The Girl and the Bill. Bannister Merwin

might conceal a dangerous plot. He might be a thief, an anarchist, anything.

      “Please, my dear sir, please do not add to my already very great anxiety,” pleaded the visitor.

      Orme spoke more decisively. “You are a stranger, Senhor Poritol. I don’t know what all this mystery conceals, but I can’t give you that bill unless I know more about it—and I won’t,” he added, as he saw Senhor Poritol open his mouth for further pleading.

      “Very well,” sighed the little man. He hesitated for an instant, then added: “I do not blame you for insisting, and I suppose I must say to you everything that you demand. No, I do not smoke the cigar, please. But if you do not object—” He produced a square of cigarette paper and some tobacco from a silver-mounted pouch, and deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand, accepting a match from Orme with the other. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the smoke deeply, breathing it out through his nostrils.

      “Well—” he hesitated, his eyes roving about the room as if in search of something—“Well, I will explain to you why I want the bill.”

      Orme lighted a fresh cigar, and settled himself to hear the story. Senhor Poritol drew a second handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow.

      “You must know, my very dear sir,” he began, “that I come from a country which is very rich in the resources of nature. In the unsettled interior are very great mineral deposits which are little known, and since the day when the great Vega made the first exploration there has been the belief that the Urinaba Mountains hide a great wealth in gold. Many men for three hundred years have risked their most precious lives to go look for it. But they have not found it. No, my dear sir, they have not found it until—But have patience, and you shall hear everything.

      “A few days ago a countryman of mine sent word that he was about to die. He asked that I, his early friend, should come to him immediately and receive news of utmost importance. He was lying sick in the hotel of a small city in Wisconsin. He was a tobacco agent and he had been attacked by Death while he was on a business trip.

      “Filled with the heartbroken hope to see him once more before he died, I went even as I was, to a train and made all haste to his bedside.”

      “What was his name?” asked Orme.

      “Lopez,” replied Senhor Poritol promptly; and Orme knew that the answer might as well have been Smith. But the little man returned quickly to his story.

      “My friend had no strength left. He was, oh, so weak that I wept to see him. But he sent the doctor and the priest out of the room, and then—and then he whispered in my ear a secret. He had discovered rich gold in the Urinaba country. He had been trying to earn money to go back and dig up the gold. But, alas! now he was dying, and he wished to give the secret to me, his old friend.

      “Tears streamed on my cheek.” Senhor Poritol’s eyes filled, seemingly at the remembrance. “But I took out my fountain-pen to write down the directions he wished to give. See—this was the pen.” He produced a gold-mounted tube from his waistcoat.

      “I searched my pockets for a piece of paper. None could I discover. There was no time to be lost, for my friend was growing weaker, oh, very fast. In desperation I took a five-dollar bill, and wrote upon it the directions he gave me for finding the gold. Even as I finished it, dear Lopez breathed his last breath.”

      Orme puffed at his cigar. “So the bill carries directions for finding a rich deposit in the Urinaba Mountains?”

      “Yes, my dear sir. But you would not rob me of it. You could not understand the directions.”

      “Oh, no.” Orme laughed. “I have no interest in South American gold mines.”

      “Then accept this fresh bill,” implored Senhor Poritol, “and give me back the one I yearn for.”

      Orme hesitated. “A moment more,” he said. “Tell me, how did you lose possession of the marked bill?”

      The South American writhed in his chair and leaned forward eagerly. “That is the most distressing part of all,” he exclaimed. “I had left Chicago at a time when my presence in this great city was very important indeed. Nothing but the call from a dying friend would have induced me to go away. My whole future in this country depended upon my returning in time to complete certain business.

      “So, after dear Lopez was dead, I rushed to the local railroad station. A train was coming in. I searched my pocket for my money to buy my ticket. All I could find was the five-dollar bill!

      “It was necessary to return to Chicago; yet I could not lose the bill. A happy thought struck me. I wrote upon the face of it the words you have seen, and paid it to the ticket-agent. I called his attention to the writing and implored him to save the bill if he could until I returned, and if not, to be sure to remember the person he gave it to.”

      Orme laughed.

      “It does seem funny,” said Senhor Poritol, rolling another cigarette, “but you cannot imagine my most frantic desperation. I returned to Chicago and transacted my business. Then I hastened back to the Wisconsin city. Woe is me! The ticket-agent had paid the bill to a Chicago citizen. I secured the name of this man and finally found him at his office on La Salle Street. Alas! he, too, had spent the bill, but I tracked it from person to person, until now, my dear sir, I have found it? So——” he paused and looked eloquently at Orme.

      “Do you know a man named Evans?” Orme asked.

      Senhor Poritol looked at him in bewilderment.

      “S. R. Evans,” insisted Orme.

      “Why, no, dear sir—I think not—But what has that to do——?”

      Orme pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “Oblige me, Senhor Poritol. Print in small capitals the name, ‘S. R. Evans.’ ”

      Senhor Poritol was apparently reluctant. However, under the compulsion of Orme’s eye, he finally took out his fountain-pen and wrote the name in flowing script. He then pushed the paper back toward Orme, with an inquiring look.

      “No, that isn’t what I mean,” exclaimed Orme. “Print it. Print it in capital letters.”

      Senhor Poritol slowly printed out the name.

      Orme took the paper, laying it before him. He then produced the coveted bill from his pocket-book. Senhor Poritol uttered a little cry of delight and stretched forth an eager hand, but Orme, who was busily comparing the letters on the paper with the letters on the bill, waved him back.

      After a few moments Orme looked up. “Senhor Poritol,” he said, “why didn’t you write the secret on a time-table, or on your ticket, before you gave the bill to the agent?”

      Senhor Poritol was flustered. “Why,” he said uncertainly, “I did not think of that. How can we explain the mistakes we make in moments of great nervousness?”

      “True,” said Orme. “But one more point. You did not yourself write your friend’s secret on the bill. The letters which you have just printed are differently made.”

      Senhor Poritol said nothing. He was breathing hard.

      “On the other hand,” continued Orme, turning the bill over and eyeing the inscription on its face, “your mistake in first writing the name instead of printing it, shows me that you did write the words on the face of the bill.” He returned the bill to his pocket-book. “I can’t give you the bill,” he said. “Your story doesn’t hold together.”

      With a queer little scream, the South American bounded from his chair and flung himself at Orme. He struck no blow, but clawed desperately at Orme’s pocket. The struggle lasted only for a moment. Orme, seizing the little man by the collar, dragged him, wriggling, to the door.

      “Now get out,” said Orme. “If I find you hanging around, I’ll have you locked up.”

      Senhor Poritol whispered: