"This is straight business, isn't it? I don't want to get into no trouble."

"Absolutely straight," said Orme. "All you have to do is to leave your window open and keep quiet."

"You can count on me," she said. "Perhaps you know all about the place down there, but if you don't, I'll tell you that the fire-escape leads into his reception-room."

Orme smiled. "You seem to be acquainted with your neighbor, after all."

"I've come up the stairs when his door was open."

"Does he seem to be pretty busy with his teaching?"

"Evenings, he is. And some come in the afternoon. I always know, because they thud on the floor so when they wrestle."

"And mornings?"

"He generally seems to be away mornings."

"I fancy he's what you'd call a noisy neighbor," said Orme.

"Oh, I don't mind. There's more or less noise up here sometimes." She smiled frankly. "Spirits can make a lot of noise. I've known them to throw tables over and drag chairs all around the room."

"Well"—Orme was not interested in spirits—"be sure you don't let anybody in here until I come back."

Again she nodded. Then she went into the reception-hall and he heard her push the bolt of the door. She did not return, but her steps seemed to move into one of the other rooms.

Orme went to the window, pushed it up, and climbed out on the fire-escape. He was glad to see that the wall across the court was windowless. He might be observed from the buildings that backed up from the next street, but they apparently belonged to a large storage loft or factory. There were no idle folk at the windows.

The window of the room below was open. This was in one sense an advantage—and Orme blessed the Japanese athletes for their insistence on fresh air; but on the other hand, it made quietness essential.

Slowly he let himself through the opening in the platform and moved a few steps down the ladder. Then he crouched and peered through the dingy lace curtains that were swaying in the breeze.

The interior was dim, but Orme succeeded in distinguishing the furniture. There were straw mats on the floor and several chairs stood about. At the opposite side of the room was a closed door. From his knowledge of Madame Alia's apartment, Orme knew that this door opened into the hall of the building, and the square of ground glass, with its reversed letters of the athlete's name, told him that it was used as the chief entrance. Madame Alia preferred her clients to enter into another room.

In the farther corner of the interior Orme saw a large square table. It was covered with a red print cloth, which hung over the edge, nearly to the floor. If he could reach that table and conceal himself beneath it, his position would be better.

And now he suddenly remembered that the outline of his head would be visible against the outer light to anyone within. The room seemed to be empty, but—at that instant he heard a door open. He drew his head up. Someone was moving about the room.

The steps went here and there. Chairs were shifted, to judge from the sound. But evidently there was only one person, for Orme could hear no voices. He decided that Arima was preparing for visitors.

Again he heard a door open and close. Had Arima gone out, or had some other person entered? Orme waited a moment, listening; no sound came from within. He lowered his head and peered. The room was empty.

Arima might return at any moment, but the chance had to be taken. Quickly, silently, Orme descended to the platform, slid over the sill, and tip-toed over to the table. Another instant and he was under the cover.



CHAPTER X

"FIND THE AMERICAN"

As Orme let the table-cover fall back to its normal position and turned to get himself into a comfortable attitude, his hand touched something soft and yielding. For a moment he was startled, but the sound of a throaty purr, and the realization that his hand was resting on fur soon told him that his companion in hiding was a cat.

He wondered whether the Japanese liked pets. From what little he knew of Japanese character it did not seem to him consistent that they should care for animals. Yet here was a peaceful tabby.

In order to accommodate himself to his close quarters, Orme had to double his legs back, resting on his thigh and supporting the upper part of his body with one hand. The cat settled down against his knee.

The light filtered redly through the table-cover. To his satisfaction he found a small hole, evidently a burn made by some careless smoker. Through this aperture he could look out. His range of vision included the greater part of the room, excepting the side on which the table stood. He could see the window and several chairs, as well as the door into the adjoining room, but the door into the hall was out of view, at his right.

While he was looking about, a man came from the next room. Doubtless it was Arima; at least Orme recognized the Japanese who had overcome him in the porter's office at the Pere Marquette the night before. He stepped into the room with a little smile on his brown face. Seating himself in a chair, he fixed his heels in the rungs and clasped his hands about his knees. He was waiting.

The black eyes rested on the table. To Orme they seemed to be boring through the cover that concealed him, and he hardly dared to breathe, but the Asiatic appeared to observe nothing unusual. Orme wondered at the unfathomable intelligence of those eyes. He had often said of the Chinese and Japanese that he did not trust them for the reason that a Caucasian could never tell what they were thinking about. The racial difference in thought processes he found disconcerting.

A bell rang. Arima went to the door, out of view, and opened it. Orme could hear persons mounting the stairs, and presently the voice of Arima said, "Come in," and the visitors entered the room.

Pausing near the door for a moment, they exchanged a few whispered sentences. Then one of them walked over toward the window. Orme repressed an exclamation, for the figure that came into view was the figure of Poritol—dapper, assertive.

He was dressed as on the night before, and his precious high hat was hugged close to his shoulder.

His eyes roved with an exaggerated assumption of important cunning. Presently he threw over his shoulder a rapid sentence in a foreign tongue. It sounded like Spanish, and Orme inferred that it was a dialect of Portuguese.

The answer came from an oily tongue; the voice was Alcatrante's.

What were the South Americans doing here? It was only a few hours since the Japanese had set on Alcatrante, yet here he was in a stronghold of the enemy—and expected! Had the astute diplomat fallen into a trap?

Arima was standing, not far from Poritol. His face was expressionless. Looking from Alcatrante to Poritol and back again, he said in English: "The mos' honorable gentleman will soon be here."

"That is right," said Alcatrante suavely. "Mention no names."

Arima nodded slightly.

The silence grew intense. Orme was relieved when it was broken by another ring of the bell, and Arima slipped to the door. Alcatrante moved over beside Poritol and whispered a few words, scarcely moving his lips. His face looked yellow by daylight, and the eyes behind the gold spectacles were heavy-lidded and almost closed. Orme inferred that the night had been sleepless for Alcatrante.

These observations were interrupted by the entrance of the newcomer. He paused at the threshold, evidently to salute, for Poritol and Alcatrante bowed low. Then quick steps crossed the floor and into view came a nervous but assured-looking little figure—a Japanese, but undoubtedly a man of great dignity. His manner of sharp authority would be hard to dispute, for it was supported by a personality that seemed to be stronger than Alcatrante's. Who he was Orme could not guess, but that he was somebody of importance it was easy to see.

The stranger bowed again and addressed himself to Alcatrante. The conversation was carried on in French.

"It is well that you communicated with me, sir," he said, "we were working at cross-purposes when, in reality, our interests were identical."

Alcatrante bowed. "I came to that conclusion late last night," he said. "I do not deny that it would have pleased me to carry the affair through by myself."

"Yes, your position would then have been stronger." The Japanese smiled faintly.

"But," continued Alcatrante, with a slight grimace, "the activity of your men made that impossible. I have no lieutenants such as yours." He shot an ugly gleam at Poritol, whose sudden assumption of fearsome humility was in strange contrast to his usual self-assurance.

"As we hold the documents"—the Japanese spoke with great distinctness— "you will necessarily admit our advantage. That means, you will understand, a smaller commission on the next contract."

Alcatrante twisted his face into the semblance of a smile. "Not too small, or we cannot undertake the work," he said.

"No, not too small," the stranger agreed calmly, "but smaller than the last. You must not forget that there are others who would gladly do the same work."

"Yes, but at best they cannot get the terms we get."

"Possibly. That is a matter still to be determined. Meantime we have assumed that our interests in this document are identical. Let us test it."

"One word first," said Alcatrante. "I take it that, if our interests are sympathetic with yours, we may count on your protection?"

"Most assuredly."

"Then——?"

"Then we shall see. My fairness is clear in that I give you a sight of the document with myself. I might have denied all knowledge of it."

Alcatrante smiled as if to say: "I already knew so much that you could not risk that."

The stranger turned to Arima and said something in Japanese. Arima replied, and the stranger explained to Alcatrante: "I asked about my man Maku. The American struck him on the head last night, and injured him. But he is recovering. He is troublesome—that American."

Orme started. His head bumped against the table.

"What's that?" exclaimed Poritol, advancing. "There's something under that table!" He stooped to lift the cover.

One chance flashed into Orme's mind. Quickly he seized the cat, which was still sleeping against his knee, and pushed it under the table-cover. It walked out into the room, mewing plaintively.

"A cat," said Poritol, drawing back.

Arima explained in English: "It belongs to lady upstairs. Comes down fire-escape. Shoo! Shoo!" He clapped his hands and the animal bounded to the window-sill and disappeared up the iron steps.

"And now," began the stranger, "shall we examine the documents?"

"One moment," said Alcatrante. "I should first like a clear understanding with you—some words in private." He moved to a corner, and there the stranger joined him. They talked in an undertone for several minutes, Alcatrante gesturing volubly, the stranger nodding now and then, and interjecting a few brief words.

What was going on was more than ever a mystery to Orme. The stranger's reference to "the next contract" strengthened the surmise that the documents in the envelope were connected with a South American trade concession. Alcatrante had plainly concluded that his interests and those of the Japanese were identical. He must have communicated with the strange Japanese the first thing in the morning. That would account for his failure to call at the Pere Marquette at ten o'clock. Learning that the bill had been taken from Orme, and that the coveted documents were in the possession of the Japanese, he had no object in keeping his appointment. As for Poritol, he had become a figure of minor importance.

But Orme did not let these questions long engage him, for he had made a discovery. Where his head bumped against the table, the board above him—solid, as he had supposed—rattled strangely. At the moment he could not investigate, but as soon as the cat had satisfied the suspicions of Poritol, and Alcatrante and the stranger had retired to their corner, he twisted his head back and examined the wood above him.

The table had a drawer. From the room outside this drawer was concealed by the cloth cover, and Orme had not suspected its existence.

