Those in the cyclorama building begin to pour forth, having feasted their eyes upon the glories of the Alps. Among them comes the couple whose actions have interested our friends.
Sauntering behind they are not noticed in the throng heading for the exit.
“Look,” says Wycherley, “they are three; it is the middle-aged duenna again. She sold herself to the pasha. Dorothy leans on a broken rod when she puts any faith in her.”
That is one of the problems Craig is trying to solve. He feels that Dorothy should know the truth, and yet hardly cares to be the one to tell her. If he lets it go until the succeeding night that may be too late. What would he not give for a favorable opportunity.
“They separate; he has business back in the Fair grounds. Stand here and watch,” says the Colorado officer, suddenly turning them into a place of shadow, which he is easily able to do, as he walks between Craig and the actor with arms locked.
It is as he says. John Phœnix is bidding the young girl good-night. Aleck gnaws his mustache a little nervously as he watches them, just as though a sudden fear has burst into his bachelor heart lest the good-looking scamp may take Dorothy in his arms with a bold lover’s right.
Nothing of the sort occurs, however. He takes her hand and says something that causes Dorothy to hang her head, but as to the nature of her emotion the Canadian is utterly in the dark. While he is musing Phœnix is gone.
Upon turning his head Aleck discovers that Bob Rocket has also disappeared. The man from Colorado does not mean to allow any chance to slip through his fingers. All he awaits is the receipt of a telegram.
The two women have not yet gone on, but stand where Phœnix has left them. Can it be possible they wait for his return? Craig chances to look beyond and catches a glimpse of a figure there, a figure he knows. It is the fortune teller of Cairo Street, who hovers near by, as though eager to approach Dorothy, yet restrained by a fear lest the girl should repulse her. Thus, in the agony of doubt she reaps the sad harvest of the past.
It is an open question whether the women have seen or paid the least attention to this figure in black that hovers near by, just as a poor moth flutters around a candle that will singe its bright wings.