She did not answer, but moved from her seat on his folded coat, and he took it and arranged it as a pillow and, finding her hand, showed her where it was. He heard the rustle of her clothing as she adjusted herself on the floor. She clung to his hand, while he still sat beside her.

"Now," he said, cheerfully, "I am going to find out what time it is, by breaking the crystal of my watch. I've seen blind men tell the time by feeling the dial."

His watch was an old hunting-case which had belonged to his father. He opened it and cracked the crystal with his pocket-knife. As nearly as he could determine by the sense of touch, it was seven o'clock. Bessie Wallingham would be wondering by this time why he had broken an engagement with her for the second time that day.

"There is one thing more to do," he said. "It is seven o'clock; I don't know how much longer we shall be able to breathe easily, and I am going to write a note which will explain matters to the persons who find us—if we should not happen to be able to tell them."

Laboriously he penciled on the back of an old envelope the explanation of their presence there, making a complete and careful charge against Alcatrante. He laid the message on the floor.

On second thought, he picked it up again and put it in his pocket, for if by any chance they should be rescued, he might forget it. In that event its discovery would possibly bring an exposure of facts which the girl and her father would not care to have disclosed.

A faint whisper from the girl.

"What is it?" he asked, bending tenderly for her answer.

"You must lie down, too."

He began to move away, as if to obey her.

"No," she whispered—"here. I want you near me."

Slowly he reclined and laid his head on the coat. Her warm breath was on his face. He felt for her hand, and found it, and it held tightly to his.

His own mind was still torn with doubts as to the best course. Should he put himself out of the way that she might live? The sacrifice might prove unnecessary. Rescue might come when it was too late for him, yet not too late, if he did not hurry his own end. And if she truly loved him and knew that she loved him, such an act on his part would leave her a terrible grief which time would hardly cure.

He tried to analyze their situation more clearly, to throw new light on his duty. The clerks must all have gone by now. There would be a visit or two from a night watchman, perhaps, but there was scarcely one chance in a hundred that he would unbolt the door.

The air was vitiating rapidly; they could not both live through the night. But—if she loved him as he loved her, she would be happier to die with him than to live at the cost of his life.

He pictured for himself again that last look of her face: its beauty, its strength, its sweet sympathy. He seemed to see the stray wisp of hair that had found its way down upon her cheek. Her perfect lips—how well he remembered!—were the unopened buds of pure womanly passion.

After all, whether she loved him or not, there would still be much in life for her.

Time would cure her sorrow. There would be many claims upon her, and she would sooner or later resume her normal activities.

Slowly he disengaged his hand from her clinging fingers. In his other hand he still held his pocket-knife. To open a vein in his wrist would take but a moment. His life would well away, there on the tiles.

She would think he was asleep; and then she herself would drift away into unconsciousness which would be broken only after the door was opened in the morning.

Bah! His mind cleared in a flash. What a fool he was! Need he doubt her for an instant? Need he question what she would do when she found that he was dead? And she would know it quickly. This living pulsing girl beside him loved him! She had told him in every way except in words. In life and in death they belonged to each other.

They were one forever. They still lived, and while they lived they must hope. And if hope failed, there still would be love.

His pent-up emotions broke restraint. With unthinking swiftness, he threw his arm over her and drew her tight to him. His lips found hers in a long kiss—clung in ecstasy for another, and another.

Her arms went about his neck. He felt as though her soul had passed from her lips to his own.

"My lover!" she whispered. "I think I have always cared."

"O, Girl, Girl!" He could utter no more.

With a faint sigh she said: "I am glad it is to be together." She sat up, still holding his hand. "If it need be at all," she added, a new firmness in her voice.

"If it need be at all!" Orme searched his mind again for some promise of escape from this prison which had been so suddenly glorified for them. The smooth, unbreakable walls; the thin seam of the door; the thermometer. Why had he not thought of it before? The thermometer!

With an exclamation, he leaped to his feet.

"What is it?" she cried.

"A chance! A small chance—but still a chance!"

He found his way to the handle of the door, which his first attempt at escape had taught him was not connected with the outer knob. Then he located the covering which protected the coils of the thermometer.

Striking with his heel, he tried to break the metal grating. It would not yield. Again and again he threw his weight into the blows, but without effect.

At last he remembered his pocket-knife. Thrusting one end of it through the grating, he prodded at the glass coils within. There was a tinkling sound. He had succeeded.

He groped his way back to the girl and seated himself beside her. With the confession of their love, a new hope had sprung up in them. They might still be freed, and, though the air was becoming stifling, neither of them believed that a joy as great as theirs could be born to live but a few hours.

For the hundredth time he was saying: "I can't believe that we have known each other only one day."

"And even now," she mused, "you don't know my name. Do you want me to tell you?"

"Not until you are ready."

"Then wait. It will all come in due form. Someone will say, 'Mr. Orme, Miss——.'"

"The name doesn't matter," said Orme. "To me you will always be just—Girl."

The joyous moments rushed by. She had crept close to him again, and with her head on his shoulder, was saying: "There is so much for us to tell each other."

"There seems to be only one thing to say now." He kissed her tenderly.

"Oh, but there is much more."

"Where shall we begin?" asked Orme.

"Well, to be matter-of-fact, do you live in Chicago?"

"No, dear. I live in New York."

"I didn't even know that," she whispered, "And about me. Our family home has been in one of the suburbs here since I was a small girl. For several years I was sent East to school, and after that I went abroad with some friends. And since then——"

"It can't be so very long," he whispered, "though you speak as though it were decades."

"It is six years. Since then my father and I have spent our winters in the East, coming back home for the summers. Just think how much you are learning about me!"

Orme lifted her hand to his lips.

Suddenly the room filled with a light which to their expanded pupils seemed bright as the sun. The door had been opened and an electric light in the reception-hall shone in. Framed in the doorway was the outline of a man.

Orme shouted joyfully and jumped to his feet.

"Why—what——?" the man began.

Orme helped the girl up, and together they went to the outer light. For a moment they could do nothing but breathe, so good the fresh air of the reception-room seemed to them. Then, looking at the man again, Orme saw that it was the clerk to whom Alcatrante had made his accusation two hours before.

"How did you come to be in there?" the clerk demanded.

Orme hesitated; then he decided to make no charges. "I got rid of that crazy fellow who was following me around," he said, "and I came back, and this young lady and I went in to examine your refrigerator. The door was ajar, and someone pushed it shut and locked it. We should have smothered if you had not come."

"It was the merest chance," said the clerk. "My work kept me late. As I was leaving, I happened to glance at the thermometer dial here. It registered below freezing. I couldn't understand that, for there is no ice in the refrigerator, so I opened the door to see."

"I broke the coil," explained Orme, "in the hope that the night watchman might be interested in the dial."

"Well," said the clerk, drawing a long breath, "you had a close shave. There isn't any night watchman—at least not in this office. If I had balanced my books on time to-day, you two would have stayed where you were until to-morrow morning."

"I will come in to-morrow to see Mr. Wallingham and explain everything. I will pay for a new thermometer, too, if he will let me."

"I don't think he will let you do that," said the clerk. "He will be grateful that nothing worse happened."

"Yes, I believe he will," replied Orme.

He glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after seven. Going back into the chamber which, had been the scene of both their danger and their happiness, he got his coat and the girl's hat. The parchment papers crackled in his pocket as he put the coat on. The girl, meantime, adjusted her hat.

"Say," said the clerk, holding the outer door open for them to pass through, "was that fellow's story about your holding notes of ours—was there anything in it?"

"Absolutely untrue," replied Orme.

"He must have had you confused with somebody else."

"He must have." Orme held out his hand. "Many thanks to you for saving our lives."

Then Orme and the girl made their way to the elevator.



CHAPTER XV

FROM THE DEVIL TO THE DEEP SEA

"How shall we go?" asked Orme, as they descended to the street level.

"By train. There is no other convenient way, since my car is at home." She looked at him doubtfully, and added, "but they will be watching the railroad stations."

He nodded. "A motor would be safer—if we can get one." He gave her hand a secret pressure while the elevator-boy was opening the door for them, and as she passed before him she flashed upon him a look so filled with love and trust that the sudden thrill of his happiness almost stifled him.

At the La Salle Street entrance Orme had a fleeting glimpse of the watching Alcatrante. The South American, after one astonished stare, darted away in the dusk. He would follow them, of course, but Orme decided to say nothing about him to the girl.

"I must telephone," she said suddenly, stopping as if to turn back into the building. "Father will be very anxious."

"The booths in the building must be closed," he said. "We'd better try a drug store."

Accordingly they made their way to the nearest, and the girl went to the booth. The door was shut for a long time.

While he was waiting, Orme glanced through the brilliant window. In the light of an electric lamp across the street he discerned faintly a motionless figure; without hesitation he crossed the pavement, recognizing Alcatrante more clearly as he left the dazzle of the store.

The minister did not budge. His face, as Orme approached, was cold and expressionless.

"Senhor," exclaimed Orme, "does your trade include murder?"