Now, the table was cheaply made. The drawer was shallow and narrow, and it was held in position, under the table, by an open framework of wood. When it was pushed in, it was stopped at the right place by two cleats; there was no solid strip to prevent its being pushed in too far.

Orme put his hand to the back of the drawer. There was a space between it and the table-top.

Cautiously he pushed his hand through the opening. His fingers touched a flat object—a pad of paper, or—the thought made his heart beat—a large, thick envelope. Could Arima have used the drawer as a hiding-place?

Slowly he got the edge of the object between his first and second fingers and drew it a little way toward the back of the drawer. A moment later he had it under his eyes.

Yes, it was a long envelope of heavy linen, and there were bulky papers within. The gummed flap was toward him. He was interested to note that, important though the documents seemed to be, the envelope was not sealed with wax.

He remembered what the girl had said: her father's name was written on the address side. He had only to turn it over to learn who she was. In the circumstances such an act might be justified. But she had not wished him to know—and he would even now respect her wish and keep his own promise to her.

His first thought was to slip the envelope into his pocket, but it occurred to him in time that, if it did indeed contain the documents concerning which Alcatrante and the stranger were disputing, it would be sought and missed long before he could escape from the room. So, taking a pencil from his pocket, he inserted it under the corner of the flap and slowly worked the flap free. The strength of the linen prevented any tearing.

He removed the contents of the envelope—two folded sheets of parchment paper, held together by an elastic band—and thrust them into the inside pocket of his coat. All this was done swiftly and noiselessly.

It now remained to find something to take the place of the abstracted documents. In his pocket were some printed prospectuses of the mine which he had come to Chicago to investigate. In shape and thickness they were not dissimilar to the documents which he had taken. He slipped the prospectuses into the envelope and, wetting his finger, rubbed it along the gummed surface of the flap. Enough glue remained to make the flap adhere, after a little pressure. The job was by no means perfect, but it was not likely to be detected.

At that moment Alcatrante raised his voice and said, still in French: "You are sure, then, that this will not only delay the game, but end it."

"Quite sure," said the Japanese. "Unless the documents are signed before midnight to-night nothing can be done for sometime. We have the Germans fixed. They will do what they have thus far agreed to do, but if any technical hitch arises, such as a failure to sign within the time-limit, they will decline to renew negotiations. That was all we could get from them, but it is enough—now."

"And for other ships," said Alcatrante, "the commission shall be five hundred thousand."

"Five hundred thousand. Seven hundred and fifty was too much."

"Five hundred thousand in gold."

"In gold."

Orme slipped the envelope back into the drawer and put his eye to the hole in the cover. His position was now more and more critical, for to open the drawer and get the envelope, Arima would have to lift the table cover.

The stranger turned to Arima. "Give us the envelope," he said.

Arima approached the table. Orme crowded back against the wall as far as he could, knowing that the chances of escaping discovery were strongly against him. But he was saved by the very eagerness of the others. They all crowded about Arima, as he lifted the cover, opened the drawer, and took out the envelope. So close did they stand that Orme was out of their angle of vision. The table-cover fell again, and he was safe. He resumed his position at the peep-hole.

The stranger stepped to the middle of the room, the others gathering around him. With a quick jerk he tore the envelope open, and taking out the papers, ran his eye over them rapidly. He uttered an exclamation. "What is it?" said Alcatrante. The South American's hand was shaking, and perspiration stood out on his forehead.

The Japanese snarled. "Tricked! They've fooled us. That honorable burglar of yours got the wrong envelope."

Alcatrante snatched the papers. "'Prospectus,'" he read, "'of the Last Dare Mining Company.' But I do not understand."

The Japanese glared at him angrily. "If you had kept out of this business," he snapped, "and let Maku attend to it, everything would have been right. Now your burglars have spoiled it." He snatched back the harmless prospectuses and tore them in two, throwing the fragments to the floor and grinding them under his heel.

Arima spoke. "Pardon, honorable sir, Maku say the right envelope was taken from the safe. Maku know."

"Ha! Then it was you who were tricked—outwitted. That American reached the tree before you last evening and substituted these papers. Go back to Japan, Arima. I don't need you."

Arima bowed submissively. As for the stranger, his rage gave way to despair.

"What shall I say to the Emperor?" he muttered. "What shall I say to the Emperor?"

Then his feelings came again under control; he looked calmly at Alcatrante. "Well," he said, "what would you suggest?"

Alcatrante's face was a puzzle. Every shade of doubt, disappointment, anger, suspicion, and shrewd deduction passed over it. He was putting into play that marvelous power of concentration on subtle issues that had enabled him to play so brilliantly the role of international under-dog. At last he smiled and spoke.

"Find the American," he said.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Arima looked at his master, who nodded indifferently and said: "Yes, see who it is. It can do no harm now."

Orme heard the door open. What startled him first was the action of Poritol, who stepped back to the wall, his jaw dropping, his face a picture of embarrassment and fright. Alcatrante and the stranger showed amazement.

For a moment they stood thus in silence, and then from the door came a clear voice:

"What? You here, Mr. Alcatrante? And the Japanese minister?"

Orme almost sprang from his hiding-place. The voice was the voice of the girl!



CHAPTER XI

THE WAY OUT

The sound of the girl's voice brought the men in the room to life. Her words were shaded to a tone of fearless scorn which must have bitten deep, for Alcatrante and the Japanese minister looked like school-boys caught in wrong-doing. The South American gnawed at his lip; the Japanese looked at the floor, and Orme now realized that the manner which had seemed so indicative of a masterful personality was the manner which springs from power—the manner that is built upon the assurance of a tremendous backing.

The tension was broken by Poritol. The little man's dismay suddenly gave way to an eager and voluble excitement, and he rushed across the room, exclaiming: "Oh, my dear miss——"

"No names," commanded Alcatrante harshly, turning on his subordinate.

"My dear young lady," continued Poritol breathlessly, "I am the victim of your misunderstanding. You will permit me to explain."

She answered with an even, cutting edge in her voice: "You cannot explain, Mr. Poritol."

"But——" he began, blind to her meaning.

"I do not care to hear you," she said; and Poritol slunk back to his former position. From his face it was clear that he had no desire except to get away.

Meantime Alcatrante aroused himself. "My friend here"—he indicated the Japanese—"and myself are here on business which concerns our two nations. Your appearance, I presume, is due to a desire to engage the professional services of Mr. Arima. Or perhaps you were trying to find the fortune-teller upstairs." He barely repressed his sneer.

The girl did not answer. She had remained by the door, and but for the attitudes of the others, Orme would not have known but that she had gone. As it was, he could read in their bearing the disconcerting effects of her continued disdain.

The Japanese spoke. "Will you enter, miss, or shall we direct you on your way? Arima will come out and talk with you, if you so wish."

Still no answer. To Orme, in his hiding, there was something uncanny in her failure to respond. But he could picture her—Truth, calm in the presence of subterfuge.

"Will you not state your desire?" Again the Japanese. He was smiling now, with the false politeness of his race.

And then she spoke: "That envelope on the floor was stolen from my father's home. It bears my father's name."

Before Alcatrante could stop him, little Poritol, with some vague hope of making amends, had snatched up the torn envelope and taken it to her. He returned to the range of Orme's vision with an air of virtuous importance.

"The contents," said the girl—"where are the papers?"

Alcatrante and the Japanese looked at each other. It was as if they said, "In view of our failure we might as well make a clean breast of it." But Alcatrante was too cunning to take the initiative in confession. He left that to the Japanese, who spoke unhesitatingly.

"The only papers in the envelope were these." He picked up the torn prospectuses from the floor and held them extended in his hand. "Our surprise is as great as yours."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Whether you believe it or not, my dear young lady, it is true."

There was a moment of silence, then the Japanese continued: "We have reason to think that the envelope was for a time last night in the possession of an American, and that he substituted these circulars for whatever the envelope may have held."

Orme's impulse to declare himself was almost irresistible. A man whose instincts were less cautious would have thrown the table over and ranged himself beside the girl. Orme was not fearful, but he knew that the chances of a successful outcome would be lessened by exposure. Even if he and the girl got safely from the room, there would be a pursuit, and the risk of losing the papers would be great.

As for the girl, she clearly was in no danger. These men would not harm her.

But would the assertion of the Japanese lead her to doubt Orme? Would she believe that he had actually recovered the papers the night before and kept them for his own purposes? He remembered that he had given her only the scantiest account of his adventure at the tree, for he had wished to spare her the details of an incident that meant her disappointment as well as his own. She might now readily attribute his reticence to a desire to conceal something.

And then came her voice. Her first words brought a glow to Orme's heart: "I know that you are mistaken. No American has those papers." Orme breathed his relief. Then she added the dubious word—"Unless——"

So she did doubt him after all. Well, he could not blame her. The scene in the room—the frankness of the Japanese, which could only be attributed to discomfiture; the empty envelope; the torn prospectuses on the floor, all these conditions pointed to the truth of the explanation she had heard.

On the other hand, there was his appearance on the lake, an hour or more after the episode on the campus. Might it not occur to her that, had he already secured the papers, he would have had no object in the further pursuit of the Japanese? But, perhaps she would think that he was seeking Arima to sell the papers back to him; or that, in spite of his appearance of surprise, he had been a witness of her abduction and had gone out on the water to save her. There were so many things she might think! Indeed, that dubious word "unless" might even signify, "unless he has secured the papers since I last saw him." But no; she would gather from the situation in which she found her enemies that the envelope had not been out of their possession since it was taken from the tree. Orme shut his lips together hard. Her doubt of him would have to be endured, even though it shattered his pleasant dream of her complete and sympathetic understanding.

Alcatrante, meantime, was studying the girl with curious eyes. His look was both perplexed and admiring.

"Do you mind telling me how you happened to come to this place?" he asked.

She answered indifferently: "Supposing that the Japanese had stolen the papers, I searched Maku's room at our house. There was a torn envelope there, with the name 'Arima' printed in the corner."

