To be found going through the pockets of an unconscious man was not to Orme's liking. It might be possible to explain the situation well enough to satisfy the local authorities, but that would involve delays fatal to any further effort to catch the man with the envelope.

So he jumped to his feet and ran northward, then turned to the west. Circling about, he made for the gate at which he had entered. His pursuer either took the wrong lead in the darkness or stopped to examine Maku, if or when Orme went through the gate and doubled back, outside the fence, to the car, there was no sound of steps behind him. He jumped to the chauffeur's seat.

"Well?" inquired the girl, eagerly.

"Too late," said Orme. "I'm sorry. I caught Maku, but the man with the envelope got away."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Are you hurt?" There was unconcealed anxiety in her voice.

To say the things he yearned to say! To be tender to her! But he controlled his feelings and explained briefly what had happened, at the same time throwing on the power and driving the car slowly northward.

"I only know that the fellow ran northward," he said. "He may have worked back or he may have gone on. He may have climbed another tree and waited."

By this time they had come to the northern limits of the grounds, but he had seen no one.

Suddenly the girl exclaimed "Listen!"

Orme stopped the car. Somewhere from the distance came a faint hum. "Another car!" he muttered.

"Yes," she said. "Oh, but I can do no more. I am tired, Mr. Orme. We cannot catch that car, even if it does hold the man we want—and there is no way of being sure that it does."

"If there is any place to leave you, I will go after him alone." He had turned the car as he spoke and was sending it slowly southward.

"No," she said wearily. "We—you must do no more to-night. You have been so good, Mr. Orme—to help me in a matter of which I could tell you almost nothing. I won't even try to thank you—except by saying that you have understood."

He knew what she meant. He had met her need, because he had known its greatness without her telling him. His recognition of her plight had been unaccompanied by any suggestion of ignored conventions. No gushing thanks would have pleased him half so much.

He smiled at her wistfully. "Does it all end here?"

"No," she said, "I will not let it end here. We are friends already; in fact, Mr. Orme, as soon as I can do so, I will see that we are friends in name. Can you accept as little a promise as that?"

"I can accept any promise from you," he said gravely. "And now shall I take you home?"

"Not home. It is too far. But I have some friends a few blocks away who will take me in. Turn here, please."

Under her guidance he took the car through several streets, drawing up at last before a large, comfortable-looking place, set back from the street, with a wide, shrub-dotted lawn before it. Several windows were still lighted. He descended to help her out.

She hesitated. "I hate to ask it, Mr. Orme," she finally said, "but you can catch the trolley back to Chicago. They will take care of the car here."

He nodded. "But one thing, Girl," he said. "I am going to find that other Japanese to-morrow. I shall get the envelope. Will you call me up at the apartment to-morrow noon? If I am not there, leave word where I can find you."

"I will do that. But don't get yourself hurt." She let him help her to the ground.

"At noon," he said.

"At noon. Good-night, my friend." She offered her hand.

"Good-night, Girl," he said, and then he bent over and kissed her fingers gently.

He stood by the car until she had crossed the lawn and ascended the steps—until the door opened and admitted her.



CHAPTER VI

A CHANCE LEAD

To follow the girl's suggestion and return at once to Chicago was Orme's intention when he said good-night to her. The hour was close to midnight, and the evening had been crowded so full with bewildering adventure that he was tired. Moreover, he looked forward to a morning that might well test his endurance even more strenuously.

He had now committed himself definitely to continue in the field against the Japanese. Except for his desire to serve this wonderful girl who had come so suddenly into his life, he doubtless would have permitted the mystery of the marked bill to remain unsolved. But since the recovery of the stolen papers was so important to her, he was prepared to run any risk in the struggle.

Who was she? But no, that was a question she did not wish him to ask. She was simply "Girl"—beautiful, tender, comprehending—his ideal incarnate. As he stood there, hesitant, before the house into which she had disappeared, he pictured her again—even to the strand of rebellious hair which had blown across her cheek. He could discover no fault in her perfection.

A man came into view on the drive at the side of the house: a servant to care for the car, of course; and Orme, with the uneasy feeling of one who has been trespassing, moved away toward the corner of the block. He looked back, however, and saw the newcomer clamber into the car and send it slowly up the drive.

At the same time a light illumined one of the upper windows of the house. A shadow was thrown on the curtain. Perhaps it was the girl herself. What explanation had she given her friends for appearing so late at their door? Probably she had told them no more than that she was tired and belated. She was not the kind of girl from whom an elaborate explanation would be asked or expected.

Then a thought startled him. Was this, perhaps, her home? No, she had spoken of the people who lived here as her friends, and she would not have tried to keep the truth from him by subterfuge. If this were her home and she had not wished him to know it, she would have requested him to leave her before they had come so far.

It dawned upon him that it would not be hard for him to learn who lived in this house, and possibly through that knowledge to get a clue to her identity. His heart warmed as he realized how completely she had trusted him. His assurance that he would not try to find out who she was had satisfied her. And Orme knew that, if she had been so readily assured, it was because she had recognized the truth and devotion in him.

With a happy sigh, he turned his back once and for all and walked rapidly away. But he did not go toward the electric-car line, which he knew must lie a few blocks to the west. Instead, he retraced the course they had come, for he had decided to visit the university campus once more and try to discover what had become of Maku, and more especially of the other Japanese, who had secured the papers. That he would be recognized and connected with the attack on Maku, was unlikely.

When he came to the corner of Sheridan Road and Chicago Avenue, he hesitated for a moment. Should he go north through the campus and seek a trace of the Japanese who had escaped? Nearly half an hour had gone since the adventure among the trees, and the man must have got completely away by this time. Having the papers, he surely would not linger to learn the fate of Maku.

Orme found himself wondering how the Japanese had got to Evanston. Granting that it had not taken them long to solve the abbreviated directions on the five-dollar bill, they could hardly have come by motor-car, for they had had a good half-hour start, and yet Orme had discovered them before their work was completed. Only on the assumption that their car had broken down on the way could Orme admit that they had used a motor-car. Moreover, how were two Japanese, whose appearance did not indicate the possession of much ready money—how were they likely to have a car, or even to rent one? And had they believed that they might be pursued? Would they not have come to Evanston by an obvious route of train or trolley.

These considerations led Orme to think that the car which he and the girl had heard in the distance could not have been occupied by the escaping Japanese.

The fellow, then, had probably made for the electric-car line, and in that event he would be well on his way to Chicago by this time. The car he had caught must have gone southward from Evanston about ten forty-five. The conductor would be likely to remember having had a Japanese on board; perhaps he would even remember where the Oriental had got off. The natural course for Orme, therefore, was to take a car himself and, if he did not meet the other car returning, to get off at the car-barns and make inquiries. The possibility that the Japanese had changed to the elevated road on the North Side was great, but the conductor might remember if the change had been made.

But Orme did not turn at once toward the car-line. Though his logic pointed in that direction, he was irresistibly influenced by a desire to walk eastward along the drive where it skirted the southern end of the campus. A half-hour might go by, and still he would not be too late to meet, on its return, the car which the Japanese would have taken. He started, therefore, eastward, toward the lake, throwing frequent glances through the iron fence at his left and into the dark shadows of the oaks.

He came to the lake without encountering anyone. The road here swept to the southward, and on the beach near the turn squatted the low brick building which the girl had told him was the life-saving station. A man was standing on the little veranda. His suit of duck was dimly white in the light from the near-by street-lamps.

"One of the crew," Orme surmised, and he sauntered slowly down the little path.

The beach sloped grayly to the edge of the lake, where a breakwater thrust its blunt nose out like a stranded hulk. The water was calm, lapping the sand so gently that it was hard to believe that so gentle a murmur could ever swell into the roar of a northeaster. A launch that was moored at the outer end of the breakwater lay quiet on the tideless surface.

"Good-evening," said Orme, as the man turned his head. "Are you on watch?"

The life-saver slowly stretched. "Till twelve," he answered.

"Not much longer, then?"

"No, thank heaven!"

Orme laughed. "I suppose you do get more than you want of it," he said. "But on a fine night like this I should think it would be mighty pleasant."

"Not if you have to put in several hours of study after you get through."

"Study?"

"Yes. You see, I have a special examination to-morrow."

"A service examination?"

"Oh, no—college."

"Are you a student?"

"All the crew are students. It helps a good deal, if you are working your way through college."

"Oh, I see. But surely the university hasn't opened for the fall?"

"No, but there are preliminary exams, for those who have conditions to work off."

Orme nodded. "It's a fine campus you have—with the groves of oaks."

"Yes."

"Just the place for a quiet evening stroll. I thought I'd walk up the shore."

"There's a rule against going in there after dark."

