“Don’t get disappointed in Cairo right away,” said Antoine to him, as they neared the suburbs. “Cairo is one of the most picturesque cities in the world, but not around the railway station, nor near the hotel. We’re going to be in Cairo several days, so you will have a chance to see all you want of it.” But this time Perry was not disappointed. The railway station could not be other but modern, but in the throngs about it there was so much movement, so much color, so much flavor of the East that the boy breathed a great sigh of relief. It was all true. He was not dreaming. The world of the Orient was not all made new. The City of the Arabian Nights was still full of mystery. He climbed into a two-horse Arabian with Antoine, all a-quiver with excitement, was driven to the hotel, and, after the four-hour journey in the train, was eager to be up and doing. At lunch his uncle said, “Perry, I am going to be busy all this afternoon, and if you want to do some sight-seeing, now’s your chance. I’ll leave you in Antoine’s charge, and you’d better stick close to him, for Cairo’s the easiest city to get lost in that I know.” He turned to Antoine. “You know Cairo, I think?” “Many years ago I knew it well,” the other answered. The professor smiled. “If you had known it well many hundred years ago,” he said, “it would do just as well. The places worth seeing haven’t changed.” Once out of the European section, and in the Arab quarter, Perry found the real city of his imaginings, with its queer crooked streets, blind walls and a maze of windows masked with wooden trellis-work through which one could look outside from within, but not inside from without. Perry plied Antoine with questions almost without ceasing, and it was a very weary guide who safely deposited a much-excited boy in the hotel shortly before dinner-time. The lad was eager to go out again in the evening, but sleep took precedence, and he rioted in dreams till morning. The next day, again with Antoine, Perry went to see the great citadel, which had been built by Saladin, the Saracen conqueror immortalized in “The Talisman.” He visited the great Mohammedan university, entered a score of mosques, in every case leaving his shoes outside as is required by custom, and took particular delight in one old place known as the “Needle’s Eye,” which had been walled up recently. “Why was it closed, Antoine?” he asked. His informant smiled. “There was a tradition,” was the reply, “that although it was quite narrow, every one who was honest could squeeze through. Ismail, one of the governors, was very stout, and, evidently having more faith in the laws of physics than in superstition, decided that he would not put his reputation for honesty to the test of his bulk. Accordingly he had it walled up.”