Alcatrante bowed. "You are cleverer than most Americans, my dear young lady," he said. His lips curved into a smile that disclosed his fangs.

"That," she replied, "is as it may be. But I have not your admiration for trickery, Mr. Alcatrante."

Again he smiled. "Ah," he exclaimed, "trickery is the detail work of diplomacy." Then with a shade of seriousness in his voice, he asked: "Why did you use that word 'unless'?"

"Why, indeed?" She made this noncommittal answer, and if Alcatrante had hoped to soothe her into friendliness and draw from her a clue to her suspicions, he was disappointed.

There was another period of silence, broken at last by the Japanese. "The fact that we have failed, my dear young lady," he said, "makes concealment unnecessary. I know, of course, that this matter will never become public. You understand that the representatives of great nations often have to take steps which, as private citizens, they would never think of."

"Yes," she answered, "I understand. There is no more to be said. Good-day."

There was a step and the sound of the door closing. She had gone.

Alcatrante and the Japanese looked at each other. "We have not failed—yet," said Alcatrante in French. "The girl does not know where the documents are, or she would not have come here. If her father does not have them before midnight our plans are safe. We remain merely at a loss as to the details of the documents, and we already know what they contain in a general way."

"Yes," agreed the Japanese, "things do not look so black, perhaps. But I am interested in your former advice."

"Yes?"

"Find the American! That is what she will try to do."

"We had an appointment with him this morning," said Alcatrante grimly, "but when you said that your man had the envelope, it no longer seemed necessary to go. We—you and I—still have the same object in view. I suggest that we now set out separately."

"As you wish," said the Japanese calmly. Doubtless he knew that Alcatrante was grasping at a straw which might still give him the advantage in future negotiations. "I am honored by your co-operation thus far." He bowed formally.

Alcatrante returned the bow and, beckoning to Poritol, left the room.

The Japanese minister turned to Arima and talked rapidly in his native tongue. From his manner it was plain that he was giving orders. At last, with a little gesture of authority, he put on his hat and walked out. The door closed after him with a slam.

Arima, now alone, seated himself in a chair and appeared to meditate. Again his hands were clasped about his knees and his beady eyes fixed on space. For fully fifteen minutes he sat thus; then, with a little clucking sound, he leaped to his feet and hurried into the next room.

Now was Orme's chance. He lifted the table-cover and rose to his feet. Arima had not closed the door after him, but Orme was not in the line of direct view into the other room, and he had to risk the possibility of being seen before he reached the window.

Or should he try for the door? It all depended upon what part of the next room Arima was in; but the window seemed safer, for the opening and closing of the door would be sure to attract attention.

Orme moved toward the window slowly, watching the opening through which Arima had disappeared. He got half-way to the window; three more steps would bring him to the sill. And then, without warning, Arima leaped into the room. Even in that moment Orme caught a glimpse of a mirror in the farther room, and knew that the Japanese had seen his reflection.

At this instant another man appeared, close behind Arima. A bandage was wrapped around his head. It was Maku, who presumably had been in the apartment all the time.

Orme stood little chance of overcoming the two. Quick as cats, with muscles like steel springs and a great variety of scientific tricks of offense and defense, they could handle him as they willed in a direct encounter. If Orme had had a revolver, he would now have drawn it. Yet he knew that this was not a case for fire-arms. Obviously, if he used a dangerous weapon in these men's rooms and was afterward caught, it would fare hard with him, for the real facts would be suppressed and he would be sentenced as an ordinary housebreaker, perhaps with some clemency due to his personal standing.

A quick intuition told him that he would not escape lightly if they fairly got their hands on him. The two Japanese had hitherto shown much patience with him. Their desire seemed to have been to avoid hurting him any more than was necessary. But there is a limit to Japanese patience. The scathing words of the Japanese minister must still be burning in Arima's brain. And Maku, who had controlled himself while Orme was following him through the streets of the North Side, no longer had a diplomatic reason for restraining his rage against the man who had struck him down. In any event, the eyes of Arima and Maku glittered angrily, and Orme realized that he could expect no mercy.

He caught up a chair and raised it over his head, prepared to bring it down on Arima, who was only a few feet from him and coming fast.

The Japanese raised his arms, to fend the expected blow. With sudden inspiration, Orme hurled the chair at his opponent's feet. There was a crash. Arima sprawled headlong. Maku, who was close behind, tried to leap over Arima, but his feet went through the rungs of the chair, and he, too, crashed to the floor.

As he threw the chair Orme leaped back. Before the Japanese could get out of their tangle, he had jumped over the window-sill and was running up the fire-escape. Madame Alia, was at her window, a look of startled inquiry on her face. She stepped back as he crowded into the room.

"Quick!" he said. "They'll be after me. Hide me somewhere."

"Come!" She took his sleeve and pulled him to a corner. There she pushed aside the dingy hanging and Orme saw that the wall was covered with a wainscoting that ran from floor to ceiling.

The medium looked at him with bright eyes. "You're the real sort," she whispered, and a wave of color in her cheeks brought back the suggestion of girlish beauty. "I saw that scrap there through a hole in the floor. You're the goods." She pressed his arm almost affectionately, then, with her free hand, she pushed against the paneling. Noiselessly a section of it turned inward, disclosing a dark cavity. "Get in!"

Orme quickly slipped into the darkness, the panel closed, and he heard the swish of the hanging as it dropped back against the board.

It was not too soon. Two soft thuds told him that the Japanese had dropped over the sill into the room.

He heard the woman give a well-feigned scream of surprise.

"'Scuse us, miss,"—it was Arima's voice—"we looking for sneak thief. He come in here."

"Be off with you. I've just come from the front room there, and there wasn't a soul came in."

"We saw him."

"He must have gone out to the hall, then." The woman's voice had a note of mollification—as though she had suddenly recognized the right of the two Japanese to enter the apartment. "I didn't hear him."

A few words of Japanese colloquy; then Arima: "I look around. My friend go to hall." A door closed; evidently Maku had gone out; and then Orme heard steps. After this there was a long wait, while the Japanese examined the other rooms, the woman evidently offering him her aid. At last they returned.

"Well, I go back," said Arima. "I saw him come in the window. My friend will know. See you later."

Presently the woman raised the hanging and whispered through the boards: "He went back down the fire-escape. His friend's in the hall. He'll find out you haven't went down, and then he'll come back."

"I'll try the roof," whispered Orme. "Perhaps I can get on to another house that way."

"Wait till I see." She walked away, but soon returned.

"No use," he heard her say. "That Jap's a sitting on the fire-escape watching. He grinned when I looked down."

Orme pondered. "Help me out of this," he whispered, "and there'll be something in it for you."

She moved impatiently. "Cut it out! I don't want nothing. You're a good sport, that's all." She paused. "Not that I'd mind having a present. But I don't want no money."

Orme caught the distinction. "I'll remember," he said. "And what shall I do now?"

"You'll have to stay in there a while, I guess."

"I simply must get away—and within an hour or two."

"I'll manage that," she answered confidently.

"But how——?"

"You'll see. Just leave it to me."

Orme smiled to himself, there in the darkness. Of course, he would leave it to her; but he did not see how she was to rid him of the watchful Japanese.

"There's just one thing," he whispered. "Whatever is done, will have to be done without help from outside. This is not a matter for the police."

"I understand. Why can't you just leave it to me? I don't believe you trust me a little bit!"

"But I do," he protested. "I am absolutely in your hands."

He heard her sigh faintly. "I'm going to put down the window now," she said. "It ain't safe for me to stand here talking to you unless I do. That Arima fellow might pop up the fire-escape any time."

She was back in a few moments. He had heard the window creak down, and had wondered whether the action would add to Arima's suspicion.

"If he comes up now," she explained in an undertone, "the glare on the outside of the window will keep him from seeing in very plain."

After that she did not speak for some time, but the occasional movements of her body, as she leaned against the panel, were audible to Orme. He found himself wondering about her—how she had happened to take up the career of fortune-telling. She must have been a handsome woman; even now she was not unattractive.

The delay grew more and more irksome. It seemed to Orme as though he had been behind the panel for hours. After a while he asked:

"What time is it?"

"About two o'clock. Ain't you hungry?"

Orme laughed softly. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Wait a minute." She moved away. When she returned she pulled up the hanging and opened the panel. In her hand was a thick sandwich. "I was just going to eat my own lunch when you came back through the window," she explained.

He took the sandwich. She looked at him boldly. He was standing close to her in the opening. There was an expression that was almost defiant in her eyes. "I—I want my present."

"You shall have it, Madame Alia," he said.

"You ain't my kind—and it won't make no difference to you." Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped. "I want you to kiss me."

Orme looked at her, and understood. He put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the lips. There was no disloyalty in it. He was simply satisfying the craving of this poor woman's soul—a craving for a tribute to which she could always revert as the symbol of a high friendliness. She felt that he was of a different world; he knew that the world was all one, though partitioned off by artificial barriers, but he could not correct her view.

She clung to him for a moment after his lips left hers, then released herself from his clasp and moved back into the room, her face averted. Was it to hide a blush? Orme did not ask himself, but respecting her reticence of spirit, silently closed the panel and was again in darkness.

For a time he stood there quietly. His back was against the wall,—his hands easily touched the paneling that shut him off from the room. He wondered what this secret place was for, and taking a match from his pocket, he lighted it.

The enclosure seemed to extend all the way across the side of the room. Farther along, lying on the floor and standing against the wall, were contrivances of which at first he could make nothing—poles, pieces of tin, and—were those masks, heaped in the corner? From a row of pegs hung long robes—white and black.

The truth flashed into Orme's mind. He was in Madame Alia's ghost-closet!



CHAPTER XII

POWER OF DARKNESS

To Orme the next half-hour was very long. He seated himself upon the floor of the closet and ate the sandwich which the clairvoyant had brought him. Occasionally he could hear her moving about the apartment.