"Is there? That's too bad."

"Something funny happened there just a little while ago."

"So? What was it?" Orme was getting close to the subject he most desired to hear explained.

"Why, one of the cops was walking along the shore and he found a Japanese, stunned."

"A Japanese!"

"He evidently had wandered in there and somebody had hit him over the head with a club."

"After money?"

"Probably. There've been a good many holdups lately. But the slugger didn't have a chance to get anything this time."

"How so?"

"He was bending over the Jap when the cop came up. He got away."

"Didn't the cop chase him?"

"No, the fellow had a good start, so the cop stayed by the Jap."

"And what became of the Jap?"

The life-saver jerked his head toward the door beside him. "He's in there, getting over his headache."

"Is he?" This was a contingency which Orme had not foreseen. Nor had he any desire to come face to face with Maku. But if he betrayed his surprise, the life-saver did not notice it.

"The cop is taking another look through the campus," he continued.

"What does the Jap say about it?" asked Orme.

"He doesn't say anything. It looks as though he couldn't speak English. The cop is going to get Asuki."

"Asuki?"

"A Jap student who lives in the dormitory."

"Oh," said Orme.

The fact that Maku would not talk was in a measure reassuring. His apparent inability to understand English was, of course, assumed, unless, indeed, he was still too completely dazed by the blow which Orme had given him, to use a tongue which was more or less strange to him. But what would he say if he saw Orme? Would he not accuse his assailant, hoping thus to delay the pursuit of his companion?

The danger was by no means slight. Orme decided quickly to get away from this neighborhood. But just as he was about to bid the life-saver a casual good-night, two men came around the corner of the building. One was a policeman, the other a young Japanese. Orme unobtrusively seated himself on the edge of the little veranda.

"How is he?" asked the policeman.

"All right, I guess," replied the life-saver. "I looked in a few minutes ago, and he was sitting up. Hello, Asuki."

"Hello, there," responded the little Japanese.

"Come," said the policeman, after an unsuspicious glance at Orme, and, mounting the steps, he led his interpreter into the station.

Now, indeed, it was time for Orme to slip away. Maku might be brought out at any moment. But Orme lingered. He was nearer to the solution of the secret if he kept close to Maku, and he realized, for that matter, that by watching Maku closely and, perhaps, following him home, he might be led straight to the other man. If Maku accused him, it should not, after all, be hard to laugh the charge away.

A murmur of voices came from within the station, the policeman's words alone being distinguishable.

"Ask him," the policeman said, "if he knows who hit him."

The undertones of a foreign jargon followed.

"Well, then," continued the policeman, "find out where he came from and what he was doing on the campus."

Again the undertones, and afterward an interval of silence. Then the policeman spoke in an undecided voice.

"If he don't know anything, I can't do anything. But we might as well get a few more facts. Something might turn up. Ask him whether he saw anybody following him when he went into the campus."

Orme had been straining his ears in a vain endeavor to catch the words of Asuki. But suddenly his attention was diverted by a sound from the lake. It was the "puh-puh-puh-puh" of a motor-boat, apparently a little distance to the northward. The explosions followed one another in rapid succession.

He turned to the life-saver.

"What boat is that?" he asked.

"I don't know. Some party from Chicago, probably. She came up an hour or so ago—at least, I suppose she's the same one."

The explosions were now so rapid as to make almost one continuous roar.

"She's a fast one, all right," commented the life-saver. "Hear her go!"

"Are there many fast boats on the lake?"

"Quite a number. They run out from Chicago harbor now and then."

Orme was meditating.

"Exactly how long ago did this boat pass?"

"Oh, an hour or more. Why?"

"She seems to have been beached up north here a little way."

"She may have been. Or they've been lying to out there."

In Orme's mind arose a surmise that in this motor-boat Maku and his companion had come from Chicago. The surmise was so strong as to develop quickly into a certainty. And if the Japanese had come by this boat, it stood to reason that the one who had the papers was escaping in it. He must have waited some time for Maku and, at last, had pushed off to return alone.

Were these Japanese acting for themselves? That did not seem possible. Then who was their employer?

Orme did not puzzle long over these questions, for he had determined on a course of action. He spoke to the life-saver, who appeared to be listening to the droning conversation which continued within the station.

"The hold-up men may be in that boat," remarked Orme.

"Hardly." A laugh accompanied the answer.

"Well, why not? She came north an hour or so ago and either was beached or lay to until just now."

"You may be right." Then, before Orme knew what was happening, the young man opened the door and called into the station: "Hey, there! Your robber is escaping on that motor-boat out there."

"What's that?" The policeman strode to the door.

"Don't you hear that boat out there?" asked the life-saver.

"Sure, I hear it."

"Well, she came up from the south an hour or more ago and stopped a little north of here. Now she's going back. Mr. Holmes, here"—he grinned as he said it—"Mr. Holmes suggests that the hold-up man is aboard."

The reference to the famous detective of fiction was lost upon the policeman. "I guess that's about it, Mr. Holmes," he said excitedly; and Orme was much relieved to note that the life-saver's humorous reference had passed for an introduction. The policeman would have no suspicion of him now—unless Maku——

There was an exclamation from within the room. "What's the matter?" asked the policeman, turning in the doorway.

The voice of Asuki replied: "He say the robber came in a bicycle—not in a boat."

"But I thought he didn't see the fellow coming."

"He remember now."

The policeman started. "How did he know what we were talking about out here?" he demanded.

"He understand English, but not speak it," replied Asuki readily.

To the policeman this explanation was satisfactory. Orme, of course, found in it a corroboration of his guess. Maku evidently did not wish suspicion directed against the motor-boat.

The policeman re-entered the station, eager to avail himself of the information which Maku was now disposed to give him.

Orme turned to the life-saver. "The Jap is lying," he said.

"Think so?"

"Of course. If he understands English so well, he certainly knows how to make himself understood in it. His story of the bicycle is preposterous."

"But what then?"

"Doesn't it occur to you that perhaps the Jap himself is the robber? His intended victim may have got the better of him."

"Yes," said the young man doubtfully, "but the fellow ran."

"That would be natural. Doubtless he didn't want any notoriety. It's possible that he thought he had killed his assailant, and had an unpleasant vision of being detained in the local jail until the affair could be cleared up."

The life-saver looked at Orme searchingly.

"That sounds pretty straight," he said at last. "I guess you know what you are talking about."

"Perhaps I do," said Orme quietly. "In any event I'd like to see who's in that boat out there."

"There isn't a boat nearer than Chicago that could catch her. They have run her several miles out into the lake before turning south, or she would have been pretty close to Chicago already. She's going fast."

The roar of the motor was indeed becoming a far-off sound.

"Why not telephone the Chicago police to intercept her?"

"There's no evidence against her," replied Orme; "only surmises."

"I know, but——"

"And, as I suggested, whoever was attacked by that Jap in there may not want notoriety."

Suddenly the distant explosions stopped—began again—stopped. Several times they were renewed at short intervals—"puh-puh-puh"——"puh-puh" ——"puh-puh-puh-puh"—then they ceased altogether.

"Hello!" exclaimed the life-saver. "They've broken down."

He picked up a pair of binoculars which had been lying on the veranda near him, and scanned the surface of the lake.

"Make her out?" queried Orme.

"No, she's too small, and too far off." He handed the night-glass to Orme, who in turn searched the water vainly.

"Whose boat is that moored to the breakwater?" asked Orme, lowering the glass.

"Belongs to a man here in town."

"Would he rent it?"

"No. But he lets us run it once in a while. We keep an eye on it for him."

Orme took out his watch. "It's almost twelve," he said. "You'll be relieved in a few moments. Do you suppose I could persuade you to take me out to the other boat?"

The life-saver hesitated. "I'd like to," he said. "But my study——"

"There'll be some sport, if we get within reach of the man out there," Orme put in.

"Well—I'll do it—though the chances are that they will make their repairs and be off again before we come within a mile."

"I'm much obliged to you," said Orme. "If you would let me make it right——"

"For taking you out in another man's boat? No, sir."

"I know. Well—my name is Orme, not Holmes."

"And mine," grinned the life-saver, "is Porter."

A man turned in from the drive, and sauntered toward them.

"There's my relief," said Porter. "Hello, Kelmsley."

"Hello," replied the newcomer.

"Just wait till I punch the clock," said Porter to Orme.

"Punch the clock? Oh, I see; the government times you."

"Yes."

Porter went into the station for a moment; then, returning, he exchanged a few words with the relief and led Orme down to the breakwater. The launch which was moored there proved to be a sturdy boat, built for strength rather than for speed.

Orme cast off while Porter removed the tarpaulin from the motor and made ready to turn the wheel over.

