that the ship's Scotch surgeon has given her a glass of warm toddy to keep her from taking cold as a result of her exposure, and that having retired she is now in a perfectly natural sleep.

Pleased with this, he lights another cigar and resumes his walk, to meet Sir Lionel, who has quite recovered from his ducking, and is disposed to treat the whole matter something like a joke.

John engages him in conversation for a purpose, and learns what he can about the peculiar affair; but the soldier professes to know nothing beyond the fact that the boatman suddenly cried that the craft was sinking, whereupon he called out for assistance from the other boat, and then, as the emergency seemed very close, he sprang up to save Lady Ruth, when his foot caught in the thwart and he pitched heavily forward.

He was not wholly unconscious, and with some one's help, he knew not whom at the time, he managed to crook his arm through the rope belonging to the tiller. After which he knew no more until he came to on board the steamer and found the surgeon pouring whisky down his throat.

"Perhaps your boatman was crazy. I'm sure our fellow must have been out of his mind, judging from his actions when leaving the steamer. Why, he even warned me to keep an eye on you, sir."

At this the Englishman removes his cigar from between his teeth, looks hard at the doctor, says "by Jove!" several times, and then laughs heartily.

"That is very funny. Indeed, I can't remember anything that strikes me as more peculiar. Any one can watch me—my actions are, I hope, above-board. It is true I am disappointed in not having been able to have saved Lady Ruth, but so long as some one took her from the water, what does it matter? The boatmen are mad, because they lost a craft. Jove! I'd like to teach them a lesson for taking out passengers in a cranky, rotten boat. Do you know, I believe my foot went clean through the bottom when I jumped up."

This, spoken in a frank, ingenuous way, quite disarms John.

He does not like to think evil of his fellow human beings, at any rate.

The wind is increasing meanwhile, and clouds hide the young moon.

"I believe we will have a storm," is the last remark Sir Lionel makes, as he staggers across the rising deck and makes a plunge down into the cabin, for although a duck in the water, the Briton is no yachtsman, and possibly already feels the terrible grip of the coming mal de mer.

His words are soon verified, however, for the waves and wind continue to rise until the steamer is mightily buffeted. Still John remains on deck. There is a fascination for him in the scene that words cannot express. When he has had enough he will find his state-room and sleep, for surely he needs it after being awake a good deal of the preceding night at Valetta.

Darker grow the heavens. Thunder rolls, and the electric current cuts the air, illuminating the wild scene with a picturesque touch that is almost ghastly in its yellow white.

The steamer is well built, and in good condition to withstand the tempest, roar as it may. John tires of the weird spectacle at last, and he, too, makes a plunge for the cabin, reaching it just in time to escape a monster wave that makes the vessel stagger, and sweeps along the deck from stem to stern.

Below he finds considerable confusion, such as is always seen on board a steamer during a storm. Timid men looking as white as ghosts, frightened women wringing their hands and screaming with each plunge of the ship, as if they expect it to be the last.

A few foreign passengers are aboard, and they do not seem free from the contagion, though inclined to be more stoical than the Europeans.

As the steamer plunges, some of the passengers are huddled in a corner. Loud praying can be heard, and those who are least accustomed to such things on ordinary occasions are most vehement now.

A Mohammedan is kneeling on his rug, with his face turned in the direction of Mecca, as near as he can judge, and going through with the strange rigmarole of bows and muttered phrases that constitute his religion.

This scene is not a very pleasant one, but there are features about it which are worth being noticed, and John stands to gaze before seeking his room.

He has heard from the captain that the boat is perfectly safe, unless the storm should grow much heavier, and with this assurance intends to seek his berth and sleep, if such a thing be possible.

He moves toward his state-room. Just then a billow strikes the steamer almost amidships, and she rolls. This, not being expected, causes John to slide across the cabin floor, to the accompaniment of a chorus of cries from the frightened people, who are huddled in a corner by this new move on the part of the vessel.

He brings up alongside a state-room door, which is in the act of being opened, even as he bangs up against it.

Consequently John has the greatest difficulty in maintaining his balance, and in order to keep from sliding through the door grasps the sides.

Some one has opened it. A face is exposed close to his own, a face that, although not terror-stricken, bears the evidence of sudden alarm, as though the new pitch of the vessel and renewed shrieks from within have aroused fear—a face that John Craig recognizes with amazement.

"Tell me, are we sinking?" she exclaims.

Then she looks again.

"Ah! Doctor Chicago!"

"You here, Pauline Potter?"

The presence of the actress on board the steamer gives him a sudden thrill.

It is no mere accident that brings her, but a part of a deep-laid plan, which perhaps not only concerns him, but one in whom he has taken the deepest interest—Lady Ruth.

That is why he cries out, and his words have more than an ordinary amount of astonishment in them.

"Yes, I am leaving Malta. I have no reason to remain there longer. But tell me the worst, John Craig; are we doomed to go down?"