"Poor charlatan!" he thought. "She is herself a 'good sort.' I suppose she excuses the sham of her profession on the ground that it deceives many persons into happiness."

He struck another match and looked again at the ghostly paraphernalia about him. Near him hung a black robe with a large hood. He crushed one of the folds in his hands and was surprised to discover how thin it was and into how small space it could be compressed. Not far away stood several pairs of large slippers of soft black felt. The white robes were also of thinnest gossamer—flimsy stuff that swayed like smoke when he breathed toward it.

By the light of a third match he looked more carefully at the other apparatus. There was a large pair of angel-wings, of the conventional shape. The assortment of masks was sufficiently varied for the representation of many types of men and women of different ages.

The match burned down to his fingers, and again he sat in darkness, wondering at the elaborateness of the medium's outfit. She was a fraud, but he liked her—yes, pitied her—and he felt inclined to excuse in so far as he could. For the kiss which he had given her he felt no regret; it was hers, in all innocence, for what of good she might have found in it.

The minutes dragged by. He thought of the precious documents, safe in the inside pocket of his coat. What they were, he did not try to determine, but it was plain that they must be of international importance. The talk of ships and Alcatrante's references to commissions had puzzled him. But suddenly came to his mind the newspaper rumors that Japan was secretly adding vessels to her navy through the agency of a South American republic which was having cruisers and battle-ships built in Europe, to turn them over at their completion, to the Japanese. There was, as yet, no international proof of this policy, for none of the ships had been completed, but the South American country was certainly adopting a policy of naval construction quite out of proportion to her position among the Powers.

How came the girl to be involved in this mix-up of nations? Through her father, of course—but who was he? A concessionaire? Her courage and determination, employed against shrewd men, was as notable as the beauty of her face and mind, for she was like a queen in her assured comprehension.

How it quickened his heart to think of her! The poor, faded medium, with the smolder of old flames in her eyes, with the records of hard experience written on her face, was a child in stature beside the girl—a child with yearnings that could never be satisfied.

Well, the girl had doubted him. He could not wonder at that, for the facts were all against him, and she had known him only for a few hours. Yet he had hoped—he had believed—that she would know the truth and the devotion in him without further evidence. Perhaps he had expected too much from her noble insight. After all—and that was part of the loveliness of her—she was a very human girl.

The panel swung open, and Madame Alia stood looking down at him. She spoke in an undertone.

"The Japs are still watching. Arima is sitting on the fire-escape by his window, and I can hear the other fellow moving around in the hall outside my door. I think they're on to your being here."

Orme thought for a minute. "I've got to get away soon," he said. "I don't mind telling you that there are papers that must be delivered before twelve o'clock to-night."

"Can I take them for you?"

"I don't know where to tell you to take them."

She sighed. "I guess you don't trust me."

"Trust you? Of course, I do. But the truth is, Madame Alia, that it is going to need hard work on my part to find the person to whom the papers belong. I don't even know his name." Secretly he condemned himself now, because he had not overcome his scruples and looked at the address on the envelope while he had the chance.

Again she sighed. "Well," she said, "of course, it's beyond me. Do you—do you mind my knowing your name?"

"Pardon me," he said. "I didn't realize that you didn't know it already. My name is Robert Orme."

She looked at him with a smile. "Well, Mr. Orme, I'll get you out of this. I think I know a way. But you'll have to do just what I tell you."

"I depend on you," he said.

She laid her hand on his shoulder with a friendly pressure. "You'll have to wait in here a while longer—and you'll have to keep mighty quiet. I've got a circle at three o'clock—a seance. They come once a week, and I can't well put them off. You see, I work alone. It's a small circle, and I never liked the idea of helpers; they're likely to give you away sooner or later. I stretch a curtain across this corner for a cabinet, and they tie me to a chair—and then things happen." She smiled faintly. "I know you won't hurt my game."

"All your secrets are safe with me." He glanced at the dark interior of the closet.

"I didn't know any other place to put you," she said simply. "They'd have got you, if you had went to the hall—Sh-h!" The panel closed and she was away. A moment later he heard her talking with Arima, who apparently had again climbed up to her window.

"Thief must be here," said Arima. "He not been in hall. My friend know. We see him come in here."

"I told you he wasn't here. If you don't believe me, why don't you call the cops."

"We not want cops. I come in and watch."

"But I'm going to hold a circle here in a few minutes."

"What?" Arima's voice had a puzzled note.

"A seance. The spirits come. You know. All sit around, with the light turned down, and spirits come."

"Oh!" The Japanese either understood or pretended to. "I come, then."

After a period of hesitation the woman said: "Why, yes, I guess you can—if you keep still. Your friend can come, too. You're a neighbor, and I won't charge you anything."

"All right. I call my friend." Footsteps crossed the room and the door to the hall was opened. Presently it closed again, and Orme heard fragments of a conversation in Japanese.

From other sounds Orme gathered that the woman was arranging chairs. "Sit here, you two," he heard her say. "You'll have to keep quiet when the rest come. Do just what they do? Be sure, now."

The bell now began to ring at frequent intervals, each time announcing the arrival of newcomers. Madame Alia's clients were quickly assembling; Orme could hear them whispering among themselves.

A clinking noise he did not at first understand. Then he realized that it was the sound of silver dropping into a hat. Someone was taking up the collection. He knew, too, when they hung the curtain across his corner of the room, shutting off the space in which the medium was to sit, and when they lighted the gas and drew down the shades at the window. Then he heard them lead her into the cabinet and tie her to the chair.

The silence that followed these preparations grew oppressive. The clients were waiting for the right "current," and Madame Alia, Orme had no doubt, was using the interval to free herself from her bonds.

In a little while someone started the hymn, "Over the River They Beckon to Me," and the others took it up—women's voices, chiefly, struggling through the melody in their trebles, with the mumbled undertones of one or two men.

A draught of cooler air struck Orme's cheek; a hand found his shoulder; a voice whispered. Under cover of the singing Madame Alia had opened the panel. Her lips were close to his ear. In the creepy tension of the waiting Orme had almost forgotten that Madame Alia's ghosts were a cheat, and the touch of her hand made him start, but her first words brought him to himself.

"Hush!" she whispered. "You'll get your chance in a minute. Put on a pair of black felt slippers. Here"—she groped along the floor, and gave him the slippers. They were large, and went easily over his shoes.

"Now the black robe, just behind you."

He took it from its peg, and slipped into it.

"Cover your head and face with the hood."

He did as directed, finding the eyeholes with his fingers.

"Hide your hands in the sleeves. Now, listen. I'm going to keep them busy looking at the curtains. When you hear a gong ring three times, come through the panel, and go between the curtain and the wall-hanging, on the side toward the window. The gas is down to a pinpoint. Those folks think they can see a lot more than they do. But they won't see you, unless you show some white. Anyhow they'll be watching the cabinet. Keep outside the circle of chairs, and work your way to the door of the next room. There are hangings there; go through them. You'll find light enough in the next room to get to the door into the hall. First stuff the robe under the sofa. You'll find your hat under there. You left it here when you came, and I tucked it away. You'd better wear the slippers down to the street. Never mind about returning them—unless you care to come. Now, be careful."

"The Japanese—where are they?"

"At the other side of the circle. Don't worry about them. They're only kids when it comes to my game. Now, wait till I get the things I need." She slipped past him in the closet, and he heard faint rustlings as she gathered her paraphernalia. Soon she was back at the panel. The last stanza of the hymn was drawing to a close. "Be sure you follow directions," she whispered.

"I will." He pressed her hand gratefully.

"And—and you won't forget me."

With a sudden yearning that seemed to be beyond her control, she leaned her body against him. Her warm breath was on his face; her arm found its way around him and held him convulsively.

"Oh," she whispered, "I can't bear to have you go. Don't forget me—please don't forget me."

"I shall never forget you, and what you have done for me," he answered gravely.

"You will come back and see me—sometime?"

"I will come back. And I should like to bring a friend, who will have even more cause to thank you than I have."

"A friend?" A tinge of apprehension colored the question: "A—a woman?"

"Yes."

The soft curves of her body were quickly withdrawn from him.

"Oh," she whispered, "I don't believe I want to see her."

For a moment she stood motionless. Then she said:

"Are you sorry you kissed me?"

"No," he answered, "I am not."

Her lips brushed his forehead, and he was alone. Groping with one hand, he assured himself that the panel remained open. All in black, he awaited the signal.

And now strange manifestations began in the room without. There were rappings, some faint, some loud—coming apparently from all quarters. Invisible fingers swept gently across the strings of a guitar. Then came the soft clangor of a gong—once, twice, three times.

Orme slipped through the panel, into the cabinet. Keeping close to the wall, he moved to the left and worked out into the room. The rappings were now louder than before—loud and continuous enough to cover any slight sound he might make. A little gasp came from the circle as he went out into the room. At first he thought that he had been seen. To his eyes, fresh from complete darkness, the room seemed moderately light; but the gas was little more than a tiny blue dot.

As he took a step forward he saw why the circle had gasped. Through the curtains of the cabinet came the semblance of a tenuous wraith in long, trailing robes of white. It was almost formless, its outlines seeming to melt into the gloom.

Advancing a little way into the circle, it shrank back as though timorous, then wavered. From the circle came a woman's voice—anxious, eager, straining with heart-break—"Oh, my sister!"

The figure turned toward her, slowly extended its arms, and glided back to the curtains, where it stood as though waiting.

The sobbing woman arose from her chair and hastened toward the wraith.

"Agnes!" she whispered imploringly. "Won't you speak to me, Agnes?"

The ghostly figure slowly shook its head.

"Are you happy, Agnes? Tell me. Oh, don't go until you have told me."

The figure nodded mutely, and with a final slow gesture, waved the woman back to her seat.

Meantime Orme cast his eyes over the circle. Dimly he saw faces, some stolid, some agitated; and there, at the farther end were the two Japanese, intent as children on these wonders. Their sparkling eyes were directed to the cabinet.