"Is the policeman still busy with the Jap?" Orme questioned suddenly.

"Yes."

"He won't get anything out of him," said Orme—"except fairy-stories."

Porter started the motor and stepped forward to the steering-wheel. Slowly the launch pushed out into the open lake, and the lights of the shore receded.

No sound had come from the disabled boat since its motor stopped. Doubtless it was too far off for the noise of repairs to be heard on the shore. Orme peered over the dark surface of the water, but he could see nothing except the lights of a distant steamer.

"I know why he went out so far," remarked Porter. "He is running without lights."

"That in itself is suspicious, isn't it?" Orme asked.

"Why, yes, I suppose so—though people aren't always as careful as they might be. Our own lights aren't lighted, you see."

"Have you any clue at all as to where she is?"

"Only from the direction the sounds came from just before the explosions stopped. She had headway enough to slide some distance after that, and I'm allowing for it—and for the currents. With the lake as it is, she would be carried in a little."

For nearly half an hour they continued straight out toward mid-lake. Orme noticed that there was a slight swell. The lights of Evanston were now mere twinkling distant points, far away over the dark void of the waters.

Porter shut off the power. "We must be pretty near her," he said.

They listened intently.

"Perhaps I steered too far south," said Porter at last.

He threw on the power, and sent the boat northward in slow, wide circles. The distant steamship had made progress toward the northeast—bound, perhaps, for Muskegon, or some other port on the Michigan shore. She was a passenger steamer, apparently, for lines of portholes and deck-windows were marked by dots of light. There was no other sign of human presence to be seen on the lake, and Orme's glance expectantly wandered to her lights now and then.

At last, while he was looking at it, after a fruitless search of the darkness, he was startled by a strange phenomenon. The lights of the steamer suddenly disappeared. An instant later they shone out again.

With an exclamation, Orme seized the steering-wheel and swung it over to the right.

"There she is," he cried, and then: "Excuse me for taking the wheel that way, but I was afraid I'd lose her."

"I don't see her," said Porter.

"No; but something dark cut off the lights of that steamer. Hold her so." He let go the wheel and peered ahead.

Presently they both saw a spot of blacker blackness in the night. Porter set the motor at half-speed.

"Have you got a bull's-eye lantern?" asked Orme in an undertone.

"Yes, in that locker."

Orme stooped and lighted the lantern in the shelter of the locker.

"Now run up alongside," he said, "and ask if they need help."

The outline of the disabled boat now grew more distinct. Porter swung around toward it and called:

"Need help?"

After a moment's wait, a voice replied:

"Yes. You tow me to Chicago. I pay you."

It was a voice which Orme recognized as that of the Japanese who had been with Maku in the attack at the Pere Marquette.

"Can't do that," answered Porter. "I'll take you in to Evanston."

"No!" The tone was expostulatory. "I go to Chicago. I fix engine pretty soon."

At this moment Orme raised his lantern and directed its light into the other boat. It shone into the blinking eyes of the Japanese, standing by the motor. It shone——

Great Heaven! Was he dreaming? Orme could not believe his eyes. The light revealed the face of the one person he least expected to see—for, seated on a cushion at the forward end of the cockpit, was the girl!



CHAPTER VII

A JAPANESE AT LARGE

What was the girl doing out there in mid-lake in the company of her enemy? Orme had seen her enter the house of her friends in Evanston; had bidden her good-night with the understanding that she was to make no further move in the game before the coming morning. She must have left the house soon after he walked away.

Had she known all the time where the Japanese was? Had she hunted him out to make terms with him? If that were the case, her action indicated a new and unsuspected distrust of Orme himself. Her failure to call for help when Orme and Porter came up in their launch seemed to show that her presence in the other boat was voluntary. And yet Orme could not believe that there was not some simple explanation which she would welcome the first chance to make. He could not doubt her.

The immediate thing to do, however, was to find out just what she desired. Suppressing his excitement, he called out:

"Girl!"

At the same time he turned the lantern so that his own face was illuminated.

"Mr. Orme!" she cried, rising from her seat. "You here?"

"At your service."

He smiled, and turned his eyes for an instant on her companion. The face of the Japanese was a study. His eyes were narrowed to thin slits, and his mouth was formed into a meaningless grin.

Orme spoke to the Japanese in French. "Maku has confessed," he said. "He is under arrest."

The face of the Japanese did not change.

"Do you understand?" asked Orme, still in French.

There was no answer, and Orme turned to the Girl and said, in French.

"I don't think he understands this language."

"Apparently not," she replied, in the same tongue.

"Tell me," he went on, "are you there of your own will?"

"No."

"Has he the papers?"

"I think so. I don't know."

"See if you can manage to get past him, and I will help you into our boat."

"I'll try." She nodded, with a brave effort to show reassurance.

Orme frowned at the Japanese. "What are you doing with this young lady?" he demanded.

"No understand."

"Yes, you do understand. You understood well enough when you robbed me this evening."

"No understand," the Japanese repeated.

The girl, meantime, had moved slowly from her position. The two boats were close together. Suddenly, after a swift glance from Orme, the girl stepped to the gunwale and leaped across the gap. Orme reached forward and caught her, drawing her for a brief instant close into his arms before she found her footing in the cockpit.

"Splendid!" he whispered, and she tossed her head with a pretty smile of relief.

Porter had been standing close by, the boathook in his hands. "Is there anything more to be done?" he asked of Orme.

"Yes, wait a moment."

The Japanese had made no move to prevent the girl's escape. Indeed, while she was leaping to the other boat, he balanced himself and turned to his motor, as though to continue the work of repair.

"Now, then," called Orme, "you must give me those papers."

"No understand." The Japanese did not even look up from his task.

Orme turned to Porter. "Give me the boathook," he said, and, taking it, he hooked it to the gunwale of the other boat, drawing the two crafts together. His intention was to use the boathook to bring the Japanese to terms. But the Oriental was too quick. His apparent indifference vanished, and with a cat-like pounce, he seized the boathook and snatched it from Orme's grasp.

The action was so unexpected that Orme was completely taken by surprise. He made ready, however, to leap in unarmed, but the Japanese thrust the blunt end of the boathook at him, and the blow, which struck him in the chest, sent him toppling backward. He was saved from tumbling into the cockpit by Porter, who caught him by the shoulders and helped him to right himself. The two boats tossed for a moment like corks in the water.

When Orme again leaped to the gunwale, the Japanese was using the boathook to push the craft apart. A final shove widened the distance to six or eight feet. The jump was impossible. Even if the boats had been nearer together it would have been folly to attempt an attack.

Stepping down into the cockpit, Orme bent over the girl, who had sunk down upon a cushion. She seemed to be content that he should play the game for her.

"What is wrong with his motor?" he said. "Do you know?"

She answered in an undertone: "I shut off the gasoline-supply. He wasn't looking. He didn't see."

"Good for you, Girl!" he exclaimed. "Where did you do it? At the tank?"

"No. Unfortunately the valve is at the carburetter. Oh," she continued, "we must get the papers!"

Orme turned to Porter. "Are you willing to take a risk?" he asked.

"Anything in reason." The life-saver grinned. "Of course, I don't understand what's going on, but I'll back you."

"This is a good, stout tub we are in." Orme hesitated. "I want you to ram her nose into that other boat."

Porter shook his head.

"That's going pretty far," he said. "I don't know that there is warrant for it."

"It won't need to be a hard bump," Orme explained. "I don't want to hurt the fellow."

"Then why——?"

"To frighten him into giving up some papers."

Porter looked straight into Orme's eyes. "Do the papers belong to you?" he demanded.

"No." Orme spoke quietly. "They belong to this young lady—or, rather, to her father. This Japanese, and the other one, there on the shore, stole them."

"What is the lady's name?"

"I can't tell you that."

"But the police——"

"It isn't a matter for the police. Please trust me, Mr. Porter."

The life-saver stood irresolute.

"If this boat is damaged, I'll make it good five times over," continued Orme.

"Oh, it wouldn't hurt the boat. A few scratches, perhaps. It's the other boat I'm thinking of."

"It's pretty grim business, I know," remarked Orme.

The younger man again studied Orme's face. "Can you give me your word that the circumstances would justify us in ramming that boat?"

It flashed over Orme that he had no idea what those circumstances were. He knew only what little the girl had told him. Yet she had assured him again and again that the papers were of the greatest importance. True, throughout the affair, thus far, with the exception of the blow he had given Maku, the persons concerned had offered no dangerous violence. The mysterious papers might contain information about South American mines—as little Poritol had suggested; they might hold the secrets of an international syndicate. Whatever they were, it was really doubtful whether the necessity of their recovery would justify the possible slaying of another man.