"Not at all. Why do you ask, Mr. Orme?"

"Because only a lucky intervention has saved you from the murder of a young lady and myself."

"You are exaggerating, my dear sir." Alcatrante laughed.

"Is it your custom to lock people into air-tight chambers?"

"Air-tight?" Alcatrante was clearly disconcerted. "I did not suppose that it was air-tight. Also, I did not dream that the young lady was there. But this game is a serious game, Mr. Orme. You do not appear to understand. When one is working for his country, many strange things are justified."

"Even murder?"

"Even murder—sometimes."

Orme had an inspiration. "Thank you for the truth, Senhor," he said. "I, too, am working for my country. If you continue to follow us, I shall assume that you have murder in your mind, and I shall act accordingly."

Alcatrante smiled coolly.

"This is fair warning," continued Orme.

He glanced to the drug store and saw the girl coming out of the telephone-booth. Hastening across the street, he met her at the door.

"If father had had any idea of such complications when we came West," she said, "there would have been plenty of men near by to help us. As it is, we shall have to act alone. It is not a matter for detectives—or for the police, I—I almost wish it were," she faltered.

Orme wondered again whether this father could have realized what dangers the girl was encountering. But, as if divining his sudden anger against the man who could let his daughter run such risks, she added: "He doesn't know, of course, the details of our adventures. I have permitted him to think that it is simply a matter of searching."

"And now he is reassured."

"Yes. Oh, you have no idea yet how important it is."

"You were a long time in the booth," he said.

A mysterious smile flittered across her face. "I thought of another person I wished to talk to. That person was hard to get."

"Long distance?"

"It proved necessary to use long distance."

Then she caught a glimpse of the figure across the street. "There's Mr. Alcatrante," she exclaimed.

"Yes, I have just had a talk with him."

Her face showed concern.

"Don't let him worry you, dear," he added. "He will try to balk us. We must expect that. But I think I can take care of him."

"I believe it," she said, softly.

He wondered whether she could guess how relentlessly he was planning to deal with Alcatrante. Would she justify the course he had in mind? As to her attitude, he felt doubtful. Perhaps she did not agree with the South American that murder was sometimes necessary in the service of one's country.

Moreover, while Alcatrante was undoubtedly serving the interest of his country, Orme had no real certainty that he himself was in a similar position. He had every reason to infer that the papers were of importance to the United States Government, but after all he could only go by inference. The affairs of some private corporation in the United States might have a serious bearing on problems in South America and the Far East. He decided to sound the girl for information that would be more definite.

But first the question as to their next move must be answered.

"Do you know where we can get a motor?" he said.

"No"—she prolonged the word doubtfully. "We may have to take a motor-cab."

"It would be safer than the railroad or the electric line." Then he asked with great seriousness "Girl, dear, I don't know much about the meaning and value of these papers in my pocket, and I don't care to know any more than you choose to tell me. But let me know just this much: Are they as important to you as they are to our enemies? Have you really been justified in the risks you have run?"

"You have seen how far Alcatrante and the Japanese have been willing to go," she replied, gravely. "I am sure that they would not hesitate to kill us, if it seemed necessary to them in their effort to get possession of the papers. Now, my dear, they are even much more important to my father."

"In his business interests?"

"Much more than that."

They were walking along the glimmering canyon of La Salle Street, which was now almost deserted in the dusk. A motor-car swept slowly around the corner ahead and came toward them. It had but one occupant, a chauffeur, apparently. He wore a dust-coat, a cap, and goggles which seemed to be too large for him.

Regardless of Alcatrante, who was following them, Orme hailed the chauffeur. "Will you take a fare?" he called.

The man stopped his car and after a moment of what Orme interpreted as indecision, nodded slowly.

"How much by the hour?" asked Orme.

The chauffeur held up the ten fingers of his two hands.

Orme looked at the girl. He hadn't that much money with him.

"If I only had time to cash a check," he said.

"All right," she whispered. "I have plenty."

They got into the tonneau, and the girl, leaning forward, said: "Take the Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road to Evanston."

Again the chauffeur nodded, without turning toward them.

"He doesn't waste many words," whispered the girl to Orme.

While the car was turning Orme noted that Alcatrante had stopped short and was watching them. It was some reason for surprise that he was not hunting for a motor in which to follow.

Perhaps his plans were so completely balked that he was giving up altogether. No, that would not be like Alcatrante. Orme now realized that in all likelihood the minister had foreseen some such circumstance and had made plans accordingly.

He was more and more inclined to believe that Alcatrante had but half expected to keep him long imprisoned in Wallingham's office. Then what had been the purpose underlying the trick? Probably the intention was to make Orme prisoner for as long a period as possible and, in any event, to gain time enough to communicate with Poritol and the Japanese and whatever other persons might be helping in the struggle to regain the papers. The probabilities were that Alcatrante had been using the last two hours to get in touch with his friends.

And now those friends would be informed promptly that Orme and the girl were setting out by motor. This analysis apparently accounted for Alcatrante's nonchalance. Orme and the girl seemed to be escaping, but in truth, if they approached their destination at all, they must run into the ambuscade of other enemies. Then the nearer the goal, the greater the danger.

As the motor slid smoothly northward on La Salle Street, Orme looked back. Alcatrante had made no move. The last glimpse that Orme had of him showed that slight but sinister figure alone on the sidewalk of the deserted business street.

They crossed the Clark Street bridge. "Keep on out North Clark Street until you can cross over to Lincoln Park," said Orme to the chauffeur.

The only indication that the order had been heard was a bending forward of the bowed figure on the front seat.

Orme explained to the girl. "It will be better not to take the Lake Shore Drive. They may be watching the Pere Marquette."

"You are right," she said. "As a precaution, we'd better not pass the hotel."

"How surprised I was to find you waiting for me there last evening," mused Orme—"and how glad!"

"I never called on a man before," she laughed.

"I had made up my mind only a little while before," he continued, "to stay in Chicago till I found you."

"I'm afraid that would not have been easy." She returned the pressure of his hand, which had found hers. "If it hadn't been for those papers, we might never have met."

"We were bound to meet—you and I," he said. "I have been waiting all my life just for you."

"But even now you don't know who I am. I may be a—a political adventuress—or a woman detective—or——"

"You may be," he said, "but you are the woman I love. Your name—your business, if you have one—those things don't matter. I know you, and I love you."

She leaned closer to him. "Dear," she whispered impulsively, "I am going to tell you everything—who I am, and about the papers——"

"Wait!" He held his hand before her mouth. "Don't tell me now. Do as you planned to do. Be simply 'Girl' to me for a while longer."

She moved closer to him. Their errand, the danger, were for the time forgotten, and the motor hummed along with a burden of happiness.

"You haven't looked at the papers yet," said Orme, after a time. They were turning east toward Lincoln Park.

"Do I need to?"

"Perhaps not. I took them from the envelope which you saw at Arima's. But here they are. I did not look at them, of course."

He drew the parchments from within his coat and placed them in her hand.

While she examined them, he looked straight ahead, that he might not see. He could hear them crackle as she unfolded them—could hear her sigh of content.

And then something occurred that disquieted him to a degree which seemed unwarranted. The chauffeur suddenly turned around and glanced swiftly through his goggles at the girl and the papers. The action was, perhaps, natural; but there was an assured expectancy in the way he turned—Orme did not like it. Moreover, there was something alarmingly familiar in the manner of the movement.

Somewhere Orme had seen a man move his body like that. But before his suspicions could take form, the chauffeur had turned again.

The girl handed the papers back to Orme. "These are the right papers," she said. "Oh, my dear, if you only knew how much they mean."

He held them for a moment in his hand. Then, after returning them to his pocket with as little noise as possible, he caught the girl's eye and, with a significant glance toward the chauffeur, said in a distinct voice:

"I will slip them under the seat cushion. They will be safer there."

Did the chauffeur lean farther back, as if to hear better? or was the slight movement a false record by Orme's imagination?

Orme decided to be on the safe side, so he slipped under the cushion of the extra seat another mining prospectus which he had in his pocket, placing it in such a way that the end of the paper protruded. Then he put his lips close to the girl's ear and whispered:

"Don't be alarmed, but tell me, does our chauffeur remind you of anyone?"

She studied the stolid back in front of them. The ill-fitting dust-coat masked the outline of the figure; the cap was so low on the head that the ears were covered.

"No," she said, at last, "I think not."

With that, Orme sought to reassure himself.

They were in Lincoln Park now. Over this same route Orme and the girl had ridden less than twenty-four hours before. To him the period seemed like a year. Then he had been plunging into mysteries unknown with the ideal of his dreams; now he was moving among secrets partly understood, with the woman of his life—loving her and knowing that she loved him.

One short day had brought all this to pass. He had heard it said that Love and Time are enemies. The falseness of the saying was clear to him in the light of his own experience. Love and Time are not enemies; they are strangers to each other.

On they went northward. To Orme the streets through which they passed were now vaguely familiar, yet he could hardly believe his eyes when they swung around on to the Lake Front at Evanston, along the broad ribbon of Sheridan Road.