The vessel does not toss so wildly now, and the wails of the alarmed passengers grow less in volume.

"I hope not. The captain assured me there was no danger whatever, and told me to get some sleep, if I could. I am on my way to my berth now. Be of good cheer, the morning will see us safe enough, I believe."

Then he leaves her, and the state-room door closes.

This encounter makes John think of the other ladies. Are Aunt Gwen and Lady Ruth among those whose clamor arises from the cabin with each lurch of the ship?

As the thought flashes upon his mind, some one clutches his arm, and, turning, he beholds the little professor. There is a wild look in Philander's eyes, and his teeth rattle like castanets. Really the situation is terrible enough to appall any one.

"When do we go down, John?" he asks.

"Good Heaven! I trust not at all," and he cheers the other with what the captain has told him.

"I wish you could tell the ladies that."

"Where are they?" asks John.

"Come with me!"

In a few seconds the doctor sees the ladies, who have a state-room together. They are fully dressed, and look woe-begone. At each lunge of the vessel they gasp, and, when a particularly big one occurs, fall into each other's arms.

Both are brave enough, and yet the situation is such that a strange feeling creeps over the stoutest heart.

When John appears, and tells them what the captain has said, it reassures them considerably, and they feel better.

Presently he leaves them, and seeks his berth, where he actually goes to sleep. Tired nature will assert her power, even under the most discouraging conditions.

During the night the storm abates.

John Craig is awake early, and can tell that all is well from the easy motion of the steamer, for her plunges are few and of small moment. A silence broods over the scene; the tired passengers have gone to sleep; all John can hear as he lies there is the dull throb of the engines and the swish of water against the side of the vessel.



CHAPTER XII.

TO THE HOUSE OF BEN TALEB.

Algiers!

The sunset gun is just booming over the African hills as the steamer drops anchor off the wonderful city where the French have gained a foothold and seem determined to stay.

John Craig is in a fever to go ashore. He has had news that from Malta his mother went to Algiers on a mission, and his one object in life is to follow her until the time comes when he can see face to face the woman to whom he owes his being, toward whom his heart goes out, and whom he believes to have been dreadfully wronged.

Most of the passengers are going farther, but as the steamer will remain in the harbor until morning, there is no need of any going ashore.

John, however, cannot wait.

He engages a boatman—there are many who at once come out to the steamer for various purposes—tells his friends where they may find him, and with his luggage is away, just before darkness sets in, for it comes very soon after sunset in this country.

Upon landing, John secures a guide, and makes for the central square known as the Place du Gouvernement, where he knows of a good hotel, recommended by the captain.

The air is fragrant with the odor of flowers.

In his walk he meets strange people, Arabs, Moors, Kabyles from the desert, long-bearded Jews, Greeks, negroes, Italians, and, of course, French soldiers.

Al Jezira, as the natives call their capital, is undoubtedly the most interesting city for a traveler's eyes, exceeding even Constantinople and Cairo.

Part of the city is modern, the rest just as it might have been a century ago, when the Algerian pirates made a reign of terror sweep over the Mediterranean.

Omnibuses are seen, and even street-cars run to Birkadeen, a suburb. The houses on the terraces of Mustapha Superieur are peopled with the nicest of French and English families, who spend the winter in this charming place.

Still, if one enters the native quarter, ascending the narrow streets where no vehicle can ever come, where the tall, white houses, with their slits for windows, almost meet above, shutting out the cheery sunlight, where one meets the Moor, the Arab, the gipsy, the negro porter, the native woman with her face concealed almost wholly from view, it would be easy to believe the city to be entirely foreign and shut off from European intercourse.

Within a stone's throw how different the scene—the wide streets, the fine houses, the people of Paris and London mixing with the picturesque costumes of the natives, the bazaars, music in the air coming from the Kasbah, once the stronghold of the merciless Janizaries, now the barracks for French zouaves, the bric-a-brac merchant with his extraordinary wares spread out, while he calmly smokes a cigarette and plays upon the mandolin.

No wonder the pilgrim in Algiers is charmed, and lingers long beyond his time.

John has glimpses of these things on his way to the hotel, and although his mind is hardly in a condition to take much notice of such matters, they nevertheless impress him to a certain degree.

Dull, indeed, must be the man who cannot grasp the wonderful beauty of such a scene. At another time John would have been charmed.

He reaches the hotel, and at once engages a room. Supper is ready, and he sits down to a meal one can hardly procure outside of Paris itself, and served in French style.

If any one were watching John, his nervousness would be perceptible.

From the table he seeks the office of the hotel.

"What can I do for monsieur?" asks the polite attendant, seeing him standing there expectantly.

"I desire to procure a guide."

"To-morrow?"

"Now—at once."

The clerk looks at him curiously. He cannot understand what such impetuosity means.