The apparition had disappeared between the curtains. But now there was a fresh gasp of wonder, as the figure of a little child stepped out into the room. It did not go far from the cabinet, and it alternately advanced and retreated, turning this way and that, as though looking for someone.

"It wants its mother!" exclaimed one of the women in the circle. "Is your mother here, little one?"

The child stared at the speaker, then withdrew to the curtains.

"They will begin to talk after a while," explained the woman—"when the control gets stronger. I always feel so tender for these little lost spirits that come back to hunt for their loved ones."

Orme moved swiftly around the circle. He passed so close to the Japanese that he could have touched them. The felt slippers made his steps noiseless; the thick rug absorbed the shock of his weight.

He passed through the hangings of the doorway to the next room. There he had no gaslight; the window-shades, however, were not drawn so closely but that a little daylight entered. He removed the robe and stuffed it under the old sofa at one side.

His hat, as Madame Alia had said, was there, and he put it on and went to the hall door. The circle had begun to sing another hymn. Orme got into the hall, shut the door silently, and hurried down the stairs, the long-drawn strains of the song following him and dying away as he neared the street entrance. In the lower hall he removed the felt slippers and tossed them into a corner.

He was amazed at the loudness of the street noises, and the glare of the sunlight as he stepped to the sidewalk. He stood there blinking for a moment, until his eyes became accustomed to the light. The foot-procession of the city streamed by him.

Suddenly a man turned in toward the doorway, and, with a startled exclamation, stopped short. Orme found himself looking into the gleaming eyes of Alcatrante.



CHAPTER XIII

AN OLD MAN OF THE SEA

"Oh, Mr. Orme, you are the man I most wished to see." The minister's voice carried a note of unrestrained eagerness. He extended his hand.

Orme accepted the salutation, mustering the appearance of a casual meeting; he must keep Alcatrante out of the building.

"I was sorry that I could not be at your apartment this morning," continued Alcatrante, "and I hope you did not wait too long."

"Oh, no," replied Orme. "I waited for a little while, but concluded that something had called you away. Has Senhor Poritol recovered from his anxiety?"

"Why, no," said Alcatrante. "But the course of events has changed." He linked his arm in Orme's and walked along with him toward the center of the city. "You see," he went on, "my young friend Poritol overestimated the importance of that marked bill. It did give the clue to the hiding place of certain papers which were of great value to him. What he failed to realize was that the papers could be of little importance to others. And yet, so perturbed is he that he has asked me to offer a considerable reward for the recovery of these papers."

"Indeed?"

"Yes." Alcatrante sent a slanting glance at Orme. "The sum is ridiculously large, but he insists on offering one thousand dollars."

"Quite a sum," said Orme calmly. He was interested in the minister's indirections.

"As for the events of last night"—continued Alcatrante, stopping short, with a significant glance.

"Well?" said Orme indifferently.

"I trust that you did not think me absurd for sending that detective to you. That I did so was a result of poor Poritol's frantic insistence."

"Indeed?"

"My young friend was so afraid that you would be robbed."

"I was robbed," laughed Orme, trying to make light of the situation.

"Why, how was that?" Alcatrante's surprise was well assumed.

"Oh, after I said good-night to you, the two Japanese caught me while I was going through the tunnel to the courtyard."

"My dear Mr. Orme!"

"They are clever, those Japanese."

"And afterward you went out again?"

"What makes you think that?"

Alcatrante bit his lip. "Why," he stammered, "the detective reported that you were absent when he arrived."

"And therefore," remarked Orme coolly, "he got access to my apartment and, after rummaging through my things, went sound asleep in my bedroom, where I found him snoring when I returned."

The minister swung his cane viciously at a bit of paper that lay on the sidewalk.

"He was not a clever detective," continued Orme. "And as for Poritol, don't you think he had better offer his reward to the Japanese?"

"No," replied Alcatrante. "They may have stolen the clue from you, but I have reason to think that the papers were already gone when they went to look for them. Poritol is really very anxious."

"Doubtless," said Orme.

"Perhaps," added Alcatrante, after a short wait, "he might even go as high as two thousand."

"Indeed? Then there will surely be many answers to his advertisement."

"Oh, he will not advertise." Alcatrante laughed. "Already he knows where the papers are. While waiting for the clue of the bill, he discovered what others had already availed themselves of it."

"That is curious." Orme smiled. "How did he discover that?"

"In a roundabout way. I won't take time for the story."

They walked along in silence for a little distance. Orme was figuring on an escape, for the minister's clutch on his arm was like that of a drowning man's. Finally he sought the simplest means of getting away. "I have an engagement," he said. "I shall have to leave you here. Thank you for walking with me thus far." He disengaged his arm.

"My dear Mr. Orme," said Alcatrante, "why should we beat around the bush?"

"Why, indeed?" said Orme.

"Poritol knows that his papers are in your possession. Speaking for him, I offer you five thousand."

"Why do you drag Poritol into this?" said Orme. "You know that he has merely been your agent from the start. You think he has bungled, but I tell you, you are the one who bungled, for you picked him to do the work. He had bad luck hiring a burglar for you. He lost his head when he ran away with another person's motor-car and had to hand the marked bill to a country justice. He showed bad judgment when he tried to fool me with a fancy lie. But you are the real bungler, Senhor Alcatrante. Any capable diplomat could tell you that."

Alcatrante's yellow face grew white about the lips. His eyes flashed balefully.

"Curse you!" he exclaimed. "You know more than is good for you. Take care!"

Orme laughed in disgust. "Oh, drop this melodrama. I am not afraid of cheap Machiavellis. In this country there are some crimes that are not excused by high office."

The minister's teeth showed. "You shall see, my young friend."

"Doubtless. But let me tell you one thing; if anything happens to me, my friends will know where to look for the criminal."

Alcatrante snarled. "Don't be too sure——"

"If necessary," continued Orme, "a word to certain persons as to the commission for building warships—Five hundred thousand, is it not? by the new arrangement—in gold——"

Alcatrante, in ungovernable rage, raised his light cane and struck. Orme fended the blow with his arm, then wrenched the cane away and threw it into the street. A swarm of passers-by gathered about them so quickly that in a moment they were the center of a circle.

"You dunce," said Orme. "Do you want the police?"

"No," muttered Alcatrante, controlling himself with a great effort. "You are right." He darted into the crowd at one side, and Orme, quick to take the hint, disappeared in the opposite direction, crossing the street and jumping into an empty cab, which had drawn up in anticipation of a fight.

"To the Rookery," he ordered, naming the first office-building that came into his head.

"Sure," said the driver, and away they rattled.

A glance back showed Orme that the crowd was dispersing.

At a distance was Alcatrante. He had seen Orme's escape, and was looking about vainly for another cab. But cabs are not numerous on North Parker Street, and Orme, so far as he could tell, was not followed.

When his cab drew up at the busy entrance on La Salle Street, he found his way to the nearest public telephone. The hour was close to five, and he must discover quickly where he could find the girl. He called up the Pere Marquette. "This is Mr. Orme," he explained to the clerk. "Have there been any calls or messages for me?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Wallingham called up at twelve-thirty to know if you were going to Arradale with them."

The golfing engagement! Orme had not even thought of it since the evening before.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. A Japanese came about one o'clock. He left no name."

"The same man who came last evening?"

"No, sir, an older man."

The Japanese minister had doubtless gone straight from Arima's apartment to the Pere Marquette. "Anything else?" asked Orme.

"There was a 'phone call for you about eleven o'clock. The party left no name."

"A woman's voice?"

"Yes, sir. She said: 'Tell Mr. Orme that I shall not be able to call him up at noon, but will try to do so as near two o'clock as possible.'"

"Did she call up again at two?"

"No, sir. There's no record of it."

Orme understood. In the interval after her attempt to reach him she had learned at Arima's of his seeming treachery. "Very well," he said to the clerk, and hung up the receiver.

What should he do now? The girl had given him up. He did not know her name or where to find her, and yet find her he must and that within the next few hours. The unquestionably great importance of the papers in his pocket had begun to weigh on him heavily. He was tempted to take them out, there in the telephone-booth, and examine them for a clue. The circumstances justified him.

But—he had promised the girl! Stronger than his curiosity, stronger almost than his wish to deliver the papers, was his desire to keep that promise. It may have been foolish, quixotic; but he resolved to continue as he had begun. "At ten o'clock," he said to himself, "if I have not found her, I will look at the papers or go to the police—do whatever is necessary." He did not like to break promises or miss engagements.

There was his engagement with the Wallinghams. It had absolutely gone from his mind. Bessie would forgive him, of course. She was a sensible little woman, and she would know that his failure to appear was due to something unavoidable and important, but Orme's conscience bothered him a little because he had not, before setting out that morning, telephoned to her that he might be detained.

Bessie Wallingham! She knew the girl! Why had he not thought of that before?

He got the Wallinghams' number. Were they at home? No, they had gone to Arradale and would probably remain until the last evening train. He rang off.

It remained to try Arradale. After some delay, he got the clubhouse. Mrs. Wallingham? Yes, she had just come in. Would Mr. Orme hold the wire?

Mr. Orme certainly would, and presently he was rewarded for the delay by hearing Bessie's brisk little voice.

"Hello?"

"Who?"

"Bob?"

"Well you ought to be ashamed of yourself; we waited over and took the next train."

"Oh, yes, I know all about these very busy people."

"Nonsense! I was fooling, of course. But we were sorry you didn't come."

"What?"

"That girl? Why, what's the matter with you, Robert Orme?"

"Business importance? That won't do, Bob. You'll have to 'fess up."

"Do I know such a girl? Are you serious?"

"Why, Bob, I can think of several. Shall I name them?"

"Not give their names! What on earth is the matter with you?"

"Oh, part of the business, is it? Well, let me see. Tall and beautiful, you say. Dark eyes and hair. A black touring-car. Hum! I know, three girls to whom the description applies. It might be—but you don't wish me to mention the name. Well, you'll have to think of something more distinctive."