But there was the dark mysterious surface of Lake Michigan at their right. Beyond the broad beach, he could see the line of breakwaters, and at their left the electric street lights threw their beams into the blackness of little parks and shrubby lawns.

The car swept to the left, past the university campus.

"Do you remember?" asked the girl, in a low voice, pressing his arm. Then, "Don't!" she whispered. "Someone will see!" for he had drawn her face to his.

They came to the corner of Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road, where they had halted the night before in their search for the hidden papers. "We'd better give him further directions," said the girl.

But the chauffeur turned north at the corner and put on more speed.

"He's taking the right direction," she laughed. "Perhaps his idea is to follow Sheridan Road till we tell him to turn."

"I don't quite like it," said Orme, thoughtfully. "He's a bit too sure of what he's doing."

The girl hesitated. "It is funny," she exclaimed. "And he's going faster, too." She leaned forward and called up to the chauffeur: "Stop at this corner."

He did not seem to hear. She repeated the order in a louder voice, but the only answer was another burst of speed.

Then Orme reached up and touched the chauffeur's shoulder. "Stop the car!" he cried.

The chauffeur did not obey. He did not even turn his head.

Orme and the girl looked at each other. "I don't understand," she said.

"I'm afraid I am beginning to," Orme replied. "He will not stop until we are where he wishes us to be."

"We can't get out," she exclaimed.

"No. And if I pull him out of the seat, the car will be ditched." He puzzled vainly to hit on a method of action, and meantime the moments sped.

They passed the university grounds quickly. Orme retained an impression of occasional massive buildings at the right, including the dome of an observatory, and at the left the lighted windows of dwellings.

He saw, too, the tower of a lighthouse, a dark foundation supporting a changing light above; and then the road turned sharply to the left and, after a few hundred yards, curved again to the north.

Suddenly the chauffeur slowed down. On either side were groves of trees. Ahead were the lights of an approaching motor.

Orme was still at a loss, and the girl was awaiting some decision from him. When the chauffeur at last turned and spoke—three short words—Orme realized too late the situation he and the girl were in.

"We stop now," said the chauffeur.

And the girl, with a horrified gasp, exclaimed: "Maku!"

Yes, it was the Japanese.

Calmly he put on the brakes and brought the car to a standstill by the roadside; then, removing his goggles, turned to Orme and the girl and smiled an unscrutable smile. There was an ugly bruise on his forehead, where Orme had struck him with the wrench.

But quick though Maku was, he was not quick enough to see a motion which Orme had made immediately after the moment of recognition—a motion which had even escaped the notice of the girl. Perhaps it accounted for the coolness with which Orme met his enemy's eyes.



CHAPTER XVI

THE STRUGGLE

The approaching car now drew up near by, and three men jumped lightly to the road.

In the radiance of the lamps on the two cars, Orme recognized Arima. The men with him were also Japanese, though Orme was not conscious that he had ever seen them before.

It was clear enough how he and the girl had blundered into the hands of the Orientals. Maku had undoubtedly secured a car and had driven it to the vicinity of the Rookery in response to a telephoned order from Alcatrante, transmitted, in all likelihood, through the Japanese minister.

The appearance of the car on La Salle Street had been expected by the South American. Perhaps he had not anticipated that Orme would hail it; the probability was that he had wished Maku's assistance without a definite idea of what that assistance should be; but the use of the car by Orme fell in nicely with his plans. He had assumed readily enough the direction the car would take, and getting promptly into telephonic communication with Arima, had arranged this meeting on the road.

Orme now remembered that Arima's car, when approaching, had sounded its horn at regular intervals, in series of threes—evidently a signal.

"Don't worry, Girl, dear," whispered Orme. "I—" he broke off his sentence as the newcomers clustered about the tonneau, but the confident glance of her eyes reassured him.

He knew not what they were to face. The Japanese, he inferred, would not deal with him pleasantly, but surely they would not harm the girl.

Arima opened the door of the tonneau and with a lightning motion grasped Orme by the wrist.

"Get out," he ordered.

Orme was in no mind to obey. There were four of the Orientals against him, and he stood little chance of success in a fight with them, but if he could only delay matters, someone might pass and he could raise an alarm. So he sat firm, and said, calmly:

"What do you want?"

"Get out," repeated Arima.

When Orme still made no move to leave his seat, the steely fingers on his wrist ran up his forearm and pressed down hard upon a nerve-center. The pain was almost unbearable, and for the moment his arm was paralyzed. A quick jerk brought him to the ground. As he alighted, stumblingly, Maku caught him by the other arm. He was held in such a way that for the moment it seemed futile to struggle. Arima, meantime, spoke rapidly in Japanese to Maku. Perhaps he, as commander of the situation, was giving precise orders as to what was to be done.

Orme looked over his shoulder at the girl. She was clutching the door of the tonneau and leaning forward, staring with horrified eyes.

"Keep cool," he counseled.

Her answer was a moan of anguish, and he realized that she feared for him.

Suddenly she began to call for help. Twice her cries rung out, and then one of the Japanese leaped into the tonneau and placed his hand over her mouth, smothering her voice.

The sight of this action was too much for Orme. He began a furious effort to break away from his captors. One sudden motion freed his right arm from Arima's clutch, and he reached for Maku's throat. But after a moment of scuffling, he was again held securely.

"Girl!" he shouted, "don't try to call out. Keep quiet."

The Japanese in the tonneau appeared to understand the words, for he took his hand away from the girl's mouth, though he remained beside her, ready to put an end to any fresh outbreak.

"Now," said Orme, turning his eyes on Arima, "what does this mean?"

"You give us papers," replied the Japanese softly.

"I have no papers that mean anything to you."

"We see. Give them to me."

"What papers do you want?" demanded Orme.

"You know." Arima's voice sounded less patient.

"But I have nothing that you care anything about," repeated Orme.

At that Arima began rapidly to search Orme's pockets. There was sufficient light from the lamps of the two cars to illuminate the scene.

Arima's left hand still held Orme's right forearm, and his right hand was free to hunt for the papers. Maku, on the other side, had meantime strengthened his grip on Orme's left arm, at the same time raising one knee so that Orme could feel it pressing against the small of his back.

"What this!" asked Arima, taking a long envelope from the inner pocket of Orme's coat and holding it up for inspection.

"A blank contract," said Orme. "Do you want it?"

Arima took the paper from the envelope and examined it. Then with an exclamation of disgust he replaced it in Orme's pocket and continued his search.

"You see," said Orme calmly, "there is nothing here."

The Japanese, muttering in his own tongue, ran his hands over Orme's body and even looked into his hat. Nothing was found.

"You might as well believe me first as last," exclaimed Orme. "The papers you want are not here."

Arima was clearly puzzled. "You had them," he began.

"Possibly. But I haven't them now. How would you feel if I should tell you that the young lady and I have made this journey simply to throw you off the scent, and that the papers were being delivered by another person?"

"I not believe," declared Arima shortly.

Suddenly Maku began to jabber at Arima, who, after an instant of consideration, gave a quick order to the fourth Japanese, who stood by. This man went to the tonneau and got the prospectuses which Orme had placed under the seat cushion.

Arima snatched the papers with his free hand, then, resigning Orme entirely to Maku's care, and clucking strangely, opened them.

A glance sufficed. With a cry of disappointment, he tore the papers in two and threw them to the ground.

He thrust his face close to Orme's. "Where the papers?" he said.

Orme did not reply.

The Japanese who had brought the prospectuses from the tonneau now stepped to Maku's assistance, for Orme had made a motion of the body which showed that he was rapidly losing his patience.

"Queek!"

Still no answer.

"Ha!" The exclamation had a ring of triumph. "Mees have um!" He nodded toward the car where the girl still sat.

"No," exclaimed Orme vehemently. "She has not."

"Mees have um," repeated Arima. "We hunt. We see."

"I tell you she has not," said Orme.

"No believe you." Arima chuckled. "Come, mees."

As Orme twisted himself around, he was enraged to see the Japanese in the car seize the girl by the arm and drag her to the ground. Once on her feet, she did not resist, but permitted herself to be led toward the little group.

Arima advanced a step to meet her. "Give me papers," he said.

"I have no papers," she protested despairingly.

"We search you," said Arima, taking another step toward her and extending his hands.

It may be that Arima did not intend actually to lay hands on her. His thought may have been that the threat would induce Orme to tell where the papers really were. But the effect on Orme was to set him ablaze with anger.

His swift, indignant purpose seemed to multiply his strength until the little men who held him were like children in his hands.

A sudden jerk, and he had pulled both his arms free. Maku and the man at his other side were taken completely by surprise, and before they had time to recover themselves, Orme had thrown his arms around them and crushed their heads together with such force that they dropped limp and unconscious to the ground. They were out of the fight.

At the first sounds of struggle, Arima turned. Now, as Orme charged toward him, he bent slightly forward, every muscle tense, ready to strike or trip or twist.