He realizes that he is dealing with one who is different from the usual run of travelers.

"Monsieur does not, perhaps, know the danger involved in the night; foreigners do not often invade the old town after dark."

"Pardon me, my business is very important. Can you procure me a reliable guide, one who speaks English?"

"It can be done. First, I would recommend that you seal up your watch and valuables in this envelope."

"A good idea. You will keep them in your safe," suiting the action to the word.

"Now; monsieur will write his name."

"Done."

"Also the address."

"Eh? I don't quite understand."

"To which he would have them sent."

"Sent?"

"In case we see monsieur no more."

"Ah! Now I catch on," with a smile, as he adds the words: "Chicago, Ill., U.S.A."

"Chicago, I have heard of it; quite a place," remarks the clerk.

"Rather," dryly. "The cicerone, please."

Then the clerk beckons to a man who has been lounging not far away.

John sweeps his eyes over him.

He sees an Arab gipsy, a swarthy fellow of stalwart build, dressed in the attractive costume of his race. John reads human nature fairly well, and he believes he sees a man who can be depended on.

"This, monsieur, is Mustapha Cadi. You can depend upon him always," and the clerk goes to his regular work.

The Arab makes the ordinary salutation, crossing his hands over his breast, and bowing.

These people are very ceremonious, never entering a room or being seated before a guest.

"You speak English?" asks John.

"Oh, yes!" smiling.

"I want to engage you in my service for some days, Mustapha Cadi."

"I have just come with a party from the wine caves of Chateau Hydra and the cemetery on Bouzareah. I am now free, and in monsieur's service."

"Good! Your terms?"

"Two duros a day."

"I will make it four."

"Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. I shall not complain."

"There is a condition."

"Name it."

"I am very anxious to see some one whom I have reason to believe is in this city."

"Of course."

"You must take me to him to-night."

Mustapha Cadi looks a little anxious.

"Does this illustrious person live in new or old Al Jezira?"

"I cannot say, it is for you to tell."

"His name?"

"Ben Taleb."

The Arab shrugs his shoulders, a French trick that follows their conquests, and is so very suggestive.

"The Moorish doctor; he lives in the heart of the old town."

"But many Europeans visit him, he has a reputation abroad."

"They never dare go at night."

"I am willing to take the risk."

Mustapha Cadi looks at the young man admiringly—curiously, for he cannot imagine what would cause such haste. He sees a specimen of healthy manhood, so that it can hardly be for medical advice he takes such chances to see the old Moor.

"Monsieur, I consent."

"It is well."

"I, too, have conditions."

"Ah! that may alter the case," suspiciously.

"My reputation is dear to me."

"Naturally."

"It is my means of earning much money. Listen to me. I have taken Franks everywhere through this country, to Oran and even the far-away lead mines of Jebel Wanashrees; yes, once even to the city of Fez, in Morocco; yet never has anything serious happened to those in my charge. We have been attacked by robbers in the desert, but we dispersed them with gun and yataghan. Here in Al Jezira, many times, beggars for backsheesh have become impudent, and tried to enforce their demands, but I have taken them before the cadi, and had them punished with the bastinado. Ah! they know Mustapha Cadi, the guide, and give him a wide berth by daylight. But, monsieur, what might happen in the streets of the old town should a Frank go there at night, I am afraid to say."

"Still, you promised."

"Ay, and will keep my word, if the monsieur agrees to the condition."

"Let me hear it!"

"I will procure a burnoose, you shall put the robe on, and be an Arab for to-night."

John draws a breath of relief, he smiles.

"Willingly, Mustapha. Let us lose no time, I beg of you!"

"Then, monsieur, come!"

As he passes the clerk that worthy bends forward to say:

"Does monsieur know these people who have come from the steamer?"

John sees a list of names under his own.

Professor Sharpe and wife. Lady Ruth Stanhope. Colonel Lionel Blunt. Miss Pauline Potter.

There they are, all present, and he hears the voice of Aunt Gwen in the dining-room, even at the moment of his reading her name, gently chiding a waiter for not serving the professor more promptly, always in a hurry, but generally good-natured withal.

"They are friends of mine," he says, and then follows his Arab guide.

Once on the street John observes what is passing around him, and the scene on the grand square is certainly lively enough, with the garrison band discoursing sweet music, the numerous lights from cafe and magasius de nouveautes, and crowds moving about.

Presently they come to a bazaar, where every article known to oriental ingenuity, from Zanzibar carpets, embroideries of Tunis, Damascus cutlery, and odd jewelry to modern novelties can be found.

Here they enter.

The guide selects what he needs, and John pays for it, wondering what sort of clumsiness he will display in the wearing of an Arab costume.

Until they reach the border of the old town upon the hill-side, there is little need of his donning the ridiculous affair.

He casts many inquisitive glances upon his guide and other Arabs whom they meet to see how they wear the burnoose.