Perhaps the girl had unconsciously exaggerated their value. Women who took a hand in business often lost the sense of relative importance. And yet, she had been so sure; she had herself gone to such lengths. Then, too, the South Americans had hired a burglar to break into her father's house, and now this Japanese had abducted her. Yes, it was a serious game.

Orme answered Porter. "I give you my word," he said.

Porter nodded and tightened his lips.

"At the very least, that fellow has tried to abduct this young lady," added Orme.

"All right," said Porter. "Let her go."

The other boat had drifted about fifty feet away. Orme called out.

"Hello, there, Japanese. Will you give up the papers."

No answer came.

"If you won't," cried Orme, "we are going to ram you."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed the girl suddenly. "We mustn't drown him."

"We shan't," said Orme. "But we will give him a scare." Then, in a louder voice: "Do you hear?"

The only reply was the tapping of metal on metal. The Japanese, it seemed, was still trying to find out what was wrong with his motor.

"Well, then," Orme said to Porter, "we'll have to try it. But use low speed, and be ready to veer off at the last minute."

"He'll try to fend with the boathook," said Porter.

"If he does, I'll get him."

"How?"

"Lasso." Orme picked up a spare painter that was stored under the seat, and began to tie a slip-noose.

The girl now spoke. "I suppose we shall have to do it," she said. "But I wish there were a less dangerous, a less tragic way."

Hardly knowing what he did, Orme laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "It will be all right, dear," he whispered.

If the word embarrassed her, the darkness covered her confusion.

Porter had started the motor, setting it at a low speed, and now he was steering the boat in a circle to gain distance for the charge.

"I've lost the other boat," exclaimed Orme, peering into the darkness.

"She's off there," said Porter. "You can't see her, but I know the direction."

He swung the launch around and headed straight through the night.

"Hold on tight," Orme cautioned the girl, and, coiling his lasso, he went to the bow.

The launch moved steadily forward. Orme, straining his eyes in the endeavor to distinguish the other boat, saw it at last. It lay a few points to starboard, and Porter altered the course of the launch accordingly.

"Make for the stern," called Orme, "and cripple her propeller, if you can."

Another slight change in the course showed that Porter understood.

As the lessening of the distance between the two boats made it possible to distinguish the disabled speeder more clearly, Orme saw that the Japanese was still tinkering with the motor. He was busying himself as though he realized that he had no hope of escape unless he could start his boat.

Narrower, narrower, grew the intervening gap of dark water. Orme braced himself for the shock. In his left hand was the coiled painter; in his right, the end of the ready noose, which trailed behind him on the decking. It was long since he had thrown a lariat. In a vivid gleam of memory he saw at that moment the hot, dusty New Mexican corral, the low adobe buildings, the lumbering cattle and the galloping horses of the ranch. There he had spent one summer vacation of his college life. It was ten years past, but this pose, the rope in his hand, flashed it back to him.

Now they were almost on the Japanese. For the moment he seemed to waver. He glanced at the approaching launch, and reached uncertainly for the boathook. Even his subtle resources were almost at an end. Yet it did not seem to occur to him to yield.

And then, as for the hundredth time he laid his hands on the motor, he uttered a cry. It was plain to Orme that the cause of the supposed breakdown had been discovered. But was there time for the Japanese to get away? It was doubtful. He opened the feed-pipe, and let the gasoline again flow in. The launch was now so near that Orme could almost have leaped the gap, but the Japanese bent his energy to the heavy fly-wheel, tugging at it hurriedly.

The motor started. The boat began to move.

Even now it looked as though the collision could not be prevented, but the Japanese, seizing the steering-wheel, turned the boat so quickly to starboard that the stern fell away from the bow of the approaching launch. There was no crash, no hard bump; merely a glancing blow so slight that in that calm water it scarcely made the boats careen.

Then Orme threw his noose. The distance was less than ten feet, and the loop spread, quick and true, over the head of the Japanese. But, swift though the action was, the Japanese had an instant to prepare himself. His right arm shot up. As Orme, jerking at the rope, tried to tighten the noose, the hand of the Japanese pushed it over his head and it slid over the side into the water. In a few seconds the swift boat had disappeared in the night.

Tightening his lips grimly, Orme drew the wet rope in and mechanically coiled it. There was nothing to say. He had failed. So good an opportunity to recover the papers would hardly return.

Silently he turned back to the others. Porter had swung the launch around and was heading toward the distant lights of Evanston. The girl was peering in the direction whence came the sound of the receding boat. Thus, for some time they remained silent.

At last the girl broke into a laugh. It was a rippling, silvery laugh, expressing an infectious appreciation of the humor of their situation. Orme chuckled in spite of himself. If she could laugh like that, he need not stay in the dumps. And yet in his mind rankled the sense of failure. He had made a poor showing before her—and she was laughing. Again the corners of his mouth drew down.

"I suppose the notion is amusing," he said—"a cowboy at sea."

"Oh, I was not laughing at you." She had sobered quickly at his words.

"I shouldn't blame you, if you did."

"It is the whole situation," she went on. "And it wouldn't be so funny, if it weren't so serious."

"I appreciate it," he said.

"And you know how serious it is," she went on. "But truly, Mr. Orme, I am glad that we did not damage that boat. It might have been terrible. If he had been drowned——" her voice trailed off in a faint shudder, and Orme remembered how tired she must be, and how deeply disappointed.

"Now, Girl," he said, bending over her and speaking in a low voice, "try to forget it. To-morrow I am going after the papers. I will get them."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were softly confident. "I believe you," she whispered. "You never give up, do you?"

"No," he said, "I never give up—when I am striving for something which I greatly want." There was meaning in his voice, though he had struggled to conceal it. She lowered her eyes, and said no more.

Slowly the lights of shore grew brighter. After a time Orme could distinguish the masses of trees and buildings, grayly illuminated by the arc-lamps of the streets. He spoke to Porter in an undertone.

"Can you land us some distance south of the life-saving station?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll run in by the Davis Street pier."

"I'll be obliged to you," Orme sighed. "I made a bad mess of it, didn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the life-saver. "We got the lady."

Orme started. "Yes," he said, "we got the lady—and that's more important than all the rest of it."

Porter grinned a noncommittal grin and devoted himself to the wheel.

They had saved the girl! In his disappointment over the escape of the Japanese Orme had forgotten, but now he silently thanked God that Porter and he had come out on the water. The girl had not yet explained her presence in the boat. In her own good time she would tell him. But she had been there under compulsion; and Orme shuddered to think what might have happened.

He stole a glance at her. She was leaning back on the seat. Her eyes were closed and her pose indicated complete relaxation, though it was evident from her breathing that she was not asleep. Orme marveled at her ability to push the nervous excitement of the evening away and snatch the brief chance of rest.

When at last the launch ran up under the end of a little breakwater near the Davis Street pier, she arose quickly and sprang out of the boat without help. Then she turned, as Orme stepped up beside her, and spoke to Porter. "If you and Mr. Orme had not come after me," she said, "there's no telling whether I should ever have got back. I should like to shake hands with you," she added; and bending down, she held out her firm white hand.

Then Orme laid his hand on the life-saver's shoulder. "You've done a piece of good work to-night," he said.

Porter laughed embarrassedly. "I only ran the boat for you," he began.

"You took me at my word," said Orme, "and that's a good deal in such a case. Good-by. I will look you up before I go back East."

At the side of the girl, Orme now walked slowly through the deserted streets. It was some time before she spoke.

"After you left me at the home of my friends—" she began at last.

"Don't try to tell about it," he interrupted quickly. "You are tired. Wait for another time."

They were passing under a street-lamp at the moment, and she glanced up at him with a grateful smile, pleased apparently by his thought of her.

"That is good of you," she exclaimed, "but my story is easily told. Let me go on with it. I explained myself to my friends as best I could and went to my room. Then it suddenly occurred to me that Maku and his friend might have come to Evanston by boat."

"Just as, later, it occurred to me."

"I thought that the other man might be waiting for Maku. The motor-car that we heard—there was no good reason for thinking that our man was in it."

She paused.

"I know," he said. "I thought of those things, too."

"It flashed on me," she went on, "that if I could find the man, I might be able to buy him off. I didn't believe that he would dare to injure me. There are reasons why he should not. My car had been taken in, but I had them bring it out, and I told them—well, that part doesn't matter. Enough that I made an excuse, and went out with the car."

"You should have taken someone with you."

"There was the likelihood that the Japanese would run, if I had a companion. As long as I was alone, he might be willing to parley, I thought. At least, he would not be afraid of me alone. So I went north on Sheridan Road to the upper end of the lower campus. There is a crossroad there, you remember, cutting through to the lake, and I turned in. I left the car near a house that is there, and walked on to the edge of the bluff.