His framework was overlaid by muscles that were like supple steel. Light and quick, he had a strength that could hardly have been inferred from his build. And though Orme's outbreak had been sudden, the Japanese was apparently not in the least disconcerted.

He knew how to turn the rush of the American into a disastrous fall. He knew how to prod with his bony knuckle the angry man's solar plexus—how to step swiftly aside and bring the horny edge of his hand against sensitive vertebrae. He could seize Orme by the arm and, dropping backward to the ground, land Orme where he wished him. Yes, Arima had every reason to feel confident. Many a time had he got the better of American fist-fighters.

But a system of offense and defense which is based upon the turning of an opponent's strength against himself absolutely depends for its success upon an accurate estimate of the opponent's intentions. A sudden shift of physical purpose may put your jiu-jitsu adept at a loss.

Arima, from his knowledge of American fighting methods, had reason to think that Orme would continue his charge and strike out with his fists when he came near enough. That, however, is something that Orme did not do. For, in his two previous encounters with the Japanese, he had learned much. He had learned, among other things, the value of the unexpected. And though his anger was almost blinding, he cooled, during those few short strides, to his usual caution.

Within two paces of Arima, he stopped short.

For one tense moment Orme opened his senses to all impressions. He could hear, with almost painful distinctness, the moans of the two men he had stunned and the rustling sounds made by their writhings.

He caught a glimpse of the girl. The searchlight of one of the cars struck full on the side of her face, and drew there a distinct shadow of the network of her disarranged hair. He saw the strained, excited look in her eyes.

Her captor still held her arm. He was watching Orme and Arima indifferently, as though quite confident of Japanese skill.

All this Orme observed in an instant. Then his eyes were again on Arima.

He knew that he would have to attack. To await the trick holds of the Japanese would be to invite defeat. But if he attacked, he must use an unexpected method.

Suddenly he raised his left arm above his head and clenched his fist. His right arm remained by his side.

A step forward. The upraised arm descended. Swiftly Arima reached upward to seize it. But even as the one arm descended, Orme swung his other, with terrific force, up from the waist, and caught Arima on the mouth.

The blow missed the chin, but it was hard enough to fell any man of ordinary strength. Arima staggered back, past the girl, and brought up against the side of one of the cars. But with hardly an instant for recovery, he leaped forward again and the man who was holding the girl also sprang at Orme.

It would be folly to meet the two. Orme turned and ran quickly in among the trees of the little grove. The darkness was his friend, for the pursuers halted in their quick run and separated, proceeding more cautiously.

As for Orme, once in shelter, he stopped for breath.

He could see the two men coming toward him. They were outlined against the radiance from the motor-cars. Cautiously he stepped toward the south, hoping that they would pass him in the darkness, but he dared not move rapidly, lest a stumble or the breaking of a twig betray him.

All this time the engines of the two cars had continued to work, and their muffled chug-chug-chug helped to cover the noise of footsteps.

What pleased him most was to see, out of the corner of his eye, that the girl had taken advantage of her release to climb to the chauffeur's seat of the car in which Maku had brought them from Chicago. That meant that, if he could reach the car, they might get away. But the papers——

By this time Orme was between his pursuers and the road. He stopped and groped about till he found a fair-sized stone, then worked toward the edge of the grove. The moment was at hand to make a dash.

Ten steps would take him to the car; then a leap into the tonneau, and off to the northward he and the girl would speed. Pursuit would be delayed for a few precious moments, for the Japanese would have to turn the other car around. Those few moments would determine the margin of success or failure.

But there were the papers. At all cost they must be secured. The plan that flashed into Orme's mind was to draw the Japanese from the spot and then, jumping from the car, let the girl lead the pursuers on while he returned.

Just as he was about to rush for the car he heard a sound among the trees. He wheeled and saw the dim outline of one of his enemies coming toward him. In his excitement he had forgotten that just as they could be seen by him when they were between him and the road, so he could now be seen by them. Undoubtedly he was outlined, as they had been, against the background of the light.

The Japanese was only a few feet away. Orme threw the stone; by good luck it struck the man in the stomach, and he dropped to the ground and rolled in silent agony.

But at the same moment Orme was seized from behind, and held in a grip he could not break. Indeed, when he tried to break it, there was a sudden, killing strain on his spine. Then Arima's voice said, close to his ear:

"Where the papers?"

The papers!

Japanese character thus brought its fresh surprise to Orme. Even after this hard fight, when three of his friends lay groaning on the ground—when he had in his power the man who had injured them, who had temporarily bested himself—Arima's chief thought was still of the papers!

He seemed to have none of the semi-barbarian vengefulness that might have been expected. He merely wished the papers—wished them the more desperately with every passing moment. The lives of his companions counted for nothing besides the papers!

"Where?" repeated Arima.

"I haven't them," said Orme. "You ought to know that by this time."

The answer was a torturing pressure on Orme's spine. "You tell," hissed Arima.

As the pressure increased Orme's suffering was so keen that his senses began to slip away. He was gliding into a state in which all consciousness centered hazily around the one sharp point of pain.

Then, suddenly, he was released. For a moment he staggered limply, but his strength surged back, and he was able to see how the situation had changed.

The girl had swung her car in closer to the edge of the grove and nearer to the struggling figures. Doubtless she had some idea of helping. But the effect of the change in the position of her car was to permit the searchlight of the other car to throw its bright beam without interruption down the road. And there, perhaps fifty feet to the southward, gleamed something white.

The girl could not see it, for her car was headed north. But Arima saw it, and in a flash he realized what it was. The papers lay there at the side of the road, where Orme had tossed them a moment before the two cars met.

There had been no other way to dispose of them. If the car from the north had stopped at a different angle, or if the other car had not moved, the light would not have shone upon them, and the Japanese might not have suspected where they were. Or, if Orme had tossed them a few feet farther to one side, they would have been out of the range of the light. But there they lay.

Arima leaped toward them. Even as he started, a figure appeared at the other side of the road and walked over toward the two cars. It was a man with brass buttons and policeman's helmet. He walked with authority, and he held a stout club in his hand.

"What's goin' on here?" he demanded. Arima stopped in his tracks.

To Orme, at this moment, came the memory of the girl's desire to avoid publicity. "Nothing wrong," he said.

The policeman stared. "I've been watchin' you from over there," he said. "It looks like nothin' wrong, with men fighting all over the ground."

"Just a little trial of strength," explained Orme.

"Trial of strength, hey?"

"Well," admitted Orme, "this man"—pointing to Arima—"wanted something that I had. It's not a matter for the police."

"Oh, it ain't? Somebody's been hurt." He gestured with his club toward the shadows where the three injured men were slowly coming back to their senses.

"Not seriously," said Orme.

"We'll see about that later," replied the policeman decidedly.

Orme tried to carry the affair off boldly. Every moment of delay now threatened defeat for him. "There is nothing serious," he said. "They have done me no real harm. But the young lady and I shall be obliged to you, if you will keep these Japanese here until we can get away. They attacked us, but I don't wish to make a complaint against them."

The policeman showed new interest. He glanced at Arima. "Japanese!" he exclaimed. "There was one slugged on the campus last night. I guess you'll all have to come along with me."

"Nonsense!" protested Orme. "Just because somebody hit a Japanese over the head last night——"

"Ah, you know about that, do you? No"—as Orme made a movement—"stand where you are." He drew his revolver.

During this colloquy, Arima had edged nearer and nearer to the papers. Orme's sudden step was involuntary; it was due to the fact that he had seen Arima stoop swiftly and pick up the papers and thrust them into his pocket.

"Keep quiet," continued the policeman. "And you, there"—he nodded toward Arima—"come here."

Arima hesitated, but the muzzle of the revolver turned toward him, and he came and stood a few feet away.

"There's somethin' mighty funny about this," continued the policeman. "We'll just get into one of these cars and go to the station."

"This man and me?" asked Orme. He had visions of no great difficulty in satisfying the questions of the local justice, but he knew that an arrest would mean delay, perhaps of hours. And Arima had the papers.

"I mean that man, and you, and the woman. I'll send someone for the others. If you're the fellow that did the sluggin' on the campus last night, you won't get away from me again."

"What's the use of dragging the young lady into this?" demanded Orme.

"None o' your business."

"Can I speak to her a minute, first?"

"No, you can't. There's been too many Chicago hold-up men around here lately, and I won't take chances with you." The policeman made this explanation apparently in deference to Orme's appearance, which, in spite of the evidence of struggle, was that of a gentleman. "Looks don't always tell," he continued.

That the girl should be taken to the station and held, under such suspicious circumstances was simply not to be thought of.

Doubtless she could quickly set in motion forces that would liberate her, but the disgrace of detention was something she must be saved from at any cost.

She was known in Evanston. Her identity once established, the story of her arrest would be sure to spread. Her position would then be the more painful, because the circumstances of the case were such that she was unwilling to explain them.

Moreover, Orme realized that, if he and Arima were held, the care of the girl would be his first thought, and the recovery of the papers would be forced into second place. That would not be according to her wish. Assuredly, if he was to get the papers, he could do better alone.