"I reckon John Craig won't disgrace Chicago, if he isn't to the manner born," he concludes.

"Now, monsieur will allow me," says his tall guide, leading him into a dark corner.

There is some little difficulty experienced, but in the end John turns Arab.

"Say not one word—if saluted, I will reply," is the last caution he receives.

Then they move on.

Now their road ascends.

They are in Al Jezira, the old Arab town.

The passage is so narrow that at times John could easily touch the walls of the spectral houses on either side by extending his arms.

Every little while there is a short step. Now and then an arch from which hangs a queer lantern, burning dimly. Over a door, here and there, a light marks the residence of some Moor or Arab of note. But for these the passage-way would be totally dark, even on the brightest moonlight night.

They meet bearded and turbaned Arabs, who stalk majestically along, proud as Lucifer, even without a piastre in their purses—even women vailed as usual, wearing anklets, and with their nails stained with henna.

The men salute, and Mustapha replies, while the disguised young American merely bows his head, which he has hidden after the manner of one who mourns.

Thus they advance.

Presently they turn sharply to the left, and enter a dark passage.

"We will wait here a few minutes."

"But why?" asks the impatient doctor.

"You saw the group above descending, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"I recognized them as rival couriers. If they saw me they would glance sharply at my companion. Perhaps for much duros they have some time taken a Frank through Al Jezira at night. That would not count. If they believed I did the same thing they would spread the news abroad, and I am afraid we would have trouble. Better a little delay than that," and he draws a finger across John's throat to signify the terrible stroke of a vengeful yataghan.

"I think you are right," replies John.

They hear the group go by, laughing and joking, and the passage is again clear.

"Again, forward, monsieur," whispers the faithful courier, and leaving their hiding-place they push on.

They are in the heart of the old town, and a most singular sensation comes over John as he looks all around to see the white walls, the solemn figures moving about, and hears sounds that never before greeted his ears.

It is as if he were in another world.

While he thus ponders and speculates, his companion comes to a sudden halt. They are at the door of a house a little more conspicuous than its fellows, and Mustapha hastily gives the rapper a resonant clang.



CHAPTER XIII.

A NIGHT IN ALGIERS.

His manner gives the man from Chicago to understand that he has cause for sudden anxiety.

"What is it, Mustapha?" he whispers.

"Monsieur did not notice. Two Arabs, one a muezzin, or priest, just passed us. They brushed against you. Perhaps they disturbed the burnoose; at any rate, their heads go together; they appear excited; they stop below; see, you can yourself notice; two more join them; they point this way. Ah! there is trouble, monsieur. Nay, do not draw a weapon; it comes not now, but later. I hear footsteps within, the bolt is withdrawn, the door opens."

What Mustapha says is true; the heavy door, still secured by a stout chain, opens half a foot, and by the dim light a Moorish lad is seen.

To him the guide addresses himself. Whatever he says in the Moorish tongue, it must be direct to the point, for immediately the door is opened wide enough to admit them, after which it is shut and the heavy bolt shoots into its socket.

John follows his conductor. For the time being he loses sight of Mustapha, and must depend upon his own abilities. Trust a young man from Chicago to be equal to any occasion, no matter how extraordinary.

In another minute he is ushered into a large room, which is decorated in an oriental way that John has never seen equaled.

Rich colors blend, soft light falls upon the many articles of a connoisseur's collection, and, taken in all, the scene is dazzling.

He gives it one glance.

Then his attention is riveted upon the figures before him. A couple of servants wait upon the owner of the house, Ben Taleb, the Moorish doctor. He is a venerable man, with white hair and a long snowy beard—his costume is simply black; but beside him sits his daughter, and she presents a spectacle John never saw equaled.

Silks of the loveliest hues, velvets that are beyond description, diamonds that flash and dazzle, strings of milky pearls that cause one's eyes to water. John sees the beautiful dreamy face, and thinks, as he compares it with the rosy-cheeked, laughing eyed English girl's, that these Moors make veritable dolls of their daughters.

Fortunately that Chicago assurance, which has carried him through many singular scenes, does not desert him now.

He has never yet beheld what beauty the miserable yashmak and foutah of the vailed Moorish lady concealed, and is naturally taken aback by the disclosure, but, recovering himself, he advances toward those who seem to await some action on his part.

The miserable burnoose he has discarded in the hall, so that, hat in hand, John now appears under his own colors.

Bowing low, much after the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty's presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.

An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being compelled to cut your throat.

Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he proceeds to business.

The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now he speaks:

"Where do you come from?" he asks.

"America—Chicago," with the full belief that the taleb must have heard of the bustling city upon Lake Michigan.

And he is right, too, for the old Moor frowns.

"Chicago is accursed. I hate it, because it shelters an enemy to one I revere, one who saved my only child from death, when she lay with the fever at Alexandria. Your name, monsieur, and then your ailment, for I take it your case is urgent to bring you here under such risk."

