Wycherley is looking at him steadily, as though possessed of a sudden notion.
“I believe he’d do it,” is what he mutters, as he surveys Aleck’s muscular, well-knit figure, and then casts a glance of scorn at his own stout form.
“Craig, have you been on the wheel to-night?” he asks suddenly.
“No, and I confess it was my intention to go up before leaving. I’ve been waiting for a moon as near the full as we could get it overhead. If you’ll go as my guest, I accept.”
“Nonsense. I told you I worked there—all the boys are known to me. Besides, it will be so arranged that you and I shall occupy a car alone. Then, as we mount upward, and look down upon these remarkable sights, I will a tale unfold, which, if it does not make your blood tingle will at least arouse your interest. Perhaps you may have difficulty in believing it, but stranger things are happening in this nineteenth century and at the World’s Fair than ever enter into your philosophy, Horatio! Here we are. Now watch me.”
Wycherley seems to stand back as though awaiting a certain car. How it is done, the Canadian knows not, for he sees no signals exchanged, but presently he finds himself with his singular companion in one of the cars in which they are the only passengers.
“First of all, notice this,” says Wycherley, as he points to the door that is ajar.
“Against orders. I thought the system was perfect on the Ferris wheel, and every door locked.”
“So it is, usually. To-night there is a substitute on duty—that is all.”
He makes this remark in a significant tone, which at once stamps it as a fact upon which theories may be built, and Aleck remembers it.