She sat in the car, not more than six feet from him, her face the picture of mingled emotions. Orme saw that he must reassure her as to himself before he carried out the plan which had suddenly come to his mind.

"You will make a mistake, officer, if you detain me," he said, speaking distinctly, so that the girl would be sure to hear.

"Cut it out," said the policeman.

"A little telephoning will set me free in an hour," Orme continued, bending to pick up his hat, which had fallen to the ground at the beginning of the fight. "You can't do anything except take me to the station and find out that you have bungled."

"That's my affair," said the policeman. "But here, we've done enough talkin'." He waved his revolver in a gesture which indicated that they were to enter the car.

Now, Orme knew that the girl had not seen him throw the papers to the road. Neither had she seen Arima pick them up. Whatever guess she had made as to his disposal of them, there was no reason for her to doubt that he had again got them into his possession, during some stage of the struggle.

He looked at her earnestly and significantly, then smiled slightly, in the thought of reassuring her.

When he was certain that she was watching his every move, he glanced at the car, then up the road to the north. Then, with such quickness that the policeman had no time to prevent, he snatched from the inner pocket of his coat the envelope containing the blank contract which had first disappointed Arima, and tossed it into the tonneau.

"Go!" he shouted.

Like a shot, she sent the car forward. It disappeared swiftly into the night.

Thus far, Orme was satisfied. He had got the girl safely away. She thought that he had thrown the papers into the car, and when she came to examine them she would be disappointed, but Orme felt that she would then understand—that she would continue to trust him.

As the car darted away the policeman swung his club at Orme.

Before the blow could strike, the upraised arm was caught by a little hand and with a quick jerk, the policeman was pulled to the ground. His revolver, which he held in his left hand, went off as he fell, and a leaf, cut from a tree above by the bullet, sailed into Orme's face.

The policeman lay helpless in the cunning hold of Maku—Maku, who, fully restored to his senses, had crept up to save Arima from the law.

Orme wondered whether the girl had heard the shot. Probably not, for she was driving into the wind. But he had no time to consider the point, for Arima, suddenly conscious of freedom, leaped for the remaining car. He had the papers; he would hurry them safely to his master, leaving Orme and the policeman to the mercies of his reviving confederates.

The papers were still first in his thoughts. And why not? Orme remembered the scathing rebuke by the Japanese minister. In the flash of thought that preceded his own action he realized that the recovering of the papers was Arima's one means of righting himself.

As Arima grasped the steering-wheel of the car and threw on the clutch, Orme ran behind the tonneau. His action was swiftly calculated to give the impression that he was dodging around the car in the hope of escaping on foot.

That is what Arima might have thought, had he glanced around—what Maku might have thought, had he done more than throw one swift glance at Arima, then devote himself again to the prostrate officer.

But Orme, reaching upward, got his hands over the high back of the tonneau. He hung on tightly, raising his feet from the ground. The car plunged forward.

For a time Orme merely kept his position. The dust whirled up in his face, and he had to close his eyes, but he was conscious that the car was gaining speed rapidly.

The situation was as difficult as it was dangerous. He planned nothing less than to climb into the car and deal with Arima even while they were flying along the road. But he must wait until they had gone a safe distance from the battleground. On the other hand, he must act before they got into the thickly settled streets of the town.

He figured that they had gone about a quarter of a mile, when he began his effort. Pulling himself up by his hands, he peered over the back of the tonneau. He could see Arima, huddled forward over the steering-wheel, doubtless watching the road ahead with a careful eye for obstacles and for the police.

For Arima was driving the car at a law-breaking speed. Clearly, he was an adept at motoring. But Orme did not stop to ask himself how a humble teacher of jiu-jitsu—a professional athlete—had acquired so much skill in the handling of a car.

It proved hard to get into the tonneau. Several times he got one leg almost over the back, only to be dislodged as the car bumped into a rut or over a stone. Once he almost lost his grip entirely. But a final effort gave him a leg-hold, and slowly—very slowly—he climbed over to the leather cushions of the wide seat.

If Arima now turned and saw him, almost anything might happen. But before he could become conscious that anyone was near him, Orme was crouching in the tonneau.

The car was going at a thirty-five-mile clip. The street lights were flashing by, and not far ahead were the frequent lights of houses. Nothing could be done here; therefore Orme got down as low as he could. He realized that he would have to wait till they had passed through the town.

Arima had not remained on the Sheridan Road. He had taken a street which struck off from it, more directly southward, and Orme surmised that the intention was to avoid the main streets of Evanston.

When the car came to a cross street and turned westward this surmise was strengthened. They bumped over railroad tracks. Several times they passed other vehicles.

Presently Orme raised his head and discovered that the houses were thinning out. The car appeared to be heading straight into the open country, and Arima put on more speed. Forty miles an hour was not a high estimate for the rate at which they were traveling.

For several minutes Orme continued in his crouching position. The positions of the stars told him that they were still going west—not south toward Chicago. Every turn of the wheels, therefore, was carrying him farther into unknown territory—farther from the girl and all chance of communicating with her. Surely he must act soon, if he was to act at all; for Arima evidently was proceeding to some rendezvous, where Orme might find himself again in the midst of an overwhelming number of enemies.

But what could he do? Rapidly he turned over in his mind the various courses open to him. Should he try to stun Arima with a blow, and then reach forward and take the steering-wheel before the car could swerve into the ditch?

The blow might not prove effective. In that case, the chances were that Arima would involuntarily swing the car to one side. Then there would be a smash—with death or serious injury threatening both Arima and himself.

Should he try to cut a tire?

The feat was almost impossible. In attempting it, he would run great risk of premature discovery, and even if he succeeded in the attempt, the situation would be little changed. The necessity of stopping the car to make repairs might not put Arima in his hands.

The plan he at last decided upon was to throw his left arm around Arima's neck and draw him straight back, trusting that he might be able to get over the seat and set the brakes without losing his grip. The throat of the jiu-jitsu adept is tough, made so by patient development of neck muscles, but Orme had a strong arm, and he believed, moreover, that Arima would not have time to protect himself by stiffening his muscles before the grip was secured.

The car was skimming along over the turnpike like some flying bird of night. Orme glanced back over the way they had come. A soft electric glow in the sky told where Evanston lay, several miles to the east. Far to the south a greater glow showed the position of Chicago.

Pulling himself erect, Orme leaned forward. It seemed as though Arima must hear him breathe. Slowly he advanced his arm. Then, darting swiftly, he threw it around Arima's neck and drew backwards with a jerk.

The Japanese was taken completely unawares. Uttering a strangled cry, he let go of the steering-wheel and clutched at the choking arm that held him; he could not break the grip.

Meanwhile Orme reached for the steering-wheel with his free arm. But Arima, kicking frantically, struck the wheel with his foot, just as Orme was about to seize it. The car turned sharply to one side. Into the ditch it plunged.

As the fore wheels dropped into the depression, the body of the car rose in the air. Orme, still clinging to Arima, shot forward. He was conscious, in that fraction of a second, that he must release his hold, or Arima's neck would be broken; so he unbent his arm.

The earth arose and something struck him heavily. He saw a firmament of brilliant stars. Then all was black.



CHAPTER XVII

A CHANCE OF THE GAME

The first impression that came to Orme with returning consciousness was one of impending disaster. His mind was renewing its last thought before it had ceased to work.

Then he realized that the disaster had already occurred, and he moved his arms and legs, to see if they had been injured. They gave him no pain, and he raised himself to a sitting position.

The soft night hovered about him. He heard confusedly the droning of insects, and the distant mournful call of a whip-poor-will. The roar of the car was strangely missing. What had become of it? And where was Arima? These were the first questions he asked himself as he became able to think without confusion.

He now became aware that his head hurt, and raising his hand, he found a large bump under the hair above his right temple. Turning, he discovered that he had been thrown over the fence into a field of thick-standing grain, which had broken his fall. His head must have struck the fence in passing.

He got to his feet. At first he was bothered by dizziness, but that soon disappeared.

Climbing the fence, he saw that the car had turned over on one side. At a glance there were no evidences of superficial damage, but it would take a team of horses and some time to right it and get it back into the road. The lamps had been extinguished.

In the ditch near the car lay Arima. One of his legs was bent under him horribly. Orme hurried over to him.

The Japanese was conscious. His beady eyes glittered wetly in the starlight, but he said no word, gave no groan, made no show of pain. Whatever he may have suffered, he endured with the stoicism that is traditional in his race.

"Much hurt?" asked Orme, bending over him.

"My leg broke." Arima spoke unemotionally.

Orme considered. "I'll send you help," he said, at last. "Lie quiet for a little while, and you will be looked after."

He rose, smoothed out his clothing, and pulled himself together. It was not part of his program to let whomever he might meet know that he himself had been concerned in the wreck.

In a moment he returned to Arima. "I'll have to have those papers," he said.

Silently the Japanese reached within his coat and drew out the papers. He held them up for Orme to take.

"You have me beat," he said. "Spirit told me I must fail."

