Suddenly the girl exclaimed "Listen!"

Orme stopped the car. Somewhere from the distance came a faint hum.

"Another car!" he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At noon," he said.

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

A CHANCE LEAD

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

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

Who was she? But no, that was a question she did not wish him to ask. She was simply "Girl"--beautiful, tender, comprehending--his ideal incarnate.

As he stood there, hesitant, before the house into which she had disappeared, he pictured her again--even to the strand of rebellious hair which had blown across her cheek. He could discover no fault in her perfection.

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

At the same time a light illumined one of the upper windows of the house.

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

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

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

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

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

Orme found himself wondering how the j.a.panese had got to Evanston.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not much longer, then?"

"No, thank heaven!"

Orme laughed. "I suppose you do get more than you want of it," he said.

"But on a fine night like this I should think it would be mighty pleasant."

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

"Study?"

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

"A service examination?"

"Oh, no--college."