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.