"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 circ.u.mstances 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 ident.i.ty once established, the story of her arrest would be sure to spread. Her position would then be the more painful, because the circ.u.mstances 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.

a.s.suredly, 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 rea.s.sure 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 rea.s.suring 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 j.a.panese 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 b.u.mped 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.mped over railroad tracks. Several times they pa.s.sed 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 j.a.panese 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.