"Moored to a breakwater below was a boat, and a man was standing near her. I called out to him, asking what time it was. He answered, 'Don' know,' and I knew him at once to be foreign and, probably, Japanese. So I went down toward him.

"When he saw that I was coming, he got into the boat. He seemed to be frightened and hurried, and I inferred that he was about to cast off, and I called out that I was alone. At that he waited, but he did not get out of the boat, and I was standing at the edge of the breakwater, just above him, before he actually seemed to recognize me."

"Did you know him?" asked Orme.

"I never saw him before to my knowledge; but he made an exclamation which indicated that he knew me."

"What did he do then?"

"I told him that I wished to talk to him about the papers. His answer was that, if I would step down into the boat, he would talk. He said that he would not leave the boat, and added that he was unwilling to discuss the matter aloud. And I was foolish enough to believe his excuses. If he wished to whisper, I said to myself, why, I would whisper. I never felt so like a conspirator."

She paused to look up at the street-sign at the corner which they had reached, and turned to the right on a shady avenue.

"Well, I got into the boat," she continued. "I told him that I—my father was prepared to pay him a large sum of money for the papers, but he only shook his head and said, 'No, no.' I named a sum; then a larger one; but money did not seem to tempt him, though I made the second offer as large as I dared.

"'How much will you take then?' I asked at last. Instead of answering, he bent down and started the motor, and then I noticed for the first time that while I was talking we had been drifting away from the dock. I made ready to jump overboard. We were near the shore, and the water was not deep; anyway, I am a fair swimmer. But he turned and seized my wrists and forced me down into the bottom of the boat. I struggled, but it was no use, and when I opened my mouth to scream, he choked me with one hand and with the other pulled from his pocket a handkerchief and tried to put it in my mouth."

She gave a weary little laugh.

"It was such a crumpled, unclean handkerchief, I couldn't have stood it. So I managed to gasp that, if he would only let me alone, I would keep quiet."

"The brute!" muttered Orme.

"Oh, I don't think he intended to hurt me. What he feared, as nearly as I can make out, is that I might have him intercepted if he let me go free. That must have been why he tried to take me with him. Probably he planned to beach the boat at some unfrequented point on the North Side and leave me to shift for myself.

"When your boat came, of course I didn't know who was in it. I never dreamed it would be you. And I had promised to keep still."

"Hardly a binding promise."

"Well, before he stopped threatening me with that awful handkerchief, he had made me swear over and over that I would not call for help, that I would not make any signal, that I would sit quietly on the seat. When you recognized me, I felt that all need of observing the promise was over."

"Naturally," muttered Orme.

She sighed. "It does seem as though Fate had been against us," she said.

"Fate is fickle," Orme returned. "You never know whether she will be your friend or your enemy. But I believe that she is now going to be our friend—for a change. To-morrow I shall get those papers."



CHAPTER VIII

THE TRAIL OF MAKU

When for the second time that night he bade the girl adieu and saw her enter the house of her friends, Orme went briskly to the electric-car line.

He had not long to wait. A car came racing down the tracks and stopped at his corner. Swinging aboard at the rear platform, he glanced within. There were four passengers—a man and woman who, apparently, were returning from an evening party of some sort, since he was in evening dress and she wore an opera-cloak; a spectacled man, with a black portfolio in his lap; a seedy fellow asleep in one corner, his head sagging down on his breast, his hands in his trousers pockets; and—was it possible? Orme began to think that Fate had indeed changed her face toward him, for the man who sat huddled midway of the car, staring straight before him with beady, expressionless eyes, was Maku.

Under the brim of his dingy straw hat a white bandage was drawn tight around his head—so tight that from its under edge the coarse black hair bristled out in a distinct fringe. The blow of the wrench, then, must have cut through the skin.

Well—that would mean one more scar on the face of the Japanese.

The other scar, how had Maku come by that? Perhaps in some battle with the Russians in Manchuria. He seemed to be little more than a boy, but then, one never could guess the age of a Japanese, and for that matter, Orme had more than once been told that the Japanese had begun to impress very young soldiers long before the battle of Mukden.

While making these observations, Orme had drawn his hat lower over his eyes. He hoped to escape recognition, for this opportunity to track Maku to his destination was not to be missed. He also placed himself in such a position on the platform that his own face was partly concealed by the cross-bars which protected the windows at the end of the car.

In his favor was the fact that Maku would not expect to see him. Doubtless the Japanese was more concerned with his aching head than with any suspicion of pursuit, though his somewhat indeterminate profile, as visible to Orme, gave no indication of any feeling at all. So Orme stood where he could watch without seeming to watch, and puzzled over the problem of following Maku from the car without attracting attention.

The refusal of the other Japanese to accept the girl's offer of money for the papers had given Orme a new idea of the importance of the quest. Maku and his friend must be Japanese government agents—just as Poritol and Alcatrante were unquestionably acting for their government. This, at least, was the most probable explanation that entered Orme's mind. The syndicate, then,—or concession, or whatever it was—must be of genuine international significance.

Though Orme continued to smother his curious questionings as to the meaning of the secret, he could not ignore his general surmises. To put his confidence in the girl—to act for her and for her alone—that was enough for him; but it added to his happiness to think that she might be leading him into an affair which was greater than any mere tangle of private interests. He knew too, that, upon the mesh of private interests, public interests are usually woven. The activity of a Russian syndicate in Korea had been the more or less direct cause of the Russo-Japanese War; the activity of rival American syndicates in Venezuela had been, but a few years before, productive of serious international complications. In the present instance, both South Americans and Japanese were interested. But Orme knew in his soul that there could be nothing unworthy in any action in which the girl took part. She would not only do nothing unworthy; she would understand the situation clearly enough to know whether the course which offered itself to her was worthy or not.

In events such as she had that night faced with him, any other girl Orme had ever met would have shown moments of weakness, impatience, or fear. But to her belonged a calm which came from a clear perception of the comparative unimportance of petty incident. She was strong, not as a man is strong, but in the way a woman should be strong.

The blood went to his cheeks as he remembered how tenderly he had spoken to her in the boat, and how plain he had made his desire for her. What should he call his feeling? Did love come to men as suddenly as this? She had not rebuked him—there was that much to be thankful for; and she must have known that his words were as involuntary as his action in touching her shoulder with his hand.

But how could she have rebuked him? She was, in a way, indebted to him. The thought troubled him. Had he unintentionally taken advantage of her gratitude by showing affection when she wished no more than comradeship? And had she gently said nothing, because he had done something for her? If her patience with him were thus to be explained, it must have been based upon her recognition of his unconsciousness.

Still, the more he pondered, the more clearly he saw that she was not a girl who, under the spell of friendly good will, would permit a false situation to exist. Her sincerity was too deep for such a glossing of fact. He dared assume, then, that her sympathy with him went even so far as to accept his attitude when it was a shade more than friendly.

More than friendly! Like a white light, the truth flashed upon him as he stood there on the rocking platform of the car. He and she would have to be more than friendly! He had never seen her until that day. He did not even know her name. But all his life belonged to her, and would belong to her forever. The miracle which had been worked upon him, might it not also have been worked upon her? He felt unworthy, and yet she might care—might already have begun to care—But he put the daring hope out of his mind, and looked again at Maku.

The Japanese had not moved. His face still wore its racial look of patient indifference; his hands were still crossed in his lap. He sat on the edge of the seat, in order that his feet might rest on the floor, for his legs were short; and with every lurch of the car, he swayed easily, adapting himself to the motion with an unconscious ease that betrayed supple muscles.

The car stopped at a corner and the man and woman got out, but Maku did not even seem to glance at them. Orme stepped back to make way for them on the platform, and as they descended and the conductor rang the bell, he looked out at the suburban landscape, with its well-lighted, macadamized streets, its vacant lots, and its occasional houses, which seemed to be of the better class, as nearly as he could judge in the uncertain rays of the arc-lamps. He turned to the conductor, who met his glance with the look of one who thirsts to talk.

"People used to go to parties in carriages and automobiles," said the conductor, "but now they take the car when they've any distance to go. It's quicker and handier."

"I should think that would be so, here in the suburbs," said Orme.

"Oh, this ain't the suburbs. We crossed the city limits twenty minutes ago."

"You don't carry many passengers this time of night."

"That depends. Sometimes we have a crowd. To-night there's hardly anyone. Nobody else is likely to get on now."

"Why is that?"

"Well, it's only a short way now to the connection with the elevated road. People who want to go the rest of the way by the elevated, would walk. And after we pass the elevated there's other car-lines they're more likely to take, where the cars run frequenter."