A picture of the scene in Madame Alia's rooms came to Orme; the darkness broken only by a pinpoint of gaslight; the floating, ghostly forms; the circle of awed believers, with the two Japanese, intent as children.

The medium's work for him had not ended when she helped him to escape. Mentally he redoubled his thanks to her, for she had so impressed the fatalistic mind of Arima that he gave the papers over without making necessary a final struggle.

By the size and shape of the papers Orme recognized them. Nevertheless, to make sure that he was not being deceived; he slid his hands over Arima's coat, and felt in the pockets. He found nothing that resembled the papers he had, so he thrust them into his own pocket.

He now took out his watch. There was not enough light to see what time it was, and he ran his fingers over the dial, as he had done during that time of imprisonment, earlier in the evening. As nearly as he could tell it was ten minutes past nine. He could hardly believe that it was so early.

With a final, "Take it easy," to Arima, Orme now started down the road toward the lights of a house, a quarter of a mile ahead.

He had it in mind to examine the papers, to find a clue to the name of the girl's father. The sentiment which had led him to refuse her offer to tell him everything must now be neglected. There might still be time to deliver the papers before midnight, but he did not dare delay.

For one thing, he had only the haziest notion as to his whereabouts. Obviously he was somewhere west of Evanston, but that meant little in an unfamiliar country. He would have to find some conveyance.

Not altogether without sympathy for his fallen enemy, he nevertheless felt that Arima had received no more than he deserved. There had been no hesitation about the different attacks made upon himself. He had provoked no assault unless by the fact that he had the marked bill in his possession. But the calmness with which Arima had endured his final defeat aroused admiration. After all, the Japanese had merely acted under orders. And now Orme's first thought was to get help for him.

He came to the lights he had seen. They shone through the windows of a small farmhouse a few rods back from the road. A short avenue of poplars led to the door.

In response to Orme's knock, the man of the house appeared—a German with sleepy eyes and tousled yellow hair.

"There is an injured man down the road a way," said Orme. "Motor-car smash."

"So?"

"His leg is broken, I think. I made him as comfortable as I could. Can you get a doctor? The man will rest quiet till a doctor comes. He can't be moved very well."

"Ein doctor? Ja. Es ist one bei Niles Center. Mein son vill go for him. Too bad! Too bad! Come in."

"No, thank you," said Orme carelessly.

"Vas you in der accident?"

"Do I look it?" Orme laughed.

"Nein, you do not look it. Ach! Dese autymobles! Dey makes much harm."

"It is too bad," admitted Orme.

"He vas a millionaire, maybe. Dey comes by here so fast, going to Arradale. Hans! Komm Hier! Ein man is gesmashed. Du must for der doctor go." He turned back to Orme. "Mein son, he will go."

But Orme had no ears for what the sympathetic German said. One word had made his heart leap.

"Arradale!"

There he was to have dined with Tom and Bessie Wallingham! He had forgotten them utterly. Were they still at the golf club? Possibly, and, in any event, if he could reach the club, he would be near a railroad.

"How far is Arradale?" he asked.

"Halb-miles. Und vere did you say der hurt man vas?"

"A few hundred feet back there." Orme indicated the direction. "Can I reach Arradale by this road?"

"Next turn—rechts. I will take de man some schnapps."

"That will be good. His friends will make it right with you."

"Ach! Do not say so!"

The German shook his head in deprecation of the idea that he wished any return for his services. Meantime his long-legged, towheaded son had come from within and stood gaping behind his father.

"Vill you go back to der man mit me?" asked the German.

"No," said Orme.

"So? Vell, all right."

"I'm sorry I can't wait," said Orme. "I've done what I could, and I have a long way to go."

"Sure! Dat's all right!"

"Then thank you very much. Good-night."

Orme walked briskly to the road and turned west. He felt assured that Arima would be looked after.

Following the road to the first crossing, he turned to the right. In a few minutes he saw the lights of the clubhouse, and a little later he stepped upon the veranda.

Many people were seated in the comfortable porch chairs. The charms of the summer evening had held them after their afternoon of play. And from one of the groups came the sound of a voice—a man's voice—which Orme found vaguely familiar. He could not place it, however, and he quickly forgot it in his general impression of the scene.

In this atmosphere of gayety he felt strangely out of place. Here all was chatter and froth—the activity of the surface-joy of living; but he had stepped into it fresh from a series of events that had uncovered the inner verities.

Here the ice tinkled in cool glasses, and women laughed happily, and every one was under the spell of the velvety summer evening; but he had looked into the face of Love and the face of Death—and both were still near to his heart.

He found a servant and asked for the Wallinghams.

"Mr. Wallingham has left, sir," said the man, "but Mrs. Wallingham is here."

"Ask her if Mr. Orme may speak to her."

He smiled rather grimly as the servant departed, for he anticipated Bessie's laughing accusations.

And presently she came, an admonishing finger upheld.

"Robert—Orme," she exclaimed, "how dare you show your face now?"

"I couldn't help it, Bessie. Honest, I couldn't. I must ask you to forgive and forget."

"That's a hard request, Bob. You have broken two engagements in one day—and one of them for dinner. But never mind. I have a weakness that I acquired from Tom—I mean the weakness of believing in you. Go ahead and explain yourself."

"It would take too long, Bessie. Please let me put it off."

"Until you can manage a good excuse? You want all the trumps."

"My explanation is all tangled up with other people's affairs. Where's Tom?"

"He went back to the city early—awfully sorry that he couldn't stay to have dinner with you. There is a committee or something this evening."

"Bessie, you know what I asked you over the telephone. Can you—can you help me?"

"What—Now?"

"Yes."

"Why, Bob, what's the matter with you? This is no time of day to make a call."

"It's very important, Bessie. It doesn't concern the young lady alone. I simply must be at her house within the next two hours."

She eyed him earnestly. "If you say that, Bob, I must believe you. And, of course, I'll help all I can."

Orme sighed his relief. "Thanks," he said.

She flashed a speculative glance at him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "that I can't tell you what it's all about. You'll just have to take my word for it."

"Have I asked you to tell me?"

"No, you marvel of womanhood. You are dying of curiosity, I don't doubt, but your restraint is superhuman."

Again she looked at him keenly. "Bob, you are dying of curiosity yourself. Don't you suppose I can see?"

"It's something harder than curiosity," said Orme simply.

"How eager are you!" She laughed. "Now, there is plenty of time. The trip won't take us more than half an hour; so come along and meet some friends of mine."

"Bessie—if you could hurry——"

"We can't start until the car comes. I'm expecting it at any moment. So be good, and come along. There's such an interesting man—and very distinguished. We don't try to pronounce his name. Just think, he was engaged for dinner here, also, and came too late. And ever since he arrived he's been called to the telephone at five-minute intervals. So exciting! Nobody can guess what he's so busy about."

She threaded her way through the lively groups on the veranda, and reluctantly he followed. The voice which he had so nearly recognized sounded closer, then stopped with a curious little laugh that was loudly echoed by others.

Bessie broke in upon the lull that followed. "Excellency, may I present another man who missed his dinner?" she said saucily. "Mr. Orme."

The man addressed was sitting comfortably in a wicker chair that was several sizes too large for him. At the mention of Orme's name he got to his feet with startling alacrity.

"Mr.—Orme?" His surprise was unmistakable.

"Mr. Robert Orme," said Bessie.

Someone struck a match to light a cigar, and in the sudden light Orme found himself looking into the face of the Japanese minister.

"I think I have never met you before," said the minister slowly.

"I think not," replied Orme.

He was much disquieted by the encounter. Now he understood that Arima had been bound for this very place.

If only he had refused to let Bessie drag him into her circle! The minister would not have known his face, but the mention of his name gave full enlightenment.

The minister resumed his seat, and a chair was brought for Orme. There were other introductions.

A woman's voice renewed the conversation. "Excellency, won't you tell us another of your very interesting stories?"

The minister turned to her. "I will tell you one," he said, "that you will not find in the literature of my country. It is a story of the secret service, and it came to me through my personal acquaintance with some of the participants."

"Oh, that will be splendid!" exclaimed the woman.

The minister waited for a moment. He turned his face toward Orme, and asked politely: "You will not mind listening to what I have to say, Mr. Orme?"

"Why, to be sure not," replied Orme, wondering.

"My stories are not always short," continued the minister, "as the others already know. But they sometime hold meanings which, in my country, at least, would be perfectly plain."

After this odd bit of by-play, he began his narrative:

"There was a man who lived in the city of Takamatsu, on the island of Shikoku. His name was Kimaga, and he was much respected by all who knew him, for he was painstakingly devoted to his aged and mos' honorable parents. By trade he was a maker of vases—a—what you call him—a potter.

"One day while Kimaga was walking upon the road, he saw before him on the ground a letter. He picked it up. It was sealed, but he discovered upon the outside a curious writing which he could not make out. In fact, Kimaga could not read at all. He was very poorly educate.

