"Oh, well, it is of no consequence." Alcatrante laughed shortly. "See, here is your hotel. Your company has been a pleasure to me, Mr. Orme. You arrived most opportunely in the park."

Orme jumped to the curb and, turning, shook the hand that was extended to him. "Thank you for the lift, Senhor Alcatrante," he said. "I shall look for you in the morning."

"In the morning--yes. And pray, my dear sir, do not wander in the streets any more this evening. Our experience in the park has made me apprehensive." The minister lifted his hat, and the cab rattled away.

The entrance to the Pere Marquette was a ma.s.sive gateway, which opened upon a wide tunnel, leading to an interior court. On the farther side of the court were the doors of the hotel lobby. As a rule, carriages drove through the tunnel into the court, but Orme had not waited for this formality.

He started through the tunnel. There was no one in sight. He noted the elaborate terra-cotta decorations of the walls, and marveled at the bad taste which had lost sight of this opportunity for artistic simplicity.

But through the opening before him he could see the fountain playing in the center of the court. The central figure of the group, a naiad, beckoned with a hand from which the water fell in a shower. The effect was not so unpleasing. If one wished to be rococo, why not be altogether so? Like the South Americans? Was their elaborate ornamentation plastered on to an inner steel construction? Orme wondered.

Midway of the tunnel, and at the right as one entered, was a door leading into the porter's office. This door was shut, but as Orme approached it, it noiselessly opened out. He expected to see a porter appear, and when no person stepped over the sill, he inferred that the door had been blown open by an interior draught.

Just as he was turning out to go around the the door--which shut off all view of him from the inner court--a figure shot through the opening.

Before Orme could dodge, he was seized firmly by the shoulders and jerked into the room, with a force that sent him staggering. He tripped over a chair and went to the floor, but quickly scrambled to his feet and wheeled about.

Two men stood between him and the door, which had been closed silently and swiftly. They were short and stockily built. Orme exclaimed aloud, for the light that filtered through a window from the street showed two faces unmistakably oriental.

If this was an ordinary robbery, the daring of the robbers was almost incredible. They ran the risk that the porter would return--if they had not already made away with him. Only the most desperate purpose could explain their action.

"What do you want?" demanded Orme.

"Your pocket-book," replied one of the men--"queek!" He smiled an elusive smile as he spoke.

"What if I refuse?" said Orme.

"Then we take. Be queek."

A call for help would hardly bring anyone; but Orme gave a loud cry, more to disconcert his enemies than with any hope of rescue.

At the same instant he rushed toward the door, and struck out at the nearer j.a.panese.

The blow did not land. His wrist was caught in a grip like an iron clamp, and he found himself performing queer gyrations. The j.a.panese had turned his back toward Orme and swung the imprisoned arm over his shoulder. A quick lurch forward, and Orme sailed through the air, coming down heavily on his side. His arm was still held, and in a few seconds he was on his back, his a.s.sailant astride him and smiling down into his face.

Orme struggled to free himself, and promptly felt a breaking strain on his imprisoned arm. The knee of the j.a.panese was under the back of Orme's elbow. A moderate use of the leverage thus obtained would snap the arm like a pipe-stem. This Orme realized, as he ceased struggling. The strain on his arm relaxed slightly, but the grip was maintained.

"Jiu-jitsu," explained the j.a.panese in a tone that sounded gently apologetic.

The other robber now stooped and ran his hands over Orme's coat. Finding the pocket-book, he took it from its inside pocket and went swiftly to a table. He produced from his own pocket a little electric hand-lamp, by the light of which he took rapid count of Orme's money.

His eyes glittered; a wide scar on his forehead stood out whitely.

Suddenly he gave a little cry and held up a single bill. He jabbered excitedly to his companion for a moment, then spoke quietly to Orme.

"This all we want," he said. "We are not thief, see--I put other five-dollar bill in its place and leave pocket-book here."

He thrust the selected bill into his pocket, put the fresh bill in the pocket-book, and laid the pocket-book on the table.

"See here," said Orme, still p.r.o.ne, "what's the meaning of all this?"

"Don't say." The j.a.panese smiled. He went over to the door. "Come," he said. The man astride Orme released his hold and sprang to his feet. Like a flash, both the j.a.panese disappeared.

Orme jumped up. Seizing his pocket-book and his hat, he darted after his a.s.sailants. At the street entrance to the tunnel, he looked quickly in both directions, but his men were not in sight.

Pursuit was futile. Slowly he turned back. He thought of notifying the police, but, after all, he was none the worse off--except for his promise to Poritol and Alcatrante, now involuntarily broken. He must explain to them as best he could. The marked bill had been of no consequence to him except as a focus of adventure. And he had had about as much adventure as he could expect for one evening.

But the secret of the bill still tantalized him. Blindfolded, he had played in a game at which the others saw. It seemed unfair--as if he had some right to know the meaning of all these mysterious incidents. Why had Poritol wanted the bill so badly? Why had the desire to possess it driven the two j.a.panese to such extreme measures?

Orme crossed the court and entered the lobby. The clerk looked at him curiously.

"Mr. Orme," he said, "there is a young lady in the reception-room, waiting to see you."

"Me?" Orme looked his surprise.

"Yes, sir. She gave no name."

"Has she been waiting long?"

"Nearly an hour."

Without further questioning, Orme turned to the door of the little green-and-gold room. At the threshold he paused in bewilderment. Arising to meet him, smiling frankly, was the girl of the car.

CHAPTER IV

THE GIRL OF THE CAR

"Oh," she said, with a little gasp of recognition, "are _you_ Mr. Orme?"

Her cheeks flushed softly.

He bowed; his heart was beating furiously, and for the moment he dared not try to speak.

"Then we do meet again," she exclaimed--"and as usual I need your help.

Isn't it queer?"

"Any service that I"--Orme began haltingly--"of course, anything that I can do----"

The girl laughed--a merry ripple of sound; then caught herself and changed her manner to grave earnestness. "It is very important," she said. "I am looking for a five-dollar bill that was paid to you to-day."

Orme started. "What? You, too?"

"I, too? Has--has anybody else----?" Her gravity was more intense.

"Why, yes," said Orme--"a little man from South America."

"Oh,--Mr. Poritol?" Her brows were knit in an adorable frown.