"Do you go to the heart of the city?"

"No, we stop at the barns. Say, have you noticed that Jap in there?"

The conductor nodded toward Maku.

"What about him?"

"He was put aboard by a cop. Looks as though somebody had slugged him."

"That's so," commented Orme. "His head is bandaged."

"Judging from the bandage, it must have been a nasty crack," continued the conductor. "But you wouldn't know he'd been hurt from his face. Say, you can't tell anything about those Johns from their looks, can you, now?"

"You certainly can't," replied Orme.

The conductor glanced out. "There's the elevated," he said. "I'll have to go in and wake that drunk. He gets off here."

Orme watched the conductor go to the man who was sleeping in the corner and shake him. The man nodded his head vaguely, and settled back into slumber. Through the open door came the conductor's voice: "Wake up!"—Shake—"You get off here!"—Shake—"Wake up, there!" But the man would not awaken.

Maku was sitting but a few feet from the sleeping man. He had not appeared to notice what was going on, but now, just as the conductor seemed about to appeal to the motorman for help, the little Japanese slid along the seat and said to the conductor: "I wake him."

The conductor stared, and scratched his head. "If you can," he remarked, "it's more'n I can do."

Maku did not answer, but putting his hand behind the sleeping man's back, found some sensitive vertebra. With a yell, the man awoke and leaped to his feet. The conductor seized him by the arm and led him to the platform.

The car was already slowing down, but without waiting for it to stop, the fellow launched himself into the night, being preserved from falling by the god of alcohol, and stumbled away toward the sidewalk.

"Did you see the Jap?" exclaimed the conductor. "Stuck a pin into him, that's what he did."

"Oh, I guess not," laughed Orme. "He touched his spine, that was all."

The car stopped. The spectacled passenger with the portfolio arose and got off by way of the front platform. Would Maku also take the elevated? If he did, unless he also got off the front platform, Orme would have to act quickly to keep out of sight.

But Maku made no move. He had returned to his former position, and only the trace of an elusive smile on his lips showed that he had not forgotten the incident in which he had just taken part. Meantime Orme had maintained his partial concealment, and though Maku had turned his head when he went to the conductor's help, he had not appeared to glance toward the back platform.

The conductor rang the bell, and the car started forward again with its two passengers—Maku within, Orme without—the pursuer and the pursued.

"I thought the motorman and I was going to have to chuck that chap off," commented the conductor. "If the Jap hadn't stuck a pin into him——"

"I don't think it was a pin. The Japanese know where to touch you so that it will hurt."

"An' I didn't even like to rub the fellow's ears for fear of hurtin' him. I heard of a man that was made deaf that way. Smashed his ear-drums."

"I wonder where the Jap will get off?" said Orme.

"Oh, he'll go right through to the barns and take a Clark Street car. There's a lot of them Japs lives over that way. He'll be one of 'em, I guess."

"Unless he's somebody's cook or valet."

"I don't believe he is. But, of course, you never know."

"That's true," said Orme. "One never knows."

As the car plunged onward, Maku suddenly put his hand in his pocket. He drew it out empty. On his face was an expression which may mean "surprise," among the Japanese. He then fumbled in his other pockets, but apparently he did not find what he was looking for. Orme wondered what it might be.

The search continued. A piece of twine, a pocket-knife, a handkerchief, were produced in turn and inspected. At last he brought out a greenback, glancing at it twice before returning it to his pocket. Orme knew that it must be the marked bill. But Maku was looking for something else. His cheek glistened with perspiration; evidently he had lost something of value. After a time, however, he stopped hunting his pockets, and seemed to resign himself to his loss—a fact from which Orme gathered that the object of his search was nothing so valuable that it could not be replaced.

When he had been quiet for a time, he again produced the greenback, and examined it attentively. From the way he held it, Orme judged that he was looking at the well-remembered legend: "Remember Person You Pay This To." Presently he turned it over and held it closer to his eyes. He was, of course, looking at the abbreviated directions.

"You'd think that Jap had never seen money before," remarked the conductor.

"Perhaps he hasn't—that kind," replied Orme.

"Maybe he guesses it's a counterfeit."

"Maybe."

"Looks as though he was trying to read the fine print on it."

"Something you and I never have done, I imagine," said Orme.

"That's a fact," the conductor chuckled. "I never noticed anything about a bill except the color of it and the size of the figure."

"Which is quite enough for most men."

"Sure! But I bet I pass on a lot of counterfeits without knowin' it."

"Very likely. The Jap has evidently finished his English lesson. See how carefully he folds the bill before he puts it away."

"We're comin' to the barns," said the conductor. "Far as we go."

As he spoke, the car slowed down and stopped, and Maku arose from his seat. Orme was at the top of the steps, ready to swing quickly to the ground, if Maku left the car by the rear door. But the Japanese turned to the forward entrance. Orme waited until Maku had got to the ground, then he, too, descended.

Maku did not turn at once toward the Clark Street car that was waiting to start down-town. He stood hesitant in the street. After a moment, his attention seemed to be attracted by the lights of an all-night restaurant, not far away, and he crossed the street and walked rapidly to the gleaming sign.

Orme followed slowly, keeping on the other side of the street. If Maku was hungry, why, Maku would eat, while he himself would wait outside like a starving child before a baker's window. But Maku, it seemed, was not hungry. Through the window Orme saw him walk to the cashier's desk and apparently ask a question. In answer, the woman behind the desk-pointed to a huge book which lay on the counter near by. Orme recognized it as the city directory.

For some time Maku studied the pages. Then he seemed to appeal to the cashier for help, for she pulled the book to her, looked at him as though she were asking a question, and then, rapidly running through the leaves, placed her finger at a certain part of a certain page and turned the book around so that the Japanese could see. He nodded and, after bowing in a curious fashion, came back to the street.

Orme had, meantime, walked on for a little way. He would have gone to the restaurant in an endeavor to find out what address Maku had wished, but for two reasons: The cashier might refuse to tell him, or she might have forgotten the name. In either event his opportunity to follow Maku would thus be lost—and to follow Maku was still his best course. Accordingly he watched the Japanese go back to a Clark Street car and climb aboard.

It was an open car, with transverse seats, and Maku had chosen a position about two-thirds of the way back. There was, as yet, only one other passenger. How to get aboard without being seen by Maku was a hard problem for Orme, but he solved it by taking a chance. Walking rapidly toward the next corner, away from the car, he got out of the direct rays of the street-lamp, and waited.

Presently the car started. It almost reached Orme's corner when he signaled it and, hurrying into the street, swung on to the back platform.

There had been barely time for the car to slow down a little. Maku could not well have seen him without turning his head, and Orme had watched the little Japanese closely enough to know that he had continued to stare straight before him.

Safe on the back platform, a desire to smoke came to Orme. He found a cigar in his case and lighted it. While he was shielding the match, he looked over his hollowed hand and saw Maku produce a cigarette and light it. The Japanese had apparently wished the consolation of tobacco just as Orme had.

"An odd coincidence," muttered Orme. "I hope it wasn't mind-reading." And he smiled as he drew a mouthful of smoke.

Lincoln Park slid by them on the left. The car was getting well down into the city. Suddenly Maku worked along to the end of his seat and got down on the running-board. The conductor pulled the bell. The car stopped and the Oriental jumped off.

The action had been so quick that Orme, taken off his guard, had not had time to get off first. He, therefore, remained on the car, which began to move forward again. Looking after Maku, he saw that the Japanese, glancing neither to right nor to left, was making off down the side street, going west; so he in turn stepped to the street, just as Maku disappeared beyond the corner. He hurried quickly to the side street and saw Maku, half a block ahead, walking with short, rapid steps. How had Maku got so far? He must have run while Orme was retracing the way to the corner. And yet Maku seemed to have had no suspicion that he was being followed.

The chase led quickly to a district of poor houses and shops—an ill-looking, ill-smelling district, where every shadow seemed ominous. Whenever they approached a corner, Orme hurried forward, running on his toes, to shorten the distance in the event that Maku turned, but the course continued straight until Orme began to wonder whether they were not getting near to the river, one branch of which, he knew, ran north through the city.

At last Maku turned into an alley, which cut through the middle of a block. This was something which Orme had not expected. He ran forward and peered down the dark, unpleasant passage. There was his man, barely visible, picking a careful way through the ash-heaps and avoiding the pestilential garbage-cans.

Orme followed, and when Maku turned west again at the next street, swung rapidly after him and around the corner, with the full expectation of seeing him hurrying along, half a block away. But no one was in sight. Had he slipped into one of the near-by buildings?

While Orme was puzzling, a voice at his elbow said, "Hello!"

