his heart.

Only in debate, and when addressing a jury that hangs breathlessly upon
his words, does he drop the mask and show what fire is in his soul.

So John, as in times of old, is unable to fathom the depths of his
father's thoughts.

He is wretched, not knowing whether the coming of Craig, Sr., will
influence his mission for good or evil.

And still the expected message from Ben Taleb does not come.

Once more evening vails day's splendor, and another night approaches, a
night that John hopes will make a change in this monotonous run of luck,
and bring him news.

Imagine his astonishment and secret delight when an open carriage stops
at the door of the hotel, and as he glances at the elegant couple seated
therein discovers Sir Lionel and the Potter.

It almost takes his breath away.

"Well, he is a hurricane in love, I declare. If he fought in the same
way, the Victoria cross wouldn't be enough to decorate him. Jove! they
already are dead set, each with the other. That was the cleverest piece
of business I ever attempted. If success comes, I'll have to set up as a
match-maker."

How gallantly Sir Lionel assists the lovely actress from the vehicle, as
if he expects that the whole town may be watching.

Doubtless his actions are in part studied with a view to the effect upon
a certain person, nameless, who must assuredly be looking from her
chamber window above.

In that case he is apt to go too far, and soon find himself in the
wiles of Pauline, who, accustomed to playing with men as one might the
pieces on a chess-board, would have little trouble in manipulating one
Englishman, fresh from the wilds of South Africa.

So John rests on his oars and waits for the chance to come; and the
unseen hand that weaves the fabric of their lives, manipulates the
shuttle through the woof.

CHAPTER XXIII.

FOUND--IN THE HOUSE OF THE MOOR.

John hears at last.

A native servant brings him a note, and it can be set down as positive
that the young Chicagoan eagerly breaks the seal.

It is from Ben Taleb. He writes a fair English hand, for he is a man of
much education.

"Come again this night at eleven. Tell Mustapha to be at the wall where
you departed from my house, at that hour, and to rap upon the large
stone with the handle of his knife, giving the signal of Mahomet's tomb.

"Ben Taleb, of Morocco."

So John's heart thrills with expectation. This looks friendly; he may be
near the end of his j