“Well, I’ve been there. If I’d had the capital I might have been his manager. That’s the way it goes--an opportunity of making myself solid for life lost because I lacked a few dollars,” and Wycherley chuckles even while he speaks in such a dismal strain. “This fellow isn’t the only fortune teller at the Fair,” the Canadian says. “By no means. I know of several others right here in the street of Cairo.” “Yes; I remember one at the lower end--a woman, I believe. I have seen no other.” “Walk with me. There is one here--they call her the Veiled Fortune Teller of Cairo Street. I don’t know that her predictions are any nearer the truth than the black’s, but somehow the air of mystery surrounding her excites a certain amount of curiosity.” “I would like to see her. I thought I had exhausted the sights of this street, from the odd barber shop where they lay one down on a bench to shave him, to the shoe store where their stock in trade is yellow and red _baboushas_ or slippers. If there is a veiled mystery here I must see her. You said a woman?” “Yes, and if one can judge of the faint glimpses seen through the flimsy veil, and by the shapely figure, a beautiful woman, too. Let’s see the time--yes, this is her last hour for receiving to-day. Come along, Aleck, my boy.” The jovial vagabond almost drags him along, and presently they bring up in front of a stuccoed building. Over a doorway is a sign, so small Aleck does not wonder he missed it, bearing this scroll: SAIDEE--THE VEILED FORTUNE TELLER. 25 cents. An Arab boy holds forth, fez and all. “One _half-duro_--a quarter each,” he insists, and Aleck is about to comply when the eccentric actor steps in front and proceeds to mesmerize the youth. “Ten cents,” he mutters feebly, but Claude only increases his mysterious passes, and at length the Arab youth throws up the sponge. “Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. Enter _taleb_, I beg,” he says hastily, as if desirous of being rid of an incubus. So they pass in, Aleck Craig never dreaming what an influence this accidental discovery of a new curiosity will have upon his future. A dozen persons are in the room, and one by one they interview the veiled woman on the little stage, who looks into the palm and reads both the past and the future. “Look!” says Wycherley quickly; “don’t you recognize the man seated there?” “Jove! it’s the pasha himself. Do you suppose our being here has anything to do with his presence?” “Not at all. He was here when we came, and I know the man well enough to understand that he has some motive for his visit.” “Then let’s watch the game.” “Nothing pleases me better. Notice the fortune teller, Aleck; did I speak correctly?” “As near as I can say--yes, I should judge that she is a fine looking woman, and, like the most of her sex, a coquette.” “Oh, why not say _all_?” smiles Wycherley, giving him a sly dig in the ribs.