"But Kimaga was charm by the grace and beauty of the writing. Though he could not read it, it fascinated his eyes. He decided to keep it, making no attempt to find the rightful owner. You must know that in Nippon beauty is worship by the humblest workman.

"It happened that the letter had been written by a Chinese spy, and it contained a report concerning our fortifications. Now there is in Nippon a very secret service. It is not responsible to the government. It is compose of nobles who for many and many a generation have bound themselves by a strong oath to do patriotic service which the government itself might be too embarrassed to undertake. If they are oblige to use extreme measures, and are arrested because of what they have done, they calmly accept the punishment of the law without explaining their actions. Sons of noble houses have been executed for assassinating secret enemies of Nippon, and they have met this fate as their oath demanded.

"Members of this secret service knew about this letter of the Chinese spy. They knew, also, that it had been lost, and before long they learned that Kimaga had picked it up. How they learned all this does not matter. But they also knew that the relations between Nippon and China at the time were of such a strain that their government, not wishing to give cause of war, would hesitate to punish the Chinese spy.

"In the meantime Kimaga had become so enamor of the letter that he could not bear to let it go out of his possession. When he was alone he would feast his eyes upon the beautiful writing. But it was not long before he discovered that men were watching him, and he became filled with fear. Why should he be watched? Had he done a guilty thing?

"So greatly did the fear swell in him that he decided to take the letter back to the place where he had found it, and drop it again in the road. But when he got to the place and looked for a last time at the writing, it give him such longing to keep it that he thrust it into his breast again and hurried back to his shop.

"That night a man came to see Kimaga.

"'Are you Kimaga, the maker of vases?' he said.

"Kimaga, all trembling, replied that he was.

"'Then,' said the man, 'I have come to you with high purpose. You have a letter which does not belong to you. Give it to me.'

"'Does it belong to you?' asked Kimaga, his desire putting armor on his fear.

"'That is not to be asked,' replied the man. 'I am samurai. For the glory of Nippon you mus' give me the letter.'

"But Kimaga did not wish to let the letter go. 'How do you know that I have it?' he said. 'You have not seen it.'

"'It is enough that I know,' said the man. 'Three days I allow you. If by then the letter has not been placed on the altar of the war-god, in the shrine of Samiya, then you will be assassinated.'

"With that the man went away.

"Kimaga was now almos' dead with fright. For the first day he did nothing but weep. The second day he put on mourning and set his affairs in order. The third day he held the letter in his hand for many hours and filled his mind with the beauty of the writing. He could not give it up. Rather would he die. And at last he placed it in a lacquer box and buried it deep at the foot of the largest cherry-tree in his garden.

"He arose to go back into his house, an' his head was bowed over with terror. You see, he felt that many eyes were watching him from the near-by walls, an' he thought he heard breathings and the whispers of strangers. What should he do now? He dare not advance; he dare not stay where he was. So exceeding affrighted was he that he groaned aloud. From all about him came groans that answered his. Once more he groaned, and once more his ears were filled with the answers.

"Then he took one step toward his house. Nothing happened. He took another step, an' his knees they shook like the palsy. The breathings an' whisperings seem, oh, so much nearer now. But he muster all his strength an' put out his foot for the third step. It did not reach the ground again before the vengeance struck him.

"The next morning his wife found him dead. His head had been severed from his body."

The minister stopped and sat back in his chair.

"How awful!" exclaimed the woman who had asked for a story.

"Not so," said the minister affably. "In serving my country, such things mus' be done. Kimaga should have given the letter. Don't you think so, Mr. Orme?"

The parable was quite clear to Orme. He understood the threat.

"In America," he said, drily, "we do not worship penmanship."

"But an American might for other reasons keep a letter that did not belong to him."

"Not if he was honorable. His natural course would be to see that it was delivered to the person for whom it was intended. Certainly he would not give it to any man who could not prove his right to it."

"Would he not? But if he were told that he mus' die——?"

"In that case he would inform his friends of the threats against him, and they would see that his murderers were hanged. Assassination is not popular in America, Excellency."

Orme did not attempt to conceal the contempt in his words, and several of the listeners moved in their chairs, betraying their embarrassment.

"Perhaps, then, Mr. Orme," said the minister, "you could favor us with a story which would show the attitude of an American in such an affair."

Orme laughed. "Oddly enough," he replied, "I can give you just such a story—if you all care to hear it."

"Go on," murmured one of the men.

"It happened to a friend of mine," said Orme. "He had in his possession a number of proxies, the use of which would determine the control of a certain corporation. While he was carrying these proxies to the country-house of the man to whom he was to deliver them, he was attacked by a man who was acting for another faction. This man secured the advantage over my friend and, robbing him of the proxies, jumped into a waiting motor-car to make his escape."

"And did he escape?" the minister interrupted.

"He thought himself safe," continued Orme, "but my friend had caught the back of the motor-car just as it started. He climbed silently into the tonneau, and throwing his arm around the neck of the thief, pulled him backward from his seat.

"The car was ditched, and my friend and the thief were both thrown out. My friend was not hurt. The thief, however, had his leg broken."

"What happened then?" inquired the minister; for Orme had paused.

"Oh, my friend took the proxies from the thief's pocket and walked away. He stopped at the nearest farmhouse and sent help back."

"Even in America," commented the minister, "the frien's of the injured man might see that his hurt was avenge. The man who caused the accident should be made to suffer."

"Oh, no," said Orme. "If the matter were pressed at all, the correct thing to do would be to arrest the man with the broken leg. He had stolen the papers in the first place. Harm came to him, when he tried to escape with the papers after stealing them. But as a matter of fact, the average American would consider the affair at an end."

"Your story and mine are dissimilar," remarked the minister.

"Perhaps. But they involve a similar question: whether a man should yield passively to a power that appears to be stronger than his own. In America we do not yield passively unless we understand all the bearings of the case, and see that it is right to yield."

At this moment a motor-car came up the drive. "There's our car, Bob," said Bessie. "Wait a moment, while I get my wraps. I know that you are impatient to go."

"I know that you are a good friend," he whispered, as she arose.

He did not care to remain with the group in Bessie's absence. With a bow, he turned to stroll by himself down the veranda. But the minister jumped to his feet and called:

"Mr. Orme!"

Orme looked back. "Please be so good as to return," continued the minister.

With mere politeness, Orme halted, and took a step back toward his chair.

An air of startled expectancy was manifest in the positions taken by the different members of the group. The minister's voice had sounded sharp and authoritative, and he now stepped forward a pace or two, stopping at a point where the light from one of the clubhouse windows fell full on his face. Clearly he was laboring under great excitement.

"You have something to say to me?" inquired Orme. He foresaw an effort to detain him.

"I am compelled to ask the ladies to leave us for a few minutes," said the minister, seriously. "There is a matter of utmos' importance."

He bowed. The women, hesitating in their embarrassment, rose and walked away, leaving the half-dozen men standing in a circle.

"I find myself in an awkward position," began the minister, slowly. "I am a guest of your club, and I should never dream of saying what I mus' say, were my own personal affairs alone involved. Let me urge that no one leave until I have done."

For a tense moment he was silent. Then he went on:

"Gentlemen, while we were talking together here, I had in my pocket certain papers of great importance to my country. In the last few minutes they have disappeared. I regret to say it—but, gentlemen, someone has taken them."

There was a gasp of astonishment.

"I mus' even open myself to the charge of abusing your hospitality, rather than let the matter pass. If I could only make you understand how grave it is"—he was brilliantly impressive. Just the right shade of reluctance colored his earnestness.

"I have every reason to think," he continued, "that the possession of those papers would be of immense personal advantage to the man who has been sitting at my right—Mr. Orme."

"This is a serious charge, Excellency," exclaimed one of the men.

"I am aware of that. But I am obliged to ask you not to dismiss it hastily. My position and standing are known to you. When I tell you that these papers are of importance to my country, you can only in part realize how great that importance is. Gentlemen, I mus' ask Mr. Orme whether he has the papers."

Orme saw that the minister's bold stroke was having its effect. He decided quickly to meet it with frankness. "The papers to which His Excellency refers," he said quietly, "are in my pocket."

Several of the men exclaimed.

"But," Orme went on, "I did not take them from His Excellency. On the contrary, his agents have for some time been using every device to steal them from me. They have failed, and now he is making a last attempt by trying to persuade you that they belong to him."

"I submit that this smart answer does not satisfy my charge," cried the minister.

"Do you really wish to go further?" demanded Orme. "Would you like me to explain to these men what those papers really mean?"

"If you do that, you betray my country's secrets."

Orme turned to the others. "His Excellency and I are both guests here," he said. "Leaving his official position out of the question, my word must go as far as his. I assure you that he has no claim at all upon the papers in my pocket."

"That is not true!"

The minister's words exploded in a sharp staccato.

"In this country," said Orme, calmly, "we knock men down for words like that. In Japan, perhaps, the lie can be passed with impunity."

"Gentlemen, I ask that Mr. Orme be detained," exclaimed the minister furiously.

"I will not be detained," said Orme.

