“Yes, he has taken me under his wing, and I’m quite content to let him mold me into whatever he likes. Presume he sees something in a fellow of my build that can be made available. Of course nothing is settled yet, and probably won’t be until we wind up Mr. Turk from the Bosphorus and his rascally game, but I expect to be the Co. of the Samson Cereal concern some day in the near future.” He does not say this boastingly, but with a quiet assurance that goes to the point. Already the ex-actor is changing. “Speaking of that same Turk, there he goes.” “By my life, you speak truly, milord. He has not seen us, I trow. It might be well to hang our heads so that, if he looks this way, he will fail to believe we are anything more than the ordinary footpads who haunt this classic ground, demanding the coin of the realm to fill their bulging Turkish pockets.” His meaning is clear enough, though to one who did not know his ways, the words might seem ambiguous. They continue to watch Aroun Scutari, though careful not to show their faces. The Turk is heading for the large bazaar near by, but comes to a halt just at the corner of the Persian Palace. As he stands there another man joins him, and the two converse with much animation, judging from their gestures. “Why not follow them; it will bring us to the trap quicker than in any other way?” Wycherley it is who suggests the idea, and his companion falls in with it at once. They are anxious to be on the move at any rate. Some around them, looking weary and haggard, are only too glad of a chance to rest. In a crowd like that which haunts the spectacular Midway, it is not as difficult to follow a person undetected as might be believed. All that is necessary is to keep him in view, never losing him for a second, and making sure to have a squad just in front, behind which one is safe from observation in case the pursued is suspicious and casts many glances over his shoulder. In this way they follow the Turk to Cairo Street. He enters, and Aleck turns to his companion. “We had better follow,” he says, knowing that the final act in the drama is to be worked out in the shadow of these buildings that so nearly represent a street from the banks of the Nile. “Good, I’m with you,” returns Wycherley, as he actually buys two tickets and hands them to the Arab boy at the door, who stares at him, and even runs after him, making signs, which the reformed actor calmly ignores. Aleck is laughing in a quiet way--the scene is really ridiculous--the supreme indifference of the lordly Wycherley--the belief of the Arab youth that he has discovered an old enemy, with whom he has had many encounters, only to be worsted time and again, and his wonder at the passive submission of the man who heretofore made it a point never to pay. “What amuses you, comrade?” demands the ex-actor soberly.