“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.