



Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Kirschner, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team










THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE

BY

LOUIS TRACY

Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Pillar of Light," "The
Captain of the Kansas" etc.







ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG




CONTENTS

     CHAPTER I. WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL
    CHAPTER II. THE COMPACT
   CHAPTER III. A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT
    CHAPTER IV. VON KERBER EXPLAINS
     CHAPTER V. MISS FENSHAWE SEEKS AN ALLY
    CHAPTER VI. AT THE PORTAL
   CHAPTER VII. MRS. HAXTON RECEIVES A SHOCK
  CHAPTER VIII. MASSOWAH ASSERTS ITSELF
    CHAPTER IX. A GALLOP IN THE DARK
     CHAPTER X. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
    CHAPTER XI. A WOMAN INTERVENES
   CHAPTER XII. STUMP DEPENDS ON OBSERVATION
  CHAPTER XIII. THE SIGN IN THE SKY
   CHAPTER XIV. WHEREIN A BISHARIN CAMEL BECOMES USEFUL
    CHAPTER XV. THE DESERT AWAKES
   CHAPTER XVI. A FLIGHT--AND A FIGHT
  CHAPTER XVII. HOW THREE ROADS LED IN ONE DIRECTION
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE




        LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"By the Prophet!" he exclaimed, "I am overjoyed at seeing you"

"I don't want your charity, I want work!"

"Let your prisoner go, Mr. King"

"Good morning, Mr. King," she cried

"You need no promise from me, Miss Fenshawe"

The Arab appraised Royson with critical eye

He did not dare meet the glance suddenly turned upon him

"Go, Dick, but come back to me in safety"




CHAPTER I

WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL


At ten o'clock on a morning in October--a dazzling, sunlit morning
after hours of wind-lashed rain--a young man hurried out of Victoria
Station and dodged the traffic and the mud-pools on his way towards
Victoria Street. Suddenly he was brought to a stand by an unusual
spectacle. A procession of the "unemployed" was sauntering out of
Vauxhall Bridge Road into the more important street. Being men of
leisure, the processionists moved slowly. The more alert pedestrian who
had just emerged from the station did not grumble at the delay--he even
turned it to advantage by rolling and lighting a cigarette. The ragged
regiment filed past, a soiled, frayed, hopeless-looking gang. Three
hundred men had gathered on the south side of the river, and were
marching to join other contingents on the Thames Embankment, whence
some thousands of them would be shepherded by policemen up
Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square, and so, by way of Lower
Regent Street and Piccadilly, to Hyde Park, where they would hoarsely
cheer every demagogue who blamed the Government for their miseries.

London, like Richard Royson, would stand on the pavement and watch
them. Like him, it would drop a few coins into the collecting boxes
rattled under its nose, and grin at the absurd figure cut by a very fat
man who waddled notably, among his leaner brethren, for hunger and
substance are not often found so strangely allied. But, having salved
its conscience by giving, and gratified its sarcastic humor by
laughing, London took thought, perhaps, when it read the strange device
on the banner carried by this Vauxhall contingent. "Curse your
charity--we want work," said the white letters, staring threateningly
out of a wide strip of red cotton. There was a brutal force in the
phrase. It was Socialism in a tabloid. Many a looker-on, whose lot was
nigh as desperate as that of the demonstrators, felt that it struck him
between the eyes.

It had some such effect on Royson. Rather abruptly he turned away, and
reached the less crowded Buckingham Palace Road. His face was darkened
by a frown, though his blue eyes had a glint of humor in them. The
legend on the banner had annoyed him. Its blatant message had
penetrated the armor of youth, high spirits, and abounding good health.
It expressed his own case, with a crude vigor. The "unemployed" genius
who railed at society in that virile line must have felt as he, Dick
Royson, had begun to feel during the past fortnight, and the knowledge
that this was so was exceedingly distasteful. It was monstrous that he
should rate himself on a par with those slouching wastrels. The mere
notion brought its own confutation. Twenty-four years of age, well
educated, a gentleman by birth and breeding, an athlete who stood six
feet two inches high in his stockings, the gulf was wide, indeed,
between him and the charity-cursers who had taken his money. Yet--the
words stuck....

Evidently, he was fated to be a sight-seer that morning. When he
entered Buckingham Palace Road, the strains of martial music banished
the gaunt specter called into being by the red cotton banner. A
policeman, more cheerful and spry than his comrades who marshaled the
procession shuffling towards Westminster, strode to the center of the
busy crossing, and cast an alert eye on the converging lines of
traffic. Another section of the ever-ready London crowd lined up on the
curb. Nursemaids, bound for the parks, wheeled their perambulators into
strategic positions, thus commanding a clear view and blocking the edge
of the pavement. Drivers of omnibuses, without waiting for the lifted
hand of authority, halted in Lower Grosvenor Gardens and Victoria
Street. Cabs going to the station, presumably carrying fares to whom
time meant lost trains, spurted to cross a road which would soon be
barred. And small boys gathered from all quarters in amazing profusion.
In a word, the Coldstream Guards were coming from Chelsea Barracks to
do duty at St. James's, coming, too, in the approved manner of the
Guards, with lively drumming and clash of cymbals, while brass and
reeds sang some jaunty melody of the hour.

The passing of a regimental band has whisked many a youngster out of
staid Britain into the far lands, the lilt and swing of soldiers on the
march have a glamour all the more profound because it is evanescent.
That man must indeed be careworn who would resist it. Certainly, the
broad-shouldered young giant who had been momentarily troubled by the
white-red ghost of poverty was not so minded. He could see easily, over
the heads of the people standing on the edge of the pavement, so he did
not press to the front among the rabble, but stood apart, with his back
against a shop window. Thus, he was free to move to right or left as he
chose. That was a slight thing in itself, an unconscious trick of
aloofness--perhaps an inherited trait of occupying his own territory,
so to speak. But it is these slight things which reveal character. They
oft-times influence human lives, too; and no man ever extricated
himself more promptly from the humdrum of moneyless existence in London
than did Richard Royson that day by placing the width of the sidewalk
between himself and the unbroken row of spectators. Of course, he knew
nothing of that at the moment. His objective was an appointment at
eleven' o'clock in the neighborhood of Charing Cross, and, now that he
was given the excuse, he meant to march along the Mall behind the
Guards. Meanwhile, he watched their advance.

Above the tall bearskins and glittering bayonets he caught the flourish
of energetic drumsticks. The big drum gave forth its clamor with
window-shaking insistence; it seemed to be the summons of power that
all else should stand aside. On they came, these spruce Guards, each
man a marching machine, trained to strut and pose exactly as his
fellows. There was a sense of omnipotence in their rhythmic movement.
And they all had the grand manner--from the elegant captain in command
down to the smallest drummer-boy. Although the sun was shining brightly
now, the earlier rain and hint of winter in the air had clothed all
ranks in dark gray great-coats and brown leggings. Hence, to the
untrained glance, they were singularly alike. Officers, sergeants,
privates and bandsmen might have been cast in molds, after the style of
toy soldiers. There were exceptions, of course, just as the fat man
achieved distinction among the unemployed. The crimson sashes of the
officers, the drum-major, with his twirling staff, the white apron of
the big drummer, drew the eye. A