The other men were whispering among themselves, and at last one of them stepped forward as spokesman. "This is a serious matter for the club," he said. "I suggest, Mr. Orme, that we go to the library"—he glanced significantly at the other groups on the veranda—"where no one can overhear us, and talk the matter over quietly."

"But that will exactly fit in with his scheme," exclaimed Orme, heatedly. "He knows that, in the interests of our own country"—he hazarded this—"I must be at a certain place before midnight. He will use every means to delay me—even to charging me with theft."

"What is that?" Bessie Wallingham's voice broke in upon them. "Is anyone daring to accuse Bob Orme?"

In her long, gray silk motor-cloak, with the filmy chiffon veil bound about her hat, she startled them, like an apparition.

The spokesman explained. "His Excellency says that Mr. Orme has stolen some papers from him."

"Then His Excellency is at fault," said Bessie, promptly. "I vouch for Mr. Orme. He is Tom's best friend, and Tom is one of the governors of the club. Come, Bob."

She turned away decisively, and Orme recognized the advantage she had given him, and strode after her. From noises behind him, he gathered that the men were holding the minister back by main force.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE GOAL

The chauffeur was opening the door of the waiting car. It was a black car—a car with strangely familiar lines. Orme started. "Where did that come from?" he demanded.

Bessie smiled at him. "That is my surprise for you. My very dear friend, whom you so much desire to see, telephoned me here this evening and asked me to spend the night with her instead of returning to Chicago. She promised to send her car for me. It was long enough coming, goodness knows, but if it had appeared sooner, I should, have gone before you arrived."

Orme understood. The girl had telephoned to Bessie while he waited there on La Salle Street. She had planned a meeting that would satisfy him with full knowledge of her name and place. And the lateness of the car in reaching Arradale was unquestionably owing to the fact that it had not set out on its errand until after the girl reached home and gave her chauffeur the order. Orme welcomed this evidence that she had got home safely.

Bessie jumped lightly into the tonneau, and Orme followed. The car glided from the grounds. Eastward it went, through the pleasant, rolling farming country, that was wrapped in the beauty of the starry night. They crossed a bridge over a narrow creek.

"You would hardly think," said Bessie, "that this is so-called North Branch of the Chicago River."

"I would believe anything about that river," he replied.

She laughed nervously. He knew that she was suppressing her natural interest in the scene she had witnessed on the veranda; yet, of course, she was expecting some explanation.

"Bessie," he said, "I am sorry to have got into such a muss there at the club. The Japanese minister was the last man I wanted to see."

She did not answer.

"Perhaps your friend—whom we are now going to visit—will explain things a little," he went on. "I can tell you only that I had in my pocket certain papers which the Jap would have given much to get hold of. He tried it by accusing me of stealing them from him. It was very awkward."

"I understand better than you think," she said, suddenly. "Don't you see, you big stupid, that I know where we are going? That tells me something. I can put two and two together."

"Then I needn't try to do any more explaining of things I can't explain."

"Of course not. You are forgiven all. Just think, Bob, it's nearly a year since you stood up with Tom and me."

"That's so!"

"How time does go! See"—as the car turned at a crossing—"we are going northward. We are bound for the village of Winnetka. Does that tell you anything?"

"Nothing at all," said Orme, striving vainly to give the Indian name a place in his mind.

On they sped. Orme looked at his watch. It was half-past ten.

"We must be nearly there," he said.

"Yes, it's only a little way, now."

They were going eastward again, following a narrow dirt road. Suddenly the chauffeur threw the brakes on hard. Orme and Bessie, thrown forward by the sudden stopping, clutched the sides of the car. There was a crash, and they found themselves in the bottom of the tonneau.

Orme was unharmed. "Are you all right, Bessie? he asked.

"All right." Her voice was cheery.

He leaped to the road. The chauffeur had descended and was hurrying to the front of the car.

"What was it?" asked Orme.

"Someone pushed a wheelbarrow into the road just as we were coming."

"A wheelbarrow!"

"Yes, sir. There it is."

Orme looked at the wheelbarrow. It was wedged under the front of the car. He peered off into the field at the left. Dimly he could see a running figure, and he hastily climbed the rail fence and started in pursuit.

It was a hard sprint. The running man was fast on his feet, but his speed did not long serve him, for he stumbled and fell. He did not rise, and Orme, coming up, for the moment supposed him to be stunned.

Bending over, he discovered that the prostrate man was panting hard, and digging his hands into the turf.

"Get up," commanded Orme.

The man got to his knees and, turning, raised supplicating hands.

"Poritol!" exclaimed Orme.

"Oh, Mr. Orme, spare me. It was an accident." His face worked convulsively. "I—I——" Something like a sob escaped him, and Orme again found himself divided between contempt and pity.

"What were you doing with that wheelbarrow?"

Poritol kept his frightened eyes on Orme's face, but he said nothing.

"Well, I will explain it. You followed the car when it started for Arradale. You waited here, found a wheelbarrow, and tried to wreck us. It is further evidence of your comic equipment that you should use a wheelbarrow."

Poritol got to his feet. "You are mistaken, dear Mr. Orme. I—I——"

Orme smiled grimly. "Stop," he said. "Don't explain. Now I want you to stay right here in this field for a half hour. Don't budge. If I catch you outside, I'll take you to the nearest jail."

Poritol drew himself up. "As an attache I am exempt," he said, with a pitiful attempt at dignity.

"You are not exempt from the consequences of a crime like this. Now, get on your knees."

Whimpering, Poritol kneeled.

"Stay in that position."

"Oh, sir—oh, my very dear sir. I——"

"Stay there!" thundered Orme.

Poritol was still, but his lips moved, and his interlaced fingers worked convulsively.

As Orme walked away, he stopped now and then to look back. Poritol did not move, and Orme long carried the picture of that kneeling figure.

"Who was it?" asked Bessie Wallingham, as he climbed back over the fence.

"A puppy with sharp teeth," he replied, thinking of what the girl had said. "We might as well forget him."

She studied him in silence, then pointed to the chauffeur, who was down at the side of the car.

"Anything damaged?" Orme queried.

"Yes, sir."

"Much?"

"Two hours' work, sir."

"Pshaw!" Orme shut his teeth down hard; Poritol, had he known it, might have felt thankful that he was not near at hand. He turned to Bessie. "How much farther is it?"

The chauffeur answered. "About three miles, sir."

Three miles over dark country roads—and it was nearly eleven o'clock. He glanced ahead. In the distance a light twinkled.

"Bessie," he said, "come with me to that farmhouse. We must go on. Or, if you prefer to wait here——"

"I'll go with you, of course."

They walked along the road to the farm gate. A cur yelped at their feet as they approached the house, and an old man, coatless and slippered, opened the door, holding an oil lamp high above his head. "Down, Rover! What do you want?" he shouted.

"We've got to have a rig to take us to Winnetka," said Orme. "Our car broke down."

The old man reflected. "Can't do it," he said, at last. "All shet up fer the night. Can't leave the missus alone."

A head protruded from a dark upper window. "Yes, you can, Simeon," growled a woman's guttural voice.

"Wall—I don't know——"

"Yes, you can." She turned to Orme. "He'll take ye fer five dollars cash. Ye can pay me."

Orme turned to Bessie. "Have you any money?" he whispered.

"Heavens! I left my hand-bag in my locker at the clubhouse. How stupid!"

"Never mind." Orme saw that he must lose the marked bill after all. Regretfully he took it from his pocket. The woman had disappeared from the window, and now she came to the door and stood behind her husband. Wrapped in an old blanket, she made a gaunt figure, not unlike a squaw. As Orme walked up the two or three steps, she stretched her hand over her husband's shoulder and snatched the bill, examining it closely by the lamplight.

"What's this writin' on it?" she demanded, fiercely.

"Oh, that's just somebody's joke. It doesn't hurt anything."

"Well, I don't know." She looked at it doubtfully, then crumpled it tight in her fist. "I guess it'll pass. Git a move on you, Simeon."

The old man departed, grumbling, to the barn, and the woman drew back into the house, shutting the door carefully. Orme and Bessie heard the bolts click as she shot them home.

"Hospitable!" exclaimed Bessie, seating herself on the doorstep.

After a wait that seemed interminable, the old man came driving around the house. To a ramshackle buggy he had hitched a decrepit horse. They wedged in as best they could, the old man between them, and at a shuffling amble the nag proceeded through the gate and turned eastward.

In the course of twenty minutes they crossed railroad tracks and entered the shady streets of the village, Bessie directing the old man where to drive. Presently they came to the entrance of what appeared to be an extensive estate. Back among the trees glimmered the lights of a house. "Turn in," said Bessie.

A thought struck Orme. If Poritol, why not the Japanese? Maku and his friends might easily have got back to this place. And if the minister had been able to telephone to his allies from Arradale, they would be expecting him.

"Stop!" he whispered. "Let me out. You drive on to the door and wait there for me."

Bessie nodded. She did not comprehend, but she accepted the situation unhesitatingly.

Orme noted, by the light of the lamp at the gate, the shimmer of the veil that was wound around her hat.