The Girl and the Bill. Bannister Merwin

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 prone, “what’s the meaning of all this?”

      “Don’t say.” The Japanese 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 Japanese disappeared.

      Orme jumped up. Seizing his pocket-book and his hat, he darted after his assailants. 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 Japanese 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

       Table of Contents

THE GIRL OF THE CAR

       Table of Contents

      “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.

      “Yes—and two Japanese.”

      “Oh!” Her exclamation was apprehensive.

      “The Japanese got it,” added Orme, ruefully. That she had the right to this information it never occurred to him to question.

      The girl stood rigidly. “Whatever shall I do now?” she whispered. “My poor father!”

      She looked helplessly at Orme. His self-possession had returned, and as he urged her to a chair, he condemned himself for not guessing how serious the loss of the bill must be to her. “Sit down,” he said. “Perhaps I can help. But you see, I know so little of what it all means. Tell me everything you can.”

      With a sigh, she sank into the chair. Orme stood before her, waiting.

      “That bill tells, if I am not mistaken,” she said, wearily, “where certain papers have been hidden. My father is ill at our place in the country. He must have those papers before midnight to-morrow, or——” Tears came into her eyes. Orme would have given much for the right to comfort her. “So much depends upon finding them,” she added—“more even than I can begin to tell you.”

      “Let me help,” said Orme, eager to follow those papers all over Chicago, if only it would serve her. “Hear my story first.” Rapidly he recounted the adventures of the evening. She listened, eyes intent, nodding in recognition of his description of Poritol and Alcatrante. When he came to the account of the fight in the porter’s office and spoke of the Japanese with the scar on his forehead, she interrupted.

      “Oh! That was Maku,” she exclaimed.

      “Maku?”

      “Our butler. He must have overheard my father and me.”

      “Then he knew the value of the papers.”

      “He must have. I am sorry, Mr. Orme, that you have been so roughly used.”

      “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “They didn’t hurt me in the least. And now, what is your story? How did you get on the trail of the bill?”

      “We came back from the East a few days ago,” she began. “My father had to undergo a slight operation, and he wished to have it performed by his friend, Dr. Allison, who lives here, so we went to our home in—one of the northern suburbs.

      “Father could not go back East as soon as he had expected to, and he had the papers sent to him, by special arrangement with the—with the other parties to the contract. Mr. Poritol followed us from the East. I—we had known him there. He was always amusing company; we never took him seriously. He had business here, he said; but on the first day of his arrival he came out to call on us. The next night our house was entered by a burglar. Besides the papers, only a few things were taken.”

      “Poritol?” exclaimed Orme, incredulously.

      “It happened that a Chicago detective had been in our village on business during the day,” she went on. “He had recognized on the streets a well-known thief, named Walsh. When we reported the burglary the detective remembered seeing Walsh, and hunted him out and arrested him. In his pockets was some jewelry belonging to me, and in his room the other stolen articles were found—everything except the papers.”

      “Did you tell the police about the papers?”

      “No, it seemed wiser not to. They were in a sealed envelope with—with my father’s name on it, and would surely have been returned, if found with the other things. There are reasons why they would have—would try to please my father. We did let them know that an envelope containing something of value had not been recovered, and told them to make a thorough search.

      “The afternoon after the burglary the news of Walsh’s arrest was telephoned out to us from Chicago. I talked with my father, who was not well enough to leave the house, and it seemed best that someone should go to the county jail and see Walsh and try to get the papers. My father had reasons for not wishing the loss to become known. Only he and I were acquainted with the contents of the envelope; so I insisted