The Girl and the Bill. Bannister Merwin

the policy he had adopted. He had sought adventure; it was coming to him in full measure.

      Together they walked back toward the park entrance. The minister seemingly exerted himself to regain the ground he had lost with Orme. He proved an interesting conversationalist—keen, slightly cynical, but not without an under-note of earnestness.

      “You have seen me much abused by your press, Mr. Orme,” he said. “That is natural. I have the interests of my own country to protect, and those interests are of necessity sometimes opposed to the interests of other countries. But if your people would be even more patient with us—all we need is time. There is reason for our persistent to-morrow; for we are young, and it is a slow process to realize on our resources. That is why we do not pay our debts more promptly.”

      Orme said nothing, but he thought of looted South American treasuries, of exiled presidents squandering their official stealings at Paris and Monte Carlo, of concessions sold and sold again to rival foreign companies.

      They had now reached the park entrance. “There is a cab,” said Alcatrante. “You will ride with me as far as your hotel?”

      “Thank you, no,” said Orme. “I rather need the walk.”

      Alcatrante smiled persuasively. “Permit me to urge you. If you should be robbed, my little friend might lose his precious secret. Poor boy!” he added. “His father was my friend, and I cannot refuse him a service.”

      The cab had swung around to the curb beside them. Orme had no fear of robbery on the lighted drive, but since Alcatrante was so insistent he felt inclined to yield. He might as well ride; so he permitted the minister to bow him into the cab, and presently they were whirling along southward. There was a period of silence. Then Alcatrante spoke meditatively.

      “You see how it happened, I suppose,” he said. “Those Japanese were waiting outside your hotel. When Poritol and I came out, one of them followed us, while the other remained on guard. Then you started on your stroll, and the man who remained on guard set out after you.”

      “Yes,” said Orme, “but I don’t see how the fellow could have known who I was.”

      Alcatrante laughed. “Oh, he could have placed you in a number of different ways. He may have got your description from one of the servants—or from the clerk. But it is enough that he did know you.”

      “Well,” said Orme, “this is beyond me. That five-dollar bill seems to be very much desired by different groups of persons.”

      Alcatrante nodded. “I am not sure,” he said slowly, “but that it would ease young Poritol’s mind if you would place the bill in my hands for safekeeping. Not that he mistrusts you, Mr. Orme, but he imagines that you may not realize how important it is to him, and you might not guard it carefully.”

      “I agreed to keep it until to-morrow,” said Orme, quietly. “As for thieves, my apartment is on the tenth floor, pretty well out of their reach. The only danger of robbery lies between the cab and the hotel office.

      “I know, I know,” chuckled Alcatrante. “It is, of course, as you will. I was merely thinking of my young friend’s peace of mind. I am his fellow-countryman, you see, and his confidence in me——” he stopped, with another chuckle. “Singular, is it not, how impressionable are the young?”

      Orme said nothing. He did not enjoy this fencing.

      “Look at the lake,” Alcatrante suddenly exclaimed. “How beautiful an expanse of water. It has so much more color than the sea. But you should see our wonderful harbor of Rio, Mr. Orme. Perhaps some day I shall be permitted to show you its magnificences.”

      “Who knows?” said Orme. “It would be very pleasant.”

      “As to the bill,” continued Alcatrante quickly, “do you care to give it to me?”

      Orme felt himself frowning. “I will keep it till the morning,” he said.

      “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 Père Marquette was a massive 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 Japanese.

      The blow did not land. His wrist was caught in a grip like an iron clamp, and he found himself performing queer gyrations. The Japanese 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 assailant 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 Japanese 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 Japanese in a tone that sounded gently apologetic.

      The other robber now stooped and ran his hands