“Nonsense. He wouldn’t pay any attention to you. The chances are my nerve will fail me, anyhow. See here--they are about to enter the car. Notice the girl who steps like a queen, in company with the middle-aged lady in black. That is Dorothy!” “Dorothy--yes, by Heavens, it is the same!” ejaculates Craig, suddenly fixing his gaze on the face that has haunted his dreams. “Do you know her?” cries Claude, aghast. “Yes--yes, that is--this infamous plot must go no further, do you hear?” and the Canadian turns upon his companion savagely. “So far as I am concerned I confess I’m only too glad to be out of it, my noble duke. But you see, we are in motion--they ascend--the wheel cannot go backward, and I’m really afraid the ladies must be terribly alarmed by the antics of that mad professor, unless some athletic hero like yourself climbs to their rescue. As for me, it’s too much like being suspended by a spider’s web. I admit at the last a yearning for _terra firma_.” “What’s that?” exclaimed Craig. “The first scream above. Most likely the professor is warming up. The worst of it is, his wife assured me it was not wholly a put-up job on his part. He is always inclined toward mania when ascending or descending an elevator or inclined plane. My only fear is that he may really become crazy enough to do one or more of the ladies injury.” “Good God!” cries Craig, horrified; “and you entered into this base conspiracy. I’m ashamed of you, Wycherley.” “Ditto, my dear boy. I feel like kicking myself. That old Turk must have bewitched me. I meant it all for the best. You see, I was afraid he’d find someone not so scrupulous about the result.” Craig has not waited to hear the apologies of his companion, but springing to the door dashes it open. The sight is one to appall the bravest heart. Already they are nearly halfway up the rise of the great wheel that clicks and rolls onward like a giant Juggernaut. Below lies the Midway--nearly one hundred and forty feet--the myriads of lights flashing from Moorish palace, Mohammedan mosque and bazaars, Chinese temples, Egyptian theater, and the motley collections of fake shows that entice money from the pockets of pilgrims in the Plaisance. Above, the moon and the star-decked heavens, against which is outlined the circle of cars suspended, like Mohammed’s coffin, in space. “By my soul, I believe it can be done,” says the Canadian, as, thrusting his head out, he notices the position they are in; “yes, it is possible to climb up this great tire of the wheel, this outside circle.” The wheel ceases to revolve, and as he stands there in the doorway he no longer looks down. Above the muffled din below he hears shrieks from above, shrieks for help uttered by terrified women. Perhaps, understanding how matters are, he might be tempted to remain inactive, for the danger is enough to alarm even a braver man than Claude Wycherley, who has backed out at the last moment.