Orme thought in vain. The image of the girl was ever in his mind, but describe her he could not. At last he said: "The girl I mean lives in one of the suburbs. She has a father who has lately undergone a slight operation. He is, I think, a man who is involved in negotiations with other countries."

"Oh! Where did you meet her? Why, Bob, how interesting! I never thought of her, but she's one of my dearest friends."

"Now, listen, Bessie. It is absolutely necessary that I should reach her father's house before midnight. You must help me."

He heard her laugh. "Help you? Of course I will."

"Where does she live?"

"Not very far from Arradale. Bob, you come right out here. I will see to the rest. It certainly is the funniest coincidence."

"I'll catch the first train."

"There's one at six—for men who come out to dine."

"All right. Expect me. Good-by."

Orme looked at his watch. He had an hour and a half—which meant that time must be killed. It would be unwise to return to the Pere Marquette, for the South Americans and the Japanese might both be on watch for him there. But he did not care to wander about the streets, with the chance of coming face to face with some of his enemies. It was obvious that swift and elaborate machinery would be set in motion to catch him. Of course, there were many places where he could conceal himself for an hour, but——

Tom Wallingham's office! Why had he not thought of that before? Tom was at Arradale with Bessie, but the clerks would let Orme stay in the reception-room until it was time to start for his train. Indeed, Orme remembered that Bixby, the head clerk, had been at the wedding of Tom and Bessie—had in fact taken charge of the arrangements at the church.

Moreover, Tom's office was in this very building—the Rookery. Doubtless it was for this reason that the Rookery had popped into his head when he gave directions to the cab-driver on North Parker Street.

Hurrying to the elevators, Orme was about to enter the nearest one, when suddenly a hand seized his elbow and pulled him to one side. He turned quickly and saw—Alcatrante.

The minister was breathing rapidly. It was plain that he had made a quick pursuit, but though his chest heaved and his mouth was partly open, his eyes were curiously steady. "One minute, Mr. Orme," he said, forcing his lips to a smile. "I had hard work to follow you. There was no other cab, but a small boy told me that you directed your driver to the Rookery. Therefore, I got on a street-car and rode till I found a cab." He said all this in the most casual tone, retaining his hold on Orme's elbow as though his attitude were familiar and friendly. Perhaps he was thus detailing his own adventures merely to gain time; or perhaps he was endeavoring to puzzle Orme.

But Orme was simply annoyed. He knew how dangerous Alcatrante could be. "I am tired of being followed, Senhor," he said disgustedly, freeing his elbow.

Alcatrante continued to smile. "That is part of the game," he said.

"Then you will find the game serious." Orme shut his lips together and glanced about for a policeman.

Alcatrante again grasped his elbow. "Do you want publicity?" he asked. "Your principals do not. Publicity will injure us all."

Orme had been given enough light to know that the South American's words were true.

"If it comes to publicity," continued Alcatrante with an ugly grin, "I will have you arrested for stealing a certain important—document and offering to sell it to me."

"Rubbish!" laughed Orme. "That would never work at all. Too many persons understand my part in this matter. And then"—as he noticed the flash of triumph in Alcatrante's eyes—"I could not be arrested for stealing a document which was not in my possession." It was too late; Alcatrante had been able to verify his strong suspicion that Orme had the papers.

A wave of anger swept over Orme. "Publicity or no publicity," he said, "unless this annoyance stops, I will have you arrested."

Alcatrante smiled. "That would not pay, Mr. Orme. There would be counter-charges and you would be much delayed—perhaps even till after midnight to-night. You Americans do not know how to play at diplomacy, Mr. Orme."

Controlling himself, Orme hurried quickly to the nearest elevator. He had timed his action; the starter was just about to close the door as he hurried in. But quick though he was, Alcatrante was close behind him. The agile South American squeezed into the elevator by so close a margin that the door caught his coat.

"Here! What you tryin' to do?" shouted the starter.

Alcatrante, pressing in against Orme, did not reply.

The starter jerked the door open, and glared at Alcatrante. The steady and undisturbed eye of the minister had its effect, and after a moment of hesitation the starter banged the door shut and gave the signal and the car leaped upward.

Tom Wallingham's office was on the eighth floor. Though he knew that Alcatrante would cling to him, Orme could think of nothing better to do than to go straight to the office and count on the assistance of Bixby, who would certainly remember him. Accordingly he called out "Eight!" and, ignoring Alcatrante, left the elevator and walked down the hall, the South American at his elbow.

They passed a long series of doors, the glass panels of which were inscribed, "The Wallingham Company—Private," with index-fingers pointing the direction of the main entrance. This was the Chicago branch of the great New York Corporation, and Thomas Wallingham, senior, had placed his son in charge of it two years before. The business was the manufacturing of refrigerators. One side of the reception-room which Orme entered hurriedly, Alcatrante still beside him, was given over to a large specimen refrigerator chamber, built in with glistening white tiles. The massive door, three feet thick, was wide open, showing the spotless inner chamber. In the outer wall was a thermometer dial fully a foot in diameter.

Once inside the reception-room, Orme stopped and looked again at Alcatrante. There was menace in the look, but the South American did not flinch. Indeed, the glance which met his own seemed to Orme to be disarmingly good-natured. Its essence was a humorous recognition that the situation had its ridiculous side.

But Orme, knowing that much was at stake, did not for an instant trust his unwelcome companion. Alcatrante would cling to him like an Old Man of the Sea, awaiting the opportunity to get the better of him. Every wile would be employed; but publicity was no part of the game—Orme began really to believe that.

To shake off Alcatrante, perhaps there was no better way than to lure him to some deserted place and overpower him. But would not Alcatrante be likely to have anticipated such a move? And would he not resort to desperate measures of his own before Orme could put his own plans into practice? Bixby might help.

Orme walked over to the inquiry-window. "I want to see Mr. Bixby," he said, offering his card.

The young woman behind the window took the card, but at the same time she said: "Mr. Bixby left a few minutes ago. He won't be back to-day. Shall I keep the card for him?"

"It doesn't matter, thank you," he said, turning away. Luck was against him. Besides Bixby no one in that office knew him.

Alcatrante smiled genially. "Since Mr. Bixby is absent," he remarked, "shall we leave the verification of the notes until to-morrow?"

"What are you talking about?" exclaimed Orme.

"Why"—Alcatrante's face was the picture of astonishment—"the Wallingham Company notes, of course. The notes you wish to sell me." His voice was raised so that the girl behind the window could not help hearing.

"Rot!" said Orme.

"What?" A note of indignation crept into Alcatrante's voice. "Are you evading? Perhaps you thought I would not insist on the verification." Another clerk, a man, had joined the girl behind the window. Alcatrante suddenly addressed him. "This Mr. Orme told me that he needed to raise money and would transfer to me cheap some notes signed by your company. I met him at the hotel. He said that, if I would come here with him, he would show the notes and have them verified. I don't understand."

The clerk left the window and, opening a door, came into the reception-room. "What are the notes you have?" he asked.

"I have none," replied Orme, in disgust. "I have never pretended to have any. This man is crazy, I think." He pointed to Alcatrante. "He has followed me here uninvited for reasons of his own. I asked for Mr. Bixby, whom I know. I would have asked for Mr. Wallingham, my personal friend, but that I had already learned of his being at Arradale."

"There's funny business here somewhere," exclaimed Alcatrante, with great earnestness. "Do you mean to say that you did not introduce yourself to me in the lobby of the Framington and ask me to buy the notes?"

Orme did not answer.

With a conservative eye the clerk looked at the two. He was not one to involve himself in a dubious affair.

"I can't settle this matter for you, gentlemen," he said.

With a slight bow, Orme went into the hall. It dawned upon him why Alcatrante had invented so remarkable a story. Without question, the minister had feared that Orme would enlist aid in the office, or that at least he would manage to deposit the coveted papers in safety while he found other means to get rid of his shadow. Hence the sudden effort to discredit Orme.

In the long corridor Orme gave no further attention to Alcatrante, who was pattering along beside him. The course he now had in mind was to hire a cab and ride out of the city—all the way to Arradale, if possible. The distance could not be much greater than fifteen miles. If Alcatrante chose to pursue, well and good. There would be ways of disposing of him.

Then an audacious notion flashed into Orme's mind. Why not let Alcatrante ride with him? Why not take the minister all the way to his destination and at the end turn him over as a prisoner?

The idea was hardly practicable. He might meet other enemies, and in that event he would not care to have an enemy already at his side. It came to him for the first time that the nearer he approached his goal, the greater would be the opposition he would have to overcome. Whatever else the South Americans and Japanese might do, they would have their guards about the house of the girl's father. Hitherto he had assumed that, once free of Alcatrante and safe on the train to Arradale, he would have plain going; but now he realized that the dangers would pile up higher as he advanced. In any event, he must get rid of Alcatrante, and as they approached the elevator grills, he spoke.

"Senhor," he said, "unless you stop following me, I shall be obliged to hurt you. I give you fair warning."

Alcatrante laughed. "If you hurt me, as you threaten, you will find yourself in difficulties. You will be arrested, and you will have no opportunity to deliver the documents on time. My position as minister—my extra-territoriality—will make it very difficult for you to extricate yourself."

Orme looked grimly down into the sallow face. "My fist against your chin," he said, "might do it."

Alcatrante did not lose his smile. "You will hardly try that, I think. There would not be time for you to get away. People in these passing elevators would see you."

Orme turned away and pressed the "down" button, and a few seconds later a descending car stopped. He pushed his way in, Alcatrante after him.

The elevator was crowded. Clerks and stenographers were beginning to leave their offices, for the hour was nearly five. Orme wedged his way in at one side and, in order to gain a momentary sense of seclusion, turned his back upon the persons who were pressing against him and stood with face to the side of the cage, looking through the scroll-work of the grating to the swiftly ascending cables in the next well. He was conscious that Alcatrante stood close to him as the car began to slip downward. It was all very ridiculous, this persistent pursuit of him.