"My name I have never been ashamed of. It is John Alexander Craig. My disease is one of the heart, and I believe—"

The appearance of the old Moor is such that John comes to a sudden stop—Ben Taleb's eyes are dilated—he stares at the young man in a fierce way, and his whole body appears to swell with rising emotions.

"Stop!" he thunders, and claps his hands in an excited way.

John, remembering his former experience, draws himself up in readiness for defense, nor is he surprised to see several slaves enter the room at the bidding of their master.

"This is the height of infamy, you who bear that hated name dare invade the home of Ben Taleb! I read your secret; you are not sick."

"No, no; I—"

"You come with another motive; you seek one who has long been lost, one who has suffered for years, unjustly, because of a Craig. May Allah's curses blight your footsteps."

"You mistake—"

"May Mohammed, his prophet, make your life a blank. May your days end in torment, and your nights be sleepless."

"When you are done, most illustrious taleb, allow me to speak. Even a dog should not be condemned unheard."

"Father, he is right; you are just, you are good; you condemn no man unheard. Let him speak; good may even come out of Chicago," says the lovely houri at the side of the Moor, and John thanks her with his eyes, mentally concluding that, after all, Moorish females, if nonentities on the street, have certain rights under their own roofs.

At this the great doctor frowns, but cannot withstand the angelic, appealing glance which his daughter bestows upon him.

"Perhaps it is so. What have you to say, you who bear that hated name? Since through the kindness of my child you are given the opportunity to speak, embrace it."

The situation is a peculiar one, and John feels that he must make the most of it.

"Illustrious Moor, listen then while I relate the reason for my presence, why for months I have searched country after country for one who ever seemed to be just beyond my reach, like a will-o'-the-wisp dancing over the swampy ground.

"The person I seek is known as Sister Magdalen. It is with no unworthy motive I would find her, Ben Taleb, for she is my mother."

At this the sheik and his daughter exchange significant glances. Perhaps something of incredulity may be discovered in their expression. Evidently they have heard but little of the story before, and only know that the troubles of the woman they revere came through a Craig.

John, having become stirred up, proceeds to tell them more of the past, and, while not caring to show emotion in the eyes of strangers, explains his feelings in the matter with a dignity that does him full justice.

While not thoroughly convinced, for he suspects there may be some artifice in this visit, the venerable Moor is inclined to look more favorably upon John.

"Perhaps you may not be so bad as I believed, but do not hope to receive news from me," is his slowly spoken remark.

John's heart sinks, he fears that after all his long search he is now to be frustrated by the stubborn will of an old man.

He even becomes eloquent in his appeal, and, while he fails to bring Ben Taleb to terms, he charms the sheik's daughter, whose lovely eyes glisten as she hears.

At last he wrings one promise from the Moor, to the effect that he will communicate with the lady in question, and stating the whole case, allow her to decide.

This is certainly fair enough, and Ben Taleb presumes to be a man who desires to do that which is right. Hence he agrees, but will not let John know whether news can be sent to him at the hotel on the morrow, or a week later. He must learn to practice the divine art of patience, and bide his time.

This, while a keen disappointment with regard to what he had expected and hoped for, is the best that can be done under the circumstances.

John is something of a philosopher.

When he has done his best, he is willing to trust the rest to fortune.

So he assumes a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, and assures Ben Taleb he will always be indebted to him for his kindness. After this he begs for a piece of paper, and the sheik sends one of his slaves for it. John writes a line upon it, a line that comes from his heart:

"MY MOTHER: I have searched half of the world over for you. JOHN ALEXANDER CRAIG."

If she ever reads that, the meeting will not long be delayed, he believes.

A short time is spent in the company of the sheik and his daughter, and as the young American admits that he is a doctor, the Moor shows new interest, asking various questions concerning some of the great events in the world of surgery that prove him to be a man far beyond his class, and one who keeps abreast of the times.

Finally, as the hour grows apace, John thinks it time for him to be going.

Where is his courier, the faithful Mustapha Cadi, all this while?

As he mentions him, the sheik claps his hands and the guide appears. He enters into a brief conversation with Ben Taleb in the Moorish tongue.

John rightly guesses that the guide is relating the facts concerning their reaching the house, and that he fears they may be attacked, if they leave by the same way they entered.

The old Moor smiles, and after answering, turns to the young man from Chicago.

"There is another way of leaving this place, and one of my slaves will show you. They shall not harm one who comes to see Ben Taleb, if it can be prevented."

Then comes the ceremonious leave-taking, and John manages to get through this with credit. He has undoubtedly made a deep impression on the Moorish beauty, who, catching the crumbs falling from her father's table of knowledge, has aspirations above being the wife of a Moor, who may also have a harem.

At last they start off, with the slave in the lead, and after passing through several rooms, which John views with interest, arrive at a wall.