He turned with a start. Flattened in a shadowed niche of the wall beside him was Maku!

"Hello!" the Japanese said again.

"Well?" exclaimed Orme sharply, trying to make the best of the situation.

"You mus' not follow me." The Japanese spoke impassively.

"Follow you?"

"I saw you in a mirror at the other end of car."

So that was it! Orme remembered no mirror, but the Japanese might apply the word to the reflecting surface of one of the forward windows.

"You lit a match," continued Maku. "I saw. Then I come here, to find if you follow."

Orme considered. Now that he was discovered, it would be futile to continue the chase, since Maku, naturally, would not go to his destination with Orme at his heels. But he said:

"You can't order me off the streets, Maku."

"I know. If you follow, then we walk an' walk an' walk—mebbe till nex' week." Orme swore under his breath. It was quite clear that the little Japanese would never rejoin the man who had the papers until he was sure that he had shaken off his pursuer. So Orme simply said:

"Good-night."

Disappointed, baffled, he turned eastward and walked with long strides back toward the car-line. He did not look to see whether Maku was behind him. That did not matter now. He had missed his second opportunity since the other Japanese escaped him in the university campus.

Crossing North Clark Street a block north of the point at which he and Maku had left the car, he continued lakeward, coming out on the drive only a short distance from the Pere Marquette, and a few minutes later, after giving the elevator-boy orders to call him at eight in the morning, he was in his apartment, with the prospect of four hours of sleep.

But there was a final question: Should he return to the all-night restaurant near the car-barns and try to learn from the cashier the address which Maku had sought? Surely she would have forgotten the name by this time. Perhaps it was a Japanese name, and, therefore, the harder to remember. True, she might remember it; if it were a peculiar combination of letters, the very peculiarity might have fixed it in her mind. And if he hesitated to go back there now, the slim chance that the name remained with her would grow slimmer with every added moment of delay. He felt that he ought to go. He was dog-tired, but—he remembered the girl's anxiety. Yes, he would go; with the bare possibility that the cashier would remember and would be willing to tell him what she remembered, he would go.

He took up his hat and stepped toward the door. At that moment he heard a sound from his bedroom. It was an unmistakable snore. He tip-toed to the bedroom door and peered within. Seated in an arm-chair was a man. He was distinctly visible in the light which came in from the sitting-room, and it was quite plain that he was sound asleep and breathing heavily. And now for the second time his palate vibrated with the raucous voice of sleep.

Orme switched on the bedroom lights. The man opened his eyes and started from the chair.

"Who are you?" demanded Orme.

"Why—the detective, of course."

"Detective?"

"Sure—regular force."

"Regular force?"

The stranger pulled back his coat and displayed his nickeled star.

"But what are you doing here?" gasped Orme, amazed.

"Why, a foreign fellow came to the chief and said you wanted a man to keep an eye on your quarters to-night—and the chief sent me. I was dozing a bit—but I'm a light sleeper. I wake at the least noise."

Orme smiled reminiscently, thinking of the snore. "Tell me," he said, "was it Senhor Alcatrante who had you sent?"

"I believe that was his name." He was slowly regaining his sleep-benumbed wits. "That reminds me," he continued. "He gave me a note for you."

An envelope was produced from an inside pocket. Orme took it and tore it open. The sheet within bore the caption, "Office of The Chief of Police," and the few lines, written beneath in fine script, were as follows:

"Dear Mr. Orme:

"You will, I am sure, pardon my seeming over-anxiety for your safety, and the safety of Poritol's treasure, but I cannot resist using my influence to see that you are well-protected to-night by what you in America call 'a plain-clothes man.' I trust that he will frighten away the Yellow Peril and permit you to slumber undisturbed. If you do not wish him inside your apartment, he will sit in the hall outside your door.

"With all regard for your continued good health, believe me, dear Mr. Orme,

"Yours, etc., etc.,

"Pedro Alcatrante."

In view of everything that had happened since the note was penned, Orme smiled a grim smile. Alcatrante must have been very anxious indeed; and yet, considering that the minister knew nothing of Orme's encounter with the Japanese and his meeting with the girl, the sending of the detective might naturally have been expected to pass as an impressive, but friendly, precaution.

The detective was rapidly losing his self-assurance. "I had only been asleep for a moment," he said.

"Yes?" Orme spoke indifferently. "Well, you may go now. There is no longer any need of you here."

"But my instructions——"

"Were given under a misapprehension. My return makes your presence unnecessary. Good-night—or good-morning, rather." He nodded toward the door.

The detective hesitated. "Look a here!" he suddenly burst out. "I never saw you before."

"Nor I you," replied Orme.

"Then how do I know that you are Mr. Orme? You may be the very chap I was to keep out, far as I know."

"Sure enough, I may be," said Orme dryly, adding—"But I am not. Now go."

The detective narrowed his eyebrows. "Not without identification."

"Ask the night-clerk," exclaimed Orme impatiently. "Can't you see that I don't wish to be bothered any longer?"

He went over to the door and threw it open.

"Come," he continued. "Well, here then"—as the detective did not move—"here's my card. That ought to do you."

He took a card from his pocket-case and offered it to the detective, who, after scrutinizing it for a moment, let it fall to the floor.

"Oh, it's all right, I guess," he said. "But what shall I say to the chief?"

"Simply say that I didn't need you any longer."

The detective picked up his hat and went.

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Orme as he closed the door. "But I wonder why I didn't notice his hat. It was lying here in plain sight."

He went to the telephone and spoke to the clerk. "Did you let that detective into my apartment?" he asked.

"Why, yes, Mr. Orme. He was one of the regular force, and he said that you wanted him here. I called up the chief's office, and the order was corroborated. I meant to tell you when you came in, but you passed the desk just while I was down eating my supper. The elevator-boy let you in, didn't he?"

"Yes. Never mind, it's all right. Good-night."

But when Orme examined his traveling-bag, he found that someone had evidently made a search through it. Nothing had been taken, but the orderly arrangement of his effects had been disturbed. His conclusion was that Alcatrante had bribed the fellow to go much farther than official zeal demanded. Doubtless the minister had paid the detective to hunt for a marked five-dollar bill and make a copy of whatever was written on it—which would have been quite a safe proceeding for the detective, if he were not caught at the task. A subtle man, Alcatrante; but no subtler than the Japanese.

Dismissing the incident from his mind, Orme again made ready to return to the all-night restaurant. He paused at the door, however, to give the situation a final analysis. Maku had lost something. After hunting for it vainly, he had gone to the city directory for information which appeared to satisfy him. Then what he lost must have been an address. How would he have been likely to lose it?

Orme's fatigue was so great that he repeated the question to himself several times without seeing any meaning in it. He forced his tired brain back to the first statement. Maku had lost something. Yes, he had lost something. What was it he had lost? Oh, yes, a paper.

It was futile. His brain refused to work.

Maku had lost a paper. A paper?

"Ah!" Orme was awake now.

"How stupid!" he exclaimed.

For he had entirely forgotten the paper which he had taken from the pocket of the unconscious Maku, there on the campus! He had thrust it into his pocket without looking at it, and in the excitement of his later adventures it had passed utterly from his memory.

Another moment and he had the paper in his hand. His fingers shook as he unfolded it, and he felt angry at his weakness. Yes, there it was—the address—written in an unformed hand. If he had only thought of the paper before, he would have been saved a deal of trouble—would have had more sleep. He read it over several times—"Three forty-one, North Parker Street"—so that he would remember it, if the paper should be lost.

"I'm glad Maku didn't write it in Japanese!" he exclaimed.



CHAPTER IX

NUMBER THREE FORTY-ONE

When Orme was aroused by the ringing of his telephone-bell the next morning and heard the clerk's voice, saying over the wire, "Eight o'clock, sir," it seemed as if he had been asleep but a few minutes.

During breakfast he reviewed the events of the preceding evening. Strange and varied though they had been, his thoughts chiefly turned to the girl herself, and he shaped all his plans with the idea of pleasing her. The work he had set for himself was to get the envelope and deliver it to the girl. This plan involved the finding of the man who had escaped from the tree.

The search was not so nearly blind as it would have been if Orme had not found that folded slip of paper in Maku's pocket. The address, "three forty-one North Parker Street," was unquestionably the destination at which Maku had expected to meet friends.

To North Parker Street, then, Orme prepared to go. Much as he longed to see the girl again, he was glad that they were not to make this adventure together, for the reputation of North Parker Street was unsavory.

Orme found his way readily enough. There was not far to go, and he preferred to walk. But before he reached his destination he remembered that he had promised Alcatrante and Poritol to meet them at his apartment at ten o'clock.

