“It is Miss Dorothy, Claude, and she knows who is in yonder building. She desires to see the fortune teller. It would be useless to argue the matter. We must take her with us. Surely, in company with such a walking arsenal as yourself, she need not fear.” What can Wycherley say? He has been completely disarmed after hearing this compliment to his prowess. “Then let us be going, my dear boy. Miss Cereal, have no fears. This is not exactly according to contract, but we must accept the situation as we find it. Hark! the wedding march; Lohengrin not in it. Straight across the street to the door. See how that stout herald swings his sword--what fierceness--what scowls--now a benign smile comes over his face. Bah! it is all mere show, like so many of their exhibitions. I turn my back on it. Here we are. What! the door closed in our faces; not if Claude Wycherley knows it.” The boy at the door does indeed attempt to shut it, but a foot thrust forward prevents him, and before he can gather his wits to give an alarm, Wycherley has flung wide the door and seized him. For half a minute he indulges in some of his former pyrotechnics, a combination of quick gestures and scowls, and the Turkish lad, as if in mortal fear, tries to slink away; but as the others have already entered, Claude gives the boy a sudden whirl that lands him, a dazed heap, outside the door, which is immediately closed upon him. Thus they can call their first assault upon the enemy’s castle a victory. If it is a sample of what awaits them just beyond, they can congratulate themselves. They are under the roof of the fortune teller. The space beyond the door forms a small hallway. Further on, through a winding passage they will find Saidee’s reception chamber, where the veiled seeress from the Orient has received those who seek her occult aid, and reads the future from the lines of their hands. Aleck has a grave sensation steal over him. It is as though someone he loves is about to meet peril. It may be Dorothy! What cruel fate has brought her here at this dread hour when the vengeance that has slumbered these twenty years is about to break forth; when the Turk who was outwitted on his own ground by Samson Cereal now figures on making the score even? Craig fears the worst, and in his desire to stand between Dorothy and harm, he draws her hand through his left arm, while his right fist is clenched. Woe betide the luckless Turk who feels the weight of the young athlete’s hand on this particular night, for he is aroused to send a blow that would do John L. Sullivan credit! And Wycherley?