Suddenly Alcatrante's voice burst out, "Stop the car! I've been robbed! Stop the car!"

There was immediate commotion; a girl screamed, and the swaying of the huddled group made the car rattle. The elevator-man quickly threw over his lever. The car stopped with a jerk, between floors.

Orme had started to turn with the others, but with a quick exclamation he checked his movement and pressed his face again to the grating. A remarkable thing had happened. The ascending car in the next well had stopped at Alcatrante's outcry. The few passengers it was carrying, eager to see what was happening, hurried to the side nearest to Orme. Less than two feet from his face was the face of a girl. Almost before he saw her at all he knew her. He forgot that he had given her apparent cause to doubt him; he did not stop to wonder what she was doing in this building.

"Girl!" he whispered.

Her lips parted; her eyes opened wider.

"Girl! Go to Tom Wallingham's office. I'll come up there. Keep out of sight when you hear me coming. Alcatrante is with me."

She nodded.

"I have the papers," he added, and his heart thumped happily when he saw joy and gratitude flash into her eyes.

From his position and manner he might have been explaining to her what was happening in his own car. But now, conscious of the necessity of taking part in the discussion about him, he reluctantly turned away from the girl.

Alcatrante was still exclaiming volubly. His purse had disappeared. It had been in his pocket just before he entered the car. Therefore someone in the car must have taken it. He did not accuse any single person, though he flashed suspicious glances at Orme, who recognized, of course, that the move was directed against himself.

To embarrass Orme with arrest and detention would well suit the purposes of Alcatrante. At this late hour such an event would prevent the delivery of the papers. Orme wondered whether the minister had realized that the papers might be found by the police and disposed of properly. The explanation of this apparent oversight on the part of Alcatrante was not difficult, however, for, perhaps it was not a part of the plan that Orme should be actually thrown into a cell. It was more likely that an arrest would be followed, after as much delay as Alcatrante could secure, by a refusal to prosecute. One advantage to Alcatrante would be the opportunity of getting assistance while Orme was in the hands of the police so that after the prisoner was released he would have more than one person to contend with. Alcatrante would give up acting alone.

"Somebody has my purse!" Alcatrante was shouting. "Somebody here! You must not let anybody out!"

The elevator-boy had been gaping in seeming paralysis, but now several of the passengers—men who doubtless were sure of their positions—were angrily ordering him to take the car down. Some of them had trains to catch.

"No! No!" screamed Alcatrante.

Orme had kept out of the discussion, but now he spoke quietly. "I think, Senhor Alcatrante"—he uttered the name distinctly, knowing that the South American probably did not wish himself identified—"I think that, if the boy will take the car almost to the bottom, the starter will help you."

There was a chorus of seconds to this suggestion. The boy pulled the lever and let the car descend slowly, while Alcatrante continued to exclaim.

How would the South American try to throw suspicion where he wished it? Orme puzzled over this question, for certainly the police would not arrest all the passengers. And then he suddenly remembered how Alcatrante had crowded against him when they entered the car.

A cold wave of horror swept over him. Was it possible that——?

He put his hand into the left side pocket of his coat. Something was there that did not belong there—a smooth, bulging purse. Alcatrante had put it there.

Orme fingered the purse. He would have to get rid of it, but he dared not to drop it to the floor, and if he thrust it through the grating and let it fall into the elevator well, someone would be almost certain to detect the action. There was only a moment left before the car would stop. He looked down at Alcatrante, who was close in front of him. Then his face relaxed and in spite of the gravity of his situation he smiled; for he had found a solution. Promptly he acted upon it.

The car halted just below the ceiling of the first floor. "What's the matter with you?" called a voice—the voice of the starter.

"Man robbed," said the elevator-boy.

"Bring the car down."

"No!" shouted Alcatrante. "The thief is in the car. He must not escape."

"I won't let him out. Bring the car down."

The boy let the car descend to the floor level. The starter placed himself against the gate. "Now then, who was robbed?" he demanded.

Alcatrante crowded forward. "It was I. My purse is gone. I had it just before I got in."

"Oh, it was you, was it?" The starter remembered the trouble Alcatrante had made a few minutes before. "Sure you didn't drop it?"

"I am certain that I did not."

The passengers were shuffling their feet about, in a vain effort to touch the lost property. A young girl was giggling hysterically.

"Perhaps you put it in the wrong pocket, and didn't look careful enough."

"I looked, I looked," exclaimed Alcatrante. "Do you think I would not know. See! I put it in this pocket, which now is empty."

He thrust his hand into the pocket which he had indicated. Suddenly his expression changed to astonishment.

"Find it?" grinned the starter.

With the blankest of looks Alcatrante pulled the purse from his pocket. "It was not there two minutes ago," he muttered.

"You've been dreamin'," remarked the starter, opening the gate with a bang. "All out!"

Orme chuckled to himself. In a moment Alcatrante would realize how the purse had been replaced in his pocket, and he would be furious. Meantime Orme entered another elevator, to go back to the eighth floor, and, as he had expected, the minister followed him.

When they were outside the office of the Wallingham Company, Orme paused, his hand on the door. "Senhor Alcatrante," he said, "this business must end. I shall simply have to call the police."

"At your own risk," said Alcatrante. Then an ugly light flashed in his eyes and his upper lip lifted above his yellow teeth. "You got the better of me there in the elevator," he snarled. "You won't get the better again."

Orme opened the office-door. He glanced about the reception-room, to see whether the girl had hidden herself. She was not in view; indeed, there was even no one at the inquiry-window. Orme reasoned that at this hour some of the clerks might be leaving—which would mean, perhaps, that they were first putting away their books. At least they would not be expecting business callers.

The door of the great sample refrigerator was ajar only two or three feet. When Orme was there a few minutes before it had been wide open. He wondered whether the girl had chosen it as her hiding-place. If she had, his plan of action would be simplified, for he would slip the papers in to her, then get Alcatrante from the room.

In a casual way he folded his arms. He could now put his hand into his inside coat-pocket and the motion would hardly be noticed.

For a moment he stood as though waiting for someone to appear at the inquiry-window. Though Alcatrante was watching him closely, Orme continued to act as if he were the only person in the room.

And now the dial of the big thermometer in the outer wall of the refrigerator appeared to catch his eye, and he strolled over to it. This placed him almost in the open doorway. Apparently his eyes were on the dial, but in reality he was glancing sidewise into the chamber of the refrigerator. He glimpsed a moving figure in there—heard a faint rustling. Thrusting his hand into the inside of his coat, he was about to take out the precious papers to pass them in to her.

Then he received a violent push from behind. He plunged forward, tripped with one foot on the sill of the refrigerator doorway, and went in headlong, sprawling on the tiled floor. His clutching hand caught the fold of a woman's skirt. Then, though he remained conscious, everything suddenly turned black.

Bewildered as he was, several seconds passed before he realized that the massive door had been closed—that he and the girl were prisoners.



CHAPTER XIV

PRISONERS IN THE DARK

Orme's hand still held her skirt.

"Girl!" he whispered.

"Yes. Are you hurt?"

Her voice came to him softly with all its solicitude and sympathy. She knelt, to help him if need be, and her warm, supple hand rested gently on his forehead. He could have remained for a long time as he was, content with her touch, but his good sense told him that their safety demanded action.

"Not hurt at all," he said, and as she withdrew her hand, he arose. "Alcatrante caught me off guard," he explained.

"Yes, I saw him. There wasn't time to warn you."

"He has been dogging me for an hour," Orme continued. "I felt as though he were sitting on my shoulders, like an Old Man of the Sea."

"I know him of old," she replied. "He is never to be trusted."

"But you—how did you happen to be here, in the Rookery?"

"In the hope of finding you."

"Finding me?"

"I called up the Pere Marquette about five minutes ago, and the clerk said that you had just been talking to him on the wire, but that he didn't know where you were. Then I remembered that you knew the Wallinghams, and I came to Tom's office to see if he had any idea where you were. I was on my way when I passed you in the elevator."

"Tom and Bessie are at Glenview," explained Orme.

"Yes, the girl at the inquiry-desk told me. She went to get her hat to leave for the night, and I slipped into this chamber to wait for you."

"And here we are," Orme laughed—"papers and all. But I wish it weren't so dark."

Orme hunted his pockets for a match. He found just one.

"I don't suppose, Girl, that you happen to have such a thing as a match."

She laughed lightly. "I'm sorry—no."

"I have only one," he said. "I'm going to strike it, so that we can get our bearings."

He scratched the match on his sole. The first precious moment of light he permitted himself to look at her, fixing her face in his mind as though he were never to see it again. It rejoiced him to find that in that instant her eyes also turned to his.

The interchange of looks was hard for him to break. Only half the match was gone before he turned from her, but in that time he had asked and answered so many unspoken questions—questions which at the moment were still little more than hopes and yearnings. His heart was beating rapidly. If she had doubted him, she did not doubt him now. If she had not understood his feeling for her, she must understand it now. And the look in her own eyes—could he question that it was more than friendly? But the necessity of making the most of the light forced him to forget for the moment the tender presence of the girl who filled his heart. He therefore employed himself with a quick study of their surroundings.

The chamber was about ten feet square, and lined smoothly with white tiling. It was designed to show the sanitary construction of the Wallingham refrigerator. Orme remembered how Tom had explained it all to him on a previous visit to Chicago.

This was merely a storage chamber. There was no connection with an ice-chamber, and there were none of the hooks and shelves which would make it complete for its purpose. The only appliance was the thermometer, the coils of which were fitted in flush with the tiling, near the door, and protected by a close metal grating. As for the door itself, its outline was a fine seam. There was a handle.

As the match burned close to his fingers, Orme pulled out his watch. It was twenty-nine minutes past five.

Darkness again.