Acting under the advice of his guide, John has assumed the burnoose again, for Mustapha carried it on his arm when he appeared.

"We will pass through this door, and reach another street. Are you ready, monsieur?"

John replies in the affirmative. The light is hidden under a basket, and then a sound is heard as of a door slowly opening.

"Pass through," whispers the guide.

Thus they reach the outside, and the wall resumes its innocent appearance. If they are fortunate, they will avoid the trouble that lay in wait at the door of the old Moor.

John no longer trembles in anticipation of what is to come. He has been disappointed, and yet bears his burden well.

His guide is yet cautious, believing that one is not safe until out of the woods. It is possible word may have been sent around among the strolling Moors and Arabs of the old town, that a Frank is wandering about in a burnoose under the care of Mustapha Cadi, and hence discovery, with its attendant desperate conflict, still to come.

By degrees they approach the boundary line, and will soon be safe.

John is obliged to admire the diplomatic way in which the Arab conducts the retreat it would be creditable to a military strategist. They dodge and hide, now advancing, anon secreting themselves in dark corners.

At last—success!

Into the brilliant light of the new Algiers they pass; the danger is behind, safety assured.

Then Craig turns to the Arab, and tells him in plain language what he thinks of such remarkable work, and Mustapha humbly answers that he is glad the monsieur is satisfied.

Secretly, he exults in the eulogy; for even an Arab is able to appreciate praise.

Thus they bring up at the hotel.

John looks at the hour, and finds it ten. He sees the clerk nodding, and, as he repossesses himself of his valuables, accepts the other's congratulations with respect to having gone through such an experience, and lived to tell the tale.

Where are the others?

They do not seem to be about.

The music has ceased on the square, which is less crowded than before, although many people still saunter about, fakirs cry aloud their goods, and the scene is one which has certain fascinations for the traveler's eye, a warmth of color not to be found in American cities.

Here venders of fruit drinks serve their wares in an attractive way, with queer jars and fancy glasses that lend quite an inducement to purchase.

Upon making inquiries of the clerk, he finds that his four fellow-tourists have sauntered out some time since, and as yet failed to return; so John also steps outside.

In a moment Mustapha is at his side, and what he whispers is not pleasant news:

"Monsieur must be careful. The news has gone abroad that he it was who invaded Al Jezira on this night. Some one has spread the report that he is a spy, that his mission is to discover the details of the plot that is always going on among my people, for the rescue of Algiers from French hands. Hence he is watched; they may even proceed to violence. What little I have learned tells me this. Be awake; be always ready for defense, and seek not the dark corners where an assassin might lie. Bismillah!"

This is pleasant, indeed.

John has something of the feeling that comes upon the man who awaits the verdict of the jury.

At the same time he is resolved to take the advice given, and be on his guard.

As he saunters around, he fails to see those whom he seeks, though soon becoming conscious of the fact that he is watched and followed.

This does not add to his pleasure.

From the hints Mustapha has dropped, he begins to realize that there is some sort of a league in Al Jezira, looking toward an uprising and the coming of a patriot leader, who will take charge of the rebellion.

He has gained the ill-will of these conspirators by this night visit to the old town, and how unfortunate this may be for him, the future may prove.

It is while he wanders about the square, keeping in the light, and always on his guard, that John receives something of a shock.

He sees a figure ahead, a figure garbed as a sister. She moves slowly on, her face is vailed, and a mad impulse comes upon him to toss aside that vail, to discover whether this can be Sister Magdalen, the one for whom he searches, or another.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE COMING OF MISS CAPRICE.

This sudden impulse on the part of the young Chicago doctor may be the means of getting him into trouble, for no people are more quick to resent an insult, either fancied or real, to females upon the street, than those of Algeria, Egypt, or Turkey.

Woman is not an equal there, but a highly prized possession, and must never appear upon the street with her face unvailed, so that any man caught tearing the foutah of a lady from her face would be severely dealt with.

John, of course, is only desirous of seeing whether this may be his mother, but the public will hardly take this fact into consideration.

Upon so suddenly conceiving this bold plan of action, John Craig hastens his footsteps, and there is need of hurry, if he hopes to overtake the figure in black before she leaves the square, for, as if conscious that she is pursued, she has also quickened her pace.

He overhauls her just on the outskirts of the Place du Gouvernement, and as he brushes past quickly raises his hand to snatch aside the flowing vail.

Again his heart almost stands still, and the sacred word "mother" trembles on his lips, as he bends forward to get a quick glance of the face that must be disclosed by the shifting of the vail.

His quick movement is not without its result. The vail is drawn aside, and John Craig receives a staggering blow as he gazes upon the shriveled countenance of an old woman.

It is impossible that this can be his mother—perish the thought!—and yet the garb is one seldom seen on the streets of Algiers.

His almost palsied hand drops the vail. Lucky for him will it be if no jealous Moor's eyes have seen the action.

