"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
attitude 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
muffled 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 passing 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 passing 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 passed 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 shore. 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."
"'Chi. A.'!" exclaimed Orme.
She had taken the paper from the pocket of her coat, and was scanning it
closely. "One hundred paces north and two hundred and ten east. 'T.' must
mean 'tree.'"
Orme jumped to the ground. He noticed that the university grounds were
cut off from the street by an iron fence. There was a gate at the corner
by which they had stopped. The gate was not closed. If it were customary
to shut it at night, there had been some neglect on this particular
evening.
"You'd better go in through the gate," said the girl, "and follow the
west fence northward for one hundred paces. Then turn east, at right
angles and go two hundred and ten paces--I suppose it must be paces, not
feet."
"Yes," said Orme. "That would be the natural way for a burglar in a hurry
to measure."
"I will move the car north on Sheridan Road a little way," she went on,
"so as not to be in the glare of this street light."
This was the first evidence she had shown of nervousness, and Orme
suddenly realized that enemies might be lurking among the trees.
"It might be well for you to take the electric hand-lamp," she added.
"It's in the kit-box, I think."
He looked in the kit-box, but the lamp was not there. He told her so.
"Maku may have stolen it," she said.
Orme slipped a heavy wrench into his pocket and closed the kit-box. With
the girl, he avoided any reference to the possible presence of the
Japanese among the trees, but knowing that he was no match for them
unarmed, with their skill in jiu-jitsu, he resolved to be in some measure
prepared.
He walked through the gate and began to pace northward, keeping close to
the fence and counting his steps. Meantime the car followed his course,
moving along the side of the road just west of the fence. Orme counted
his hundred paces north, then turned east.
He saw that the two hundred and ten paces which he now had to take would
carry him well over toward the lake. The girl evidently had not realized
how great the distance would be. She would be nearer him, if she turned
back to the corner and followed the Sheridan Road eastward toward the
life-saving station, but Orme did not suggest this to her, though the car
was within twenty feet of him, the other side of the fence. If there
should be a struggle, it would please him just as well that she should be
out of hearing, for her anxiety, he knew, was already great, though she
kept it closely under control.
Eastward he went through the trees. When he had covered about half the
distance he found himself approaching the side of a large building. There
must be some mistake. Had he deviated so widely from the course? In
leaving the fence he had taken sights as carefully as he could.
Then the explanation struck him. Walsh, the burglar, had probably paced
in eastward from the fence and come to the building just as he had. There
was no good hiding-place apparent near at hand, and Walsh would hardly
have retraced his steps. What, then, would he have done? Orme asked
himself. Why, he would have turned north or south.
Orme looked in both directions. North and south of the building were open
driveways. Walsh must have gone around the building, then continued
eastward. This is what Orme now proceeded to do.
Remembering the number of paces to the side of the building, he chose the
northward course, because there was less light north of the building. He
hugged the side of the building, counting his steps, and, after reaching
the corner, turned eastward. He now counted his paces along the northern
side of the building.
When he reached the corner of the eastern side of the building, he paced
as far southward on the eastern side as he had gone northward on the
western side, and on reaching a point due east of the place at which he
had originally come to the building, he added the number of paces from
the fence to the building to the number of paces he had taken along the
northern side of the building, and continued eastward toward the lake.
At the two hundredth pace he stopped to reconnoiter. Not more than two
hundred feet ahead of him he could see dimly, through the tree trunks,
the expanse of the lake. There was no sound, no evidence that any other
person was near.
He proceeded cautiously for ten paces. Many trees were near him. He would
have to examine all of them, for it was hardly possible that he had
followed Walsh's course with unerring exactness. If the tree was within
twenty feet of him north or south, that was as much as he could expect.
One thing was clear to him. Walsh had probably chosen a tree that could
easily be distinguished from the others, either by its size or by some
peculiarity of form. Also, the tree must have a hollow place in which the
envelope could be concealed. Orme now decided that Walsh must have found
his tree first and then paced westward to the fence. The even number, one
hundred paces north from the gate, could be only a coincidence.
A little to his left Orme discovered a trunk much larger than its
neighbors. It ran up smoothly about eight feet to the first limb. An
agile man could easily get up to this limb and pull himself into the
branches. A cavity such as are so common in oaks, would furnish a good
place for hiding the envelope away.
He looked up. Suddenly a light appeared among the branches. It was a
short ray, striking against the trunk. Before Orme could realize what was
happening a hand appeared in the little bar of radiance and was inserted
apparently into the trunk of the tree. A moment later it was withdrawn.
It held an oblong of white.
Involuntarily Orme took a step forward. A twig cracked under his foot.
Instantly the light went out.
Orme drew the wrench from his pocket and stood tense. There was no other
tree quite close enough for the man above him to spring to its branches.
He would have to drop near Orme.
Standing there, the wrench in his hand, Orme felt that the advantage was
his. He heard rustlings in the branches above his head and kept himself
alert to guard against the man dropping on his shoulders.
To strike the Japanese down as he dropped from the tree, that was his
plan. But meantime, where was the other Japanese