The wily Turk shrugs his shoulders and rubs his brown hands together, just as might an ideal miser contemplating his store of gold.
“Yes, it is too very sad. It makes me think of ze play I gaze upon one night in She-cago. All ze years two loving hearts are wide apart. I myself bring them together, I am ze magician who plan ze meeting. For what? In order zat zay may continue to love as before, and build a bridge across ze dark chasm over which to walk again into life—into love? Bah! not much. By ze beard of ze Prophet, I am Aroun Scutari, a pasha—my hate lives forever! I do not forget that she belonged to me—my gold bought her—you stole her away, dog of an American! No longer it is night—day comes, and with it sweet vengeance. For this I have waited—for this I have lived. It pleased me to leave all and come here as a merchant, that I might repay my debt. That hour is here. It is my time to laugh. You shall see!” With which sarcastic words the Turkish plotter claps his hands loudly together.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE LAST ACT.
In all Eastern countries, where call bells are unknown, servants are summoned by the clapping of hands, a custom handed down from Bible times. So when Aroun Scutari makes this signal he expects to have an answer. Nor does he make a mistake.
From some other means of ingress figures appear—men ready to obey his bidding. They appear as though by magic; one, two, three in all, and their looks are certainly fierce enough to inspire alarm.
Again the pasha claps his hands with all the gusto of a master of ceremonies. This business suits him exactly, he is quite at home.
The second signal brings a new surprise, for as the heavy curtains part, a man, who is plainly an American, is seen, leading a veiled woman. Of course this is Anthony Wayne and the one he believes to be Miss Dorothy, for Samson Cereal has played his game well, and the party employed to personate his daughter is one of the shrewdest detectives in Chicago.
The operator assumes much surprise at sight of his secretary and valet.
“What, you, too, Anthony!” he exclaims, in much the same tone Cæsar must have employed when he saw Brutus among his assailants.