The Sister does not cry out, and call upon those who are present to avenge the insult—even had she been a Moorish lady, the demand for punishment would not come from her, but from those of the sterner sex near-by.

Instead, she stands there as if waiting for him to speak—stands there like a statue in black.

John at once apologizes for his rudeness—he is already sorry for what he has done.

"Madame, pardon. I believed you were one very dear to me, one who wears the insignia of your order, one for whom I have searched far and near, half the world over—my mother."

"It was a bold act, young sir, but far be it from me to denounce you. Tell me, how would you know this mother?" she asks, in a thick voice.

"She is known as Sister Magdalen—perhaps you know her—she may even be staying at the same convent as yourself," eagerly.

"I know one Sister Magdalen, a sweet, quiet woman, lately from Malta, whither she went to consult the head of our order."

Her words arouse John.

"It is she. If you would only take me to her, I would at once be rid of all these doubts and fears."

"Would you come?"

John has forgotten the warning of Mustapha, forgotten all former experiences. There is a crowd gathering around them, and this is one of the things he was to guard against, still he pays little attention to this fact, his mind is so bent upon accomplishing his object.

"Eagerly. Once this night I have risked much to find my mother, and I am ready to do more."

"Then follow me. Better still, walk at my side, for I see ugly faces around. You have made enemies, but I will stand between. My garb is sacred, and they will respect it."

"I am ready, lead on."

What is this that plucks at his sleeve? He half-turns impatiently, and looks into a face he ought to know full well, but which he now sees with something of annoyance.

"Ah! professor, is it you? Sorry—in something of a hurry—"

"Hold on; some one wants to see you."

"Have to do later."

"Don't say so, John. Important, I tell you."

"So is this. Good-by."

The professor is not so easily shaken off, but tightens his hold. John will have to dislodge him by muscular force.

"Are you coming?" asks the Sister.

"Yes, when I have broken loose from the hands of this madman."

He turns upon the professor.

"John, be careful. Cool off; you are excited."

"I'm of an age to take care of myself. When I need a guardian, I'll call on you. Once more I say, release your grasp."

He actually looks ugly for the moment, and Philander does let go, but it is only because, as an advance courier, he has accomplished his mission, and not on account of any fear.

As Doctor Chicago turns to follow the Sister, he draws in a long breath, for he finds himself face to face with Lady Ruth.

She has hurried up behind Philander, and near-by can be seen the British soldier and Aunt Gwen, also pushing forward as rapidly as the assembling crowd will allow.

"Doctor Craig."

Her presence recalls John to his senses.

"I am going to see my mother, Lady Ruth," he says, as if apologizing for his rudeness.

"With whom?"

"This Sister."

Lady Ruth surveys the other from her vail to the hem of her dress.

"I would advise you not to do so, doctor."

"Why do you say that?" he asks, astonished.

"Because you will regret it, because you are being made the victim of another plot."

"Lady Ruth, do I hear aright? Do you fully realize what it is you say?"

"I am conscious of the gravity of the charge, but that does not prevent me from asserting it. I repeat what I said before, that you are again the victim of a plot. As to this Sister here, can it be possible you do not know her?"

He shakes his head.

"Have you seen her face?"

"It is old and shriveled—that of a stranger."

At this the Sister throws back her vail, and they see the features John describes.

"After all I am right," says John, with the air of a man who attempts to justify himself.

At that the English girl laughs scornfully.

"Really, I did not think men could be so easily deceived, and one whom I considered as shrewd as you, Doctor Chicago. See what a miserable deception, a fraud transferred from the boards of a New York theater to Algiers. Behold! the magic wand touches age with a gentle touch, and what follows?"

Lady Ruth is standing between the two, and within arm's length of either.

The Sister has not moved, but, as if confident of influencing John, holds her own. She shoots daggers with her eyes at the English girl, but looks cannot hurt.

As Lady Ruth utters her last words, she makes a sudden move.

With a dexterous fling of an arm she succeeds in tearing from the Sister's face the cleverly-made thin stage mask that was contrived to conceal the features of one who did a double act.

The professor laughs.

From the crowd that is still gathering various sounds arise, for no one can even give a guess as to the nature of the peculiar trick which is thus being enacted.

As for John Craig, he holds his breath at the stupendous nature of the disclosure, for little as he has dreamed of the fact, he sees before him the well-known features of Pauline Potter.

This queen of the stage has made even another attempt to get John, and might have succeeded only for the opportune coming of his friends.

He backs away from her.

"So, it is you again, wretched girl?" he exclaims, in something of righteous wrath.

She has lost once more, but this is frolic to one of her nature, and she laughs in his face.

"Oh, it's a long road that has no turning, and my chance will yet come! Bah! I snap my fingers at such weak friendship. Good-night, all of you, but not good-by."

Thus she disappears.

Craig feels abashed.

