“Not for worlds, my boy, and you know it!” says a voice in his ear, and turning, he finds the speaker, as he supposes, is Wycherley, the careless, good-natured Bohemian--half painter, half actor, and whole vagabond. “Come, I didn’t suppose there were eavesdroppers around,” mutters Craig, confused. “Well, you uttered that last sentence a trifle louder than you intended, and I answered it for you. That’s all. No offense meant, I assure you. Come, walk arm and arm with me. I feel the eyes of Aroun Scutari upon me, and want to arrange my plans before granting him an interview.” “Certainly, if it will help you.” “Are you very angry with me, Aleck?” “Angry? What for?” “For the miserable business I was engaged in. I honestly assure you my motives were really quite philanthropical. At the end you know I realized what a foolish thing I had done. You know me well enough, old fellow, to understand that I’m no villain, fool though I may be at times.” His repentance is sincere, and Aleck, like the good-hearted fellow he is, claps him on the shoulder. “I hold no grudge against you, my boy. On the contrary this ridiculous escapade on the part of the Turk and yourself has resulted very pleasantly to a fellow of my size. It enabled me to meet one for whom I have been looking six months and more.” “When you mentioned her name I knew there was something in the wind. And believe me, Aleck, you did old Montreal proud. I wish the Toque Bleue snowshoe boys had been here to see their bold comrade climb the Ferris wheel.” At this Craig laughs merrily. “They might have believed me a little daft, for surely such a Quixotic venture could have but one meaning--that I had thrown my senses to the winds, and imbibed too much Chicago champagne.” “Here comes the Turk straight at me, as if resolved to wait no longer. Mark his dark face. He saw you come out of that car. The deal is up, and I must defy his royal nibs.” Aroun Scutari has barred their path; one hand he reaches out and touches Wycherley. “You deceived me, traitor!” he says, with a peculiar accent on the words, such as a foreigner usually gives, no matter how thoroughly at home he may be with the English language. “My dear fellow, you are mistaken; I simply deceived myself. When the critical moment came my nerve failed me. That mug of French cider should have been something stronger. It is all right, anyway; this gentleman saved the girls, so what’s the odds?” His coolness is remarkable. Really Wycherley must have haunted the Eskimo village a good deal of late, to show so little concern with the grave affairs of life. “It is all wrong. By the beard of the Prophet, I will look to you! Where is the money with which I buy your soul?” demands the Turk, working his hands as though eager to get them fastened upon the throat of the Christian dog of an unbeliever.