His obligation to the two South Americans seemed slight, now that the bill had passed from his hands and that he knew the nature of Poritol's actions. Nevertheless, he was a man of his word, and he hurried back to the Pere Marquette, for the hour was close to ten. He was influenced to some extent by the thought that Poritol and Alcatrante, on learning how he had been robbed of the bill, might unwittingly give him a further clue.

No one had called for him. He waited till ten minutes past the hour, before he concluded that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain with them. Though he did not understand it, he attached no especial significance to their failure to appear.

Once again he went to North Parker Street. Three forty-one proved to be a notion shop. Through the window he saw a stout woman reading a newspaper behind the counter. When he entered she laid the paper aside and arose languidly, as though customers were rather a nuisance than a blessing. She was forty, but not fair.

Orme asked to see a set of studs. She drew a box from a show-case and spread the assortment before him.

He selected a set and paid her, offering a ten-dollar bill. She turned to a cash register and made change—which included a five-dollar bill.

Orme could hardly believe his eyes. The bill which she placed in his hand bore the written words: "Remember Person you pay this to."

He turned it over. In the corner was a familiar set of abbreviations. There was no doubt about it. The bill was the same which had been taken from him, and which he had last seen in the possession of Maku.

What an insistent piece of green paper that marked bill was! It had started him on this remarkable series of adventures. It had introduced excitable little Poritol and the suave Alcatrante to his apartment. It had made him the victim of the attack by the two Japanese. It had brought the girl into his life. And now it came again into his possession just at the moment to prove that he was on the right track in his search for Maku and the man who had the papers. The queerest coincidence was that the bill would never have come into his possession at all, had it not been for his first meeting with the girl—who at that very time was herself searching for it. The rubbing of his hat against the wheel of her car—on so little thing as that had hinged the events that followed.

"This is strange," Orme addressed the woman.

"It doesn't hurt it any," said the woman, indifferently.

"I know that. But it's a curious thing just the same."

The woman raised her shoulders slightly, and began to put away the stock she had taken out for Orme's benefit.

"Who paid this to you?" persisted Orme.

"How should I remember? I can't keep track of all the persons that come in the store during the day."

"But I should think that anything so queer as this——" He saw that he could get nothing from her except by annoying her.

The woman glared. "What you a botherin' about? Why don't you leave well enough alone?"

Orme smiled. "Tell me one thing," he said, "do you know a Japanese that lives hereabouts?"

"Oh," said the woman, "so you're one of the gentlemen he was expectin', eh? Well, it's the front flat, two flights up."

"Thank you," said Orme. He walked out to the street, whence a backward glance showed him the woman again concealed in her newspaper.

At one side of the shop he found the entrance to a flight of stairs which led to the floors above. In the little hallway, just before the narrow ascent began, was a row of electric buttons and names, and under each of them a mail-box. "3a" had a card on which was printed:

"Arima, Teacher of Original Kano Jiu-Jitsu."

Should he go boldly up and present himself as a prospective pupil? If Arima were the one who had so effectively thrown him the night before, he would certainly remember the man he had thrown and would promptly be on his guard. Also, the woman in the shop had said, "you are one of the gentlemen he was expectin'." Others were coming.

Prudence suggested that he conceal himself in an entry across the street and keep an eye out for the persons who were coming to visit Arima. He assumed that their coming had something to do with the stolen paper. But he had no way of knowing who the athlete's guests would be. There might be no one among them whom he could recognize. And even if he saw them all go in, how would his own purpose be served by merely watching them? In time, no doubt, they would all come out again, and one of them would have the papers in his possession, and Orme would not know which one.

For all he was aware, some of the guests had already arrived. They might even now be gathering with eager eyes about the unfolded documents. No, Orme realized that his place was not on the sidewalk. By some means he must get where he could discover what was going on in the front flat on the third floor. Standing where he now was, there was momentary danger of being discovered by persons who would guess why he was there. Maku might come.

Orme looked to see who lived in "4a," the flat above the Japanese. The card bore the name:

"Madame Alia, Clairvoyant and Trance Medium."

"I think I will have my fortune told," muttered Orme, as he pressed Madame Alia's bell and started up the stairs.

At the top of the second flight he looked to the entrance of the front apartment. It had a large square of ground glass, with the name "Arima" in black letters. He continued upward another flight and presently found himself before two blank doors—one at the front and one a little at one side. The side door opened slowly in response to his knock.

Before him stood a blowsy but not altogether unprepossessing woman of middle years. She wore a cheap print gown. A gipsy scarf was thrown over her head and shoulders, and her ears held loop earrings. Her inquiring glance at Orme was not unmixed with suspicion.

"Madame Alia?" inquired Orme.

She nodded and stood aside for him to enter. He passed into a cheap little reception-hall which looked out on the street, and then, at her silent direction went through a door at one side and found himself in the medium's sanctum.

The one window gave on a dimly lighted narrow space which apparently had been cut in from the back of the building. Through the dusty glass he could see the railing of a fire-escape platform, and cutting diagonally across the light, part of the stairs that led to the platform above. There was a closed door, which apparently opened into the outer hall. In the room were dirty red hangings, two chairs, a couch, and a small square center-table.

Madame Alia had already seated herself at the table and was shuffling a pack of cards. "Fifty-cent reading?" she asked, as he took the chair opposite her.

Orme nodded. His thoughts were on the window and the fire-escape, and he hardly heard her monotonous sentences, though he obeyed mechanically her instructions to cut and shuffle.

"You are about to engage in a new business," she was saying. "You will be successful, but there will be some trouble about a dark man.—Look out for him.—He talks fair, but he means mischief.—There is a woman, too.—This man will try to prejudice her against you." And all the time Orme was saying to himself, "How can I persuade her to let me use the fire-escape?"

Suddenly he was conscious that the woman had ceased speaking and was running the cards through her fingers and looking at him searchingly. "You are not listening," she said, as he met her gaze.

He smiled apologetically. "I know—I was preoccupied."

"I can't help you if you don't listen."

Orme inferred that she took pride in her work. He sighed and looked grave. "I am afraid," he said slowly, "that my case is too serious for the cards."

She brightened. "You'd ought to have a trance-reading—two dollars."

"I'd take any kind of reading that would help me, but I'm afraid the situation is too difficult."

"Then why did you come?" Again the look of suspicion.

"I came because you could help me, but not by a reading."

"What do you mean?" Plainly she was frightened. "I don't put people away. That's out of my line. Honest!"

"Do I look as if I wanted anything crooked done?" Orme smiled.

"It's hard to tell what folks want," she muttered. "You're a fly-cop, aren't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"The way you been sizing things up. You aren't going to do anything, are you? I pay regular for my protection every month—five dollars—and I work hard to get it, too."

Orme hesitated. He had known at the outset that he was of a class different from the ordinary run of her clients. The difference undoubtedly had both puzzled and frightened her. He might disabuse her of the notion that he had anything to do with the police, but her misapprehension was an advantage that he was loath to lose. Fearing him, she might grant any favor.

"Now, listen to me," he said at last. "I don't mean you any harm, but I want you to answer a few questions."

She eyed him furtively.

"Do you know the man in the flat below?" he demanded.

"Mr. Arima? No. He's a Jap. I see him in the halls sometimes, but I don't do no more than bow, like any neighbor."

"He's noisy, isn't he?"

"Only when he has pupils. But he goes out to do most of his teaching. Is he wanted?"

"Not exactly. Now look here. I believe you're a well-meaning woman. Do you make a good thing out of this business?"

"Fair." She smiled faintly. "I ain't been in Chicago long, and it takes time to work up a good trade. I got a daughter to bring up. She's with friends. She don't know anything about what I do for a living."

"Well," said Orme, "I'm going to give you five dollars toward educating your girl."

He took a bill from his pocket-book and handed it to her. She accepted it with a deprecating glance and a smile that was tinged with pathetic coquetry. Then she looked at it strangely. "What's the writing?" she asked.

Orme started. He had given her the marked five-dollar bill. "I didn't mean to give you that one," he said, taking it from her fingers.

She stared at him. "Is it phony?"

"No—but I want it. Here's another." As he took a fresh bill from his pocket-book he discovered to his surprise that the marked bill, together with the few dollars in change he had received after his purchase in the shop below, was all that he now had left in his pocket. He remembered that he had intended to draw on his funds that morning. His departure from New York had been hurried, and he had come away with little ready cash.

Madame Alia slipped the bill into her bosom and waited. She knew well enough that her visitor had some demand to make.

"Now," said Orme, "I am going to use your fire-escape for a little while."

The woman nodded.

"I want you to keep all visitors out," he continued. "Don't answer the bell. I may want to come back this way quick."