"I can't forgive my own stupidity," he said. "While I was puzzling over the bill this evening I copied the secret on a sheet of paper. When Poritol came I put it away in a drawer and forgot all about it. But here it is." He laid the paper on the little, useless onyx table that stood beside her chair.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it quickly and began to examine it closely.

"Perhaps you can imagine how those letters puzzled me," he volunteered.

"Hush!" she exclaimed; and then: "Oh, this is plain. You wouldn't know, of course, but I see it clearly. There is no time to lose."

"You are going to follow this clue now--to-night?"

"Maku will read it on the bill, and--oh, these j.a.panese! If you have one in your kitchen, you never know whether he's a jinriksha man, a college student, or a vice-admiral."

"You will let me go with you?" Orme was trembling for the answer. He was still in the dark, and did not know how far she would feel that she could accept his aid.

"I may need you, Mr. Orme," she said simply.

It pleased him that she brought up no question of possible inconvenience to him. With her, he realized, only direct relations were possible.

"How much of a journey is it?" he ventured to ask.

"Not very long. I intend to be mysterious about it." She smiled brightly.

Her face had lighted up wonderfully since he gave her the paper that contained the secret of the bill.

But he knew that she must be tired; so he said: "Can't you send me alone on this errand? It may be late before it is done, and----"

"And I will not sit and rest while you do all the work. Besides, I cannot forego the excitement of the chase."

He was selfishly glad in her answer. "Do we walk?" he asked.

"We will go in the motor," she said.

"Where is it?"

"I left it around the corner. The thought came to me that Mr. Poritol might be here, and I didn't wish him to recognize it."

Orme thought of the hard quest the girl had followed that day--battling for her father's interests. What kind of a man could that father be to let his daughter thus go into difficulties alone? But she had said that her father was unable to leave the house. Probably he did not know how serious the adventure might be. Or was the loss of the papers so desperate that even a daughter must run risks?

Together they went out to the street. Orme caught a dubious glance from the clerk, as they pa.s.sed through the lobby, and he resented it. Surely anyone could see----

The girl led the way around the corner into a side street. There stood the car. He helped her in and without a word saw that she was restfully and comfortably placed in the seat next to the chauffeur's. She did not resist the implication of his mastery.

He cranked up, leaped to the seat beside her, and took the levers. "Which way, Girl?" he asked.

"North," she answered.

The big car swung out in the Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive and turned in the direction of Lincoln Park.

CHAPTER V

"EVANS, S. R."

The car ran silently through the Park and out on the broad Sheridan Road.

Orme put on as much speed as was safe in a district where there were so many police. From time to time the girl indicated the direction with a word or two. She seemed to be using the opportunity to rest, for her att.i.tude was relaxed.

The hour was about eleven, and the streets were as yet by no means deserted. As they swung along Orme was pleased by the transition from the ugliness of central Chicago to the beauty of suburbs--doubly beautiful by night. The great highway followed the lake, and occasionally, above the m.u.f.fled hum of the motor, Orme could hear the lapping of the wavelets on the beach.

The girl roused herself. Her bearing was again confident and untired.

"Have you been up this way before?" she asked.

"No, Girl."

"This is Buena Park we are pa.s.sing now. We shall soon reach the city limits."

Clouds had been gathering, and suddenly raindrops began to strike their faces. The girl drew her cloak more closely about her. Orme looked to see that she was protected, and she smiled back with a brave attempt at cheerful comradeship. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm quite dry."

With that she leaned back and drew from the tonneau a light robe, which she threw about his shoulders.

The act was an act of partnership merely, but Orme let himself imagine an evidence of solicitude in her thoughtfulness. And then he demanded of himself almost angrily: "What right have I to think such thoughts? She has known me only an hour."

But to him that hour was as a year, so rich was its experience. He found himself recalling her every change of expression, her every characteristic gesture. "She has accepted me as a friend," he thought, warmly. But the joy of the thought was modified by the unwelcome reflection that the girl had had no choice. Still, he knew that, at least, she trusted him, or she would never have let him accompany her, even though she seriously needed protection.

They were pa.s.sing a great cemetery. The shower had quickly ended. The white stones and monuments fled by the car like dim and frightened ghosts. And now the car swung along with fine houses, set back in roomy grounds, at the left, the lake at the right.

"Do you know this city?" the girl asked.

"I think not. Have we pa.s.sed the Chicago limits?"

"Yes. We are in Evanston."

"Evanston!" Orme had a glimmer.

The girl turned and smiled at him. "Evanston--Sheridan Road."

"Evans,--S. R.!" exclaimed Orme.

She laughed a low laugh. "Ah, Monsieur Dupin!" she said.

Speeding along the lake front, the road turned suddenly to the left and west, skirting a large grove of trees which hugged the sh.o.r.e. Just at the turn was a low brick building on the beach. "The life-saving station,"

explained the girl; "and these are the grounds of the university. The road goes around the campus, and strikes the lake again a mile or more farther north."

Large buildings were at their right after they turned. Orme noted that they were scattered among the trees--some near the street, some at a distance back. Then the road again turned to the north, at a point where less imposing streets broke in from the west and south.

"Stop at this corner," said the girl.

Orme threw on the brakes.

"We are in Evanston, on the Sheridan Road," she said, "and this street cutting in from the south is Chicago Avenue."