The better to study the mystery, Orme copied the inscription on a sheet of note-paper, which he found in the table drawer. From the first he decided that there was no cipher. The letters undoubtedly were abbreviations. "Evans" must be, as he had already determined, a man's name. "Chi" might be, probably was, "Chicago." "100 N. 210 E." looked like "100 (feet? paces?) north, 210 (feet? paces?) east."

The "A." and the "T." bothered him. "A." might be the place to which "S.

R. Evans" was directed, or at which he was to be found--a place sufficiently indicated by the letter. Now as to the "T."--was it "treasure"? Or was it "time"? Or "true"? Orme had no way of telling. It might even be the initial of the person who had penned the instructions.

Without knowing where "A." was, Orme could make nothing of the cryptogram. For that matter, he realized that unless the secret were criminal it was not his affair. But he knew that legitimate business information is seldom transmitted by such mysterious means.

Again and again he went over the abbreviations, but the more closely he studied them, the more baffling he found them. The real meaning appeared to hinge on the "A." and the "T." Eventually he was driven to the conclusion that those two letters could not be understood by anyone who was not already partly in the secret, if secret it was. It occurred to him to have the city directory sent up to him. He might then find the address of "S. R. Evans," if that person happened to be a Chicagoan. But it was quite likely that the "Chi." might mean something other than that "Evans" lived in Chicago. Perhaps, in the morning he would satisfy his curiosity about "S. R. Evans," but for the present he lacked the inclination to press the matter that far.

In the midst of his puzzling, the telephone-bell rang. He crossed the room and put the receiver to his ear. "Yes?" he questioned.

The clerk's voice answered. "Senhor Poritol to see Mr. Orme."

"Who?"

"S-e-n-h-o-r--P-o-r-i-t-o-l," spelled the clerk.

"I don't know him," said Orme. "There must be some mistake. Are you sure that he asked for me?"

There was a pause. Orme heard a few scattered words which indicated that the clerk was questioning the stranger. Then came the information: "He says he wishes to see you about a five-dollar bill."

"Oh!" Orme realized that he had no reason to be surprised. "Well, send him up."

He hung up the receiver and, returning to the table, put the marked bill back into his pocket-book and slipped into a drawer the paper on which he had copied the inscription.

CHAPTER II

SENHOR PORITOL

When Orme answered the knock at the door a singular young man stood at the threshold. He was short, wiry, and very dark. His nose was long and complacently tilted at the end. His eyes were small and very black. His mouth was a wide, uncertain slit. In his hand he carried a light cane and a silk hat of the flat-brimmed French type. And he wore a gray sack suit, pressed and creased with painful exactness.

"Come in, Senhor Poritol," said Orme, motioning toward a chair.

The little man entered, with short, rapid steps. He drew from his pocket a clean pocket-handkerchief, which he unfolded and spread out on the surface of the table. Upon the handkerchief he carefully placed his hat and then, after an ineffectual effort to make it stand against the table edge, laid his cane on the floor.

Not until all this ceremony had been completed did he appear to notice Orme. But now he turned, widening his face into a smile and extending his hand, which Orme took rather dubiously--it was supple and moist.

"Oh, this is Mr. Orme, is it not?"

"Yes," said Orme, freeing himself from the unpleasant handshake.

"Mr. _Robert_ Orme?"

"Yes, that is my name. What can I do for you?"

For a moment Senhor Poritol appeared to hover like a timid bird; then he seated himself on the edge of a chair, only the tips of his toes touching the floor. His eyes danced brightly.

"To begin with, Mr. Orme," he said, "I am charmed to meet you--very charmed." He rolled his "r's" after a fashion that need not be reproduced. "And in the second place," he continued, "while actually I am a foreigner in your dear country, I regard myself as in spirit one of your natives. I came here when a boy, and was educated at your great University of Princeton."

"You are a Portuguese--I infer from your name," said Orme.

"Oh, dear, no! Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed Senhor Poritol, tapping the floor nervously with his toes. "My country he freed himself from the Portuguese yoke many and many a year ago. I am a South American, Mr.

Orme--one of the poor relations of your great country." Again the widened smile. Then he suddenly became grave, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "But this is not the business of our meeting, Mr. Orme."

"No?" inquired Orme.

"No, my dear sir. I have come to ask of you about the five-dollar bill which you received in the hat-shop this afternoon." He peered anxiously.

"You still have it? You have not spent it?"

"A marked bill, was it not?"

"Yes, yes. Where is it, my dear sir, where is it?"

"Written across the face of it were the words, 'Remember person you pay this to.'"

"Oh, yes, yes."

"And on the back of it----"

"On the back of it!" gasped the little man.

"Was a curious cryptogram."

"Do not torture me!" exclaimed Senhor Poritol. "Have you got it?" His fingers worked nervously.

"Yes," said Orme slowly, "I still have it."

Senhor Poritol hastily took a fresh five-dollar bill from his pocket.

"See," he said, jumping to the floor, "here is another just as good a bill. I give this to you in return for the bill which was paid to you this afternoon." He thrust the new bill toward Orme, and waved his other hand rhetorically. "That, and that alone, is my business with you, dear sir."

Orme's hand went to his pocket. The visitor watched the motion eagerly, and a grimace of disappointment contracted his features when the hand came forth, holding a cigar-case.

"Have one," Orme urged.

In his anxiety the little man almost danced. "But, sir," he broke forth, "I am in desperate hurry. I must meet a friend. I must catch a train."

"One moment," interrupted Orme. "I can't very well give up that bill until I know a little better what it means. You will have to show me that you are ent.i.tled to it--and"--he smiled--"meantime you'd better smoke."

Senhor Poritol sighed. "I can a.s.sure you of my honesty of purpose, sir,"

he said. "I cannot tell you about it. I have not the time. Also, it is not my secret. This bill, sir, is just as good as the other one."

"Very likely," said Orme dryly. He was wondering whether this was some new counterfeiting dodge. How easily most persons could be induced to make the transfer!

A counterfeiter, however, would hardly work by so picturesque and noticeable a method, unless he were carefully disguised--hardly even then. Was Senhor Poritol disguised? Orme looked at him more closely. No, he could see where the roots of the coa.r.s.e black hair joined the scalp.

And there was not the least evidence of make-up on the face.