Orme groped his way to the door and tugged at the handle. The door would not open; built with air-tight nicety, it did not budge in the least.

This was as Orme had expected. He knew that Alcatrante would have shot the bolt. He knew, too, that Alcatrante would be waiting in the corridor, to assure himself that the last clerk left the office without freeing the prisoner—that all the lights were out and the office locked for the night. Then he would depart, exulting that the papers could not be delivered; and in the morning Orme would be released.

But had Alcatrante realized that the chamber was air-tight? Surely he had not known that the girl was already there. The air that might barely suffice to keep one alive until relief came would not suffice for two.

There was not the least opening to admit of ventilation. Even the places where, in a practical refrigerator, connection would be made with the ice-chamber, were blocked up; for that matter, they were on that side of the chamber which was built close into the corner of the office.

Orme drove his heel against the wall. The tiles did not break. Then he stepped back toward the middle of the chamber.

"Where are you, Girl?" he asked.

"Here," she answered, very near him.

He reached out and found her hand, and she did not withdraw it from his clasp.

"The rascal has locked us in," he said. "I'm afraid we shall have a long wait."

"Will it do any good to shout?"

"No one could hear us through these walls. No, there's nothing to do but remain quiet. But you needn't stand, Girl."

He led her to the wall. Removing his coat, he folded it and placed it on the floor for a cushion, and she seated herself upon it. He remained standing near by.

"The papers," he said, "are in that coat you are sitting on."

He laughed, with a consciousness of the grim and terrible humor of their situation—which he hoped she had not yet realized. Here they were, the hard-sought papers in their possession, yet they were helpless even to save their own lives.

"I wish you would shout," she said.

"Very well," he said, and going over to the door, he called out several times with the full power of his lungs. The sound, pent in that narrow room, fairly crashed in their ears, but there was no answer from without.

"Don't do it again," she said at last. Then she sighed. "Oh, the irony of it!" she exclaimed.

"I know." He laughed. "But don't give up, Girl. We'll deliver those papers yet."

"I will not give up," she said, gravely. "But tell me, how did you get the papers?"

Orme began the story of the afternoon's adventures.

"Why don't you sit down?" she asked.

"Why"—he stammered—"I——"

He had been so conscious of his feeling toward her, so conscious of the fact that the one woman in all the world was locked in here alone with him, that since he arranged her seat he had not trusted himself to be near her. And she did not seem to understand.

She wished him to sit beside her, not knowing that he felt the almost overpowering impulse to take her in his arms and crush her close to him. That desire would have been more easily controlled, had he not begun to believe that she in some degree returned his feeling for her. If they escaped from this black prison, he would rest happy in the faith that her affection for him, now, as he supposed so largely friendly, would ripen into a glorious and compelling love. But it would not be right for him to presume—to take advantage of a moment in which she might think that she cared for him more than she actually did. Then, too, he already foresaw vaguely the possible necessity for an act which would make it best that she should not hold him too dear. So long he stood silent that she spoke again.

"Do sit down," she said. "I will give you part of your coat."

There was a tremulous note in her laugh, but as he seated himself, she spoke with great seriousness. "When two persons understand each other as well as you and I," she said, "and are as near death as you and I, they need not be embarrassed by conventions."

"We never have been very conventional with each other," he replied, shakily. Her shoulder was against his. He could hear her breathing.

"Now tell me the rest of the story."

"First I must change your notion that we are near death."

He could feel that she was looking at him in the blackness. "Don't you think I know?" she whispered. "They will not find us until to-morrow. There isn't enough air to last. I have known it from the first."

"Someone will open the door," he replied. "We may have to stay here quite a while, but——"

"No, my friend. There is no likelihood that it will be opened. The clerks are leaving for the night."

He was silent.

"So finish the story," she went on.

"Finish the story!" That was all that he could do.

"Finish the story!" His story and hers—only just begun, and now to end there in the dark.

But with a calmness as great as her own, he proceeded to tell all that had happened to him since he boarded the electric-car at Evanston and saw Maku sitting within. She pressed his hand gently when he described the trick by which the Japanese had brought the pursuit to an end. She laughed when he came to his meeting with the detective in his apartment. The episode with Madame Alia he passed over lightly, for part of it rankled now. Not that he blamed himself foolishly but he wished that it had not happened.

"That woman did a fine thing," said the girl.

He went on to describe his efforts to get free from Alcatrante.

"And you were under the table in Arima's room," she exclaimed, when he had finished.

"I was there; but I couldn't see you, Girl. And you seemed to doubt me."

"To doubt you?"

"Don't you remember? You said that no American had the papers; but you added, unless——"

"Unless Walsh, the burglar, had played a trick on Poritol and held the true papers back. I went straight from Arima's to the jail and had another talk with Walsh. He convinced me that he knew nothing at all about the papers. He seemed to think that they were letters which Poritol wanted for his own purposes."

"Then, you did not doubt me." Glad relief was in his voice.

"I have never doubted you," she said, simply.

There was silence. Only their breathing and the ticking of Orme's watch broke the stillness.

"I don't believe that Alcatrante knew that this place was unventilated," she remarked at last.

"No; and he didn't know that you were here."

"He thinks that you will be released in the morning, and that you will think it wiser to make no charges. What do you suppose his conscience will say when he learns——"

"Girl, I simply can't believe that there is no hope for us."

"What possible chance is there?" Her voice was steady. "The clerks must all have gone by this time. We can't make ourselves heard."

"Still, I feel as though I should be fighting with the door."

"You can't open it."

"But some one of the clerks going out may have seen that it was bolted. Wouldn't he have pushed the bolt back? I'm going to see."

He groped to the door and tugged at the handle. The door, for all the effect his effort had on it, might have been a section of solid wall.

"Come back," she called.

He felt his way until his foot touched the coat. As he let himself down beside her, his hand brushed over her hair, and unconsciously she leaned toward him. He felt the pressure of her shoulder against his side, and the touch sent a thrill through him. He leaned back against the wall and stared into the blackness with eyes that saw only visions of the happiness that might have been.

"We mustn't make any effort to break out," she said. "It is useless. And every time we move about and tug at the door, it makes us breathe that much faster."

"Yes," he sighed, "I suppose we can only sit here and wait."

"Do you know," she said softly, "I am wondering why our situation does not seem more terrible to me. It should, shouldn't it?"

"I hardly think so," he replied.

"The relative importance of our worldly affairs," she went on dreamily, "appears to change when one sees that they are all to stop at once. They recede into the background of the mind. What counts then is, oh, I don't want to think of it! My father—he——" Her shoulders shook for a moment under the stress of sudden grief, but she quickly regained her control. "There, now," she whispered, "I won't do that."

For a time they sat in silence. His own whirling thoughts were of a sort that he could not fathom; they possessed him completely, they destroyed, seemingly, all power of analysis, they made him dumb; and they were tangled inextricably in the blended impressions of possession and loss.

"But you," she said at last, "is your father living?"

"No," he replied.

"And your mother?" she faltered.

"She has been dead many years. And I have no brothers or sisters."

"My mother died when I was a little child," she mused. "Death seemed to me much more awful then than it does now."

"It is always more awful to those who are left than to those who go," he said. "But don't think of that yet."

"We must think of it," she insisted.

He did not answer.

"You don't wish to die, do you?" she demanded.

"No; and I don't wish you to die. Try to take a different view, Girl. We really have a chance of getting out."

"How?"

"Someone may come."

"Not at all likely," she sighed.

"But a chance is a chance, Girl, dear."

"Oh!" she cried, suddenly. "To think that I have brought you to this! That what you thought would be a little favor to me has brought you to death."

She began to sob convulsively.

It was as though for the first time she realized her responsibility for his life; as though her confidence in her complete understanding of him had disappeared and he was again a stranger to her—a stranger whom she had coolly led to the edge of life with her.

"Don't, Girl—don't!" he commanded.

Her self-blame was terrible to him. But she could not check her grief, and finally, hardly knowing what he did, he put his arm around her and drew her closer to him. Her tear-wet cheek touched his. She had removed her hat, and her hair brushed his forehead.

"Girl, Girl!" he whispered, "don't you know?—Don't you understand? If chance had not kept us together, I would have followed you until I won you. From the moment I saw you, I have had no thought that was not bound up with you."

"But think what I have done to you!" she sobbed. "I never realized that there was this danger. And you—you have your own friends, your interests. Oh, I——"

"My interests are all here—with you," he answered. "It is I who am to blame. I should have known what Alcatrante would do."

"You couldn't know. There was no way——"

"I sent you up here to wait for me. Then, when he and I came in, I turned my back on him, like a blind fool."

"No, no," she protested.

"After all," he said, "it was, perhaps, something that neither you nor I could foresee. No one is to blame. Isn't that the best view to take of it?"

Her cheek moved against his as she inclined her head.

"It may be selfish in me," he went on, "but I can't feel unhappy—now."

Her sobs had ceased, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

"I love you, Girl," he said, brokenly. "I don't expect you to care so much for me—yet. But I must tell you what I feel. There isn't—there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Girl—and be happy doing it."

She did not speak, and for a long time they sat in silence. Many emotions were racing through him. His happiness was almost a pain, for it came to him in this extremity when there was no hope ahead. She had not yielded herself, but she had not resisted his embrace; even now her head was on his shoulder. Indeed, he had given her no chance to confess what she might feel for him.

Nor would he give her that chance. No, it was better that her love for him—he knew now that in her heart she must love him—it was better that it should not be crystallized by definite expression. For he had thought of a way by which she, at least, might be saved. With the faint possibility of rescue for them both, he hesitated to take the step. And yet every moment he was using that much more of the air that might keep her alive through the night.

It would be only right to wait until he was reasonably sure that all the clerks in the office had gone. That time could not be long now. But already the air was beginning to seem close; it was not so easy to breathe as it had been.

Gently putting her from him, he said: "The air will last longer if we lie down. The heart does not need so much blood, then."