He has almost come to blows with his best friend about this female, and, after all, she turns out to be the plotting Pauline.

"I think I need a guardian," he murmurs, as if rather disgusted with himself.

"From the ugly looks some of these chaps are bending on you, I think ditto," declares Philander, nor are his words without meaning, for the natives scowl dreadfully.

"Lady Ruth, I owe you thanks; but, while we walk to the hotel, tell me how you came to know she was masquerading in that style."

"It is easily told, sir. A mere accident put me in possession of the facts, and, thank Heaven, I am able to build two and two together. You were frank enough, Doctor Craig, to give me certain particulars concerning that creature's plotting, and that confidence has now borne fruit.

"Listen, then. I was in the hotel, in my room. Some freak of fortune placed her in the apartment opposite. Knowing what presumably brought her to Algiers, the desire to have revenge upon you, I entertained a feeling of almost contempt for a woman who could so forget her sex and seek a man who loved her not. If it were I whom you jilted, Doctor Chicago, I would freeze you with scorn."

"Jove! I don't doubt it, Lady Ruth, but please Heaven you will never have the chance," he says, in a half-serious, half-joking way.

"To return to my story, then," she continues, blushing under the ardent look that has accompanied his words, "the queer part of it lies in the fact that a transom over my door was partly open. There was a black paper back of the glass, which gave it the properties of a mirror.

"Over her door was a similar contrivance, and as I sat there in the darkness of my room, pondering over what has happened, my attention was attracted by a flash of light, and, looking up, I saw the interior of her room as plainly as though looking through the door—saw her assume the garb of a Sister—saw her try on that horrible face-mask before a mirror, and realized that the clever actress, Pauline Potter, was about to again undertake some quixotic crusade in the furtherance of her plans.

"Later on, Aunt Gwen came and said we had better go outside to hear the music and see the crowd, so I came, but all the while I had been puzzling my brain wondering what she hoped to accomplish with that clever disguise, nor did the truth break in upon my mind until we discovered her talking to Doctor Chicago. Then I comprehended all."

"And I am again indebted to your clever woman's wit," he says, warmly.

"Who can tell from what dreadful fate I saved you," she laughs; "for this same Pauline seems determined that you shall not remain a merry bachelor all your days."

"So far as that is concerned, I quite agree with Pauline. Where we differ is upon the subject that shall be the cause of my becoming a Benedict. She chooses one person, and I chance to prefer another. That is all, but it is quite enough, as you have seen, Lady Ruth, to create a tempest in a tea-pot."

"Here we are at the hotel," she hastens to say, as if fearing lest he push the subject then and there to a more legitimate conclusion, for she has learned that these Chicago young men generally get there when they start; "and I am not sorry for one. Look around you, doctor!"

This he does for the first time, and is startled to discover that they have been accompanied across the square by at least half a dozen natives, who gaze upon John much as might wolves that were kept from attacking the sheep by the presence of faithful guards.

"They don't seem to bear me any good-will, I declare; but I am bound to prosecute my search in spite of every Arab in Algiers," is the only remark he makes, meeting glance for glance.

They have not yet succeeded in cowing the spirit in John Craig, though the man has a poor chance who incurs the vindictive race hatred of Mohammedan devotees in their own country.

The others enter also.

Sir Lionel, not a whit abashed by the failure of his grand plan for saving the life of Lady Ruth in the harbor of Malta, still haunts her shadow. He knows John Craig has a strong suspicion of the truth, but having read that young man's character before now, feels quite certain that he will not speak of the subject without positive proof, which he cannot secure.

Besides, the Briton came out of the affair with such hard luck, that there is much sympathy for him. He lives in the hope of retrieving his fallen fortunes.

Thus the little party breaks up, to meet again on the morrow.

John Craig's only hope now of success in his quest lies in the Moor, Ben Taleb. If the spirit so moves him, he can bring him and his mother face to face, but whether this will ever come to pass remains to be seen.

John, ere retiring, catches sight of the faithful Mustapha Cadi, who lounges near-by, and who makes a signal, as he catches his employer's eye, that brings Craig to his side.

"Where does the master sleep?" he asks.

John explains the position of his room, having some curiosity to know why the courier asks.

"Monsieur should be careful about leaving his windows open; Arabs climb well; vines very handy; yataghan make no shout. There is no disgrace in being prepared."

This is too broad to admit of any misinterpretation, and John again makes up his mind to continual watchfulness.

He retires to seek rest, to dream of a strange conglomeration of gray eyes, and black and brown—that he is compelled to choose between the English girl, the Chicago actress, and the Moorish beauty, while death waits to claim him, no matter which one he selects.



CHAPTER XV.

THE WRECKED STAGE.

John Craig takes all the precautions that the courier mentions, for he does not care to awaken in the night and find a dark-faced fanatic of a Mohammedan in his room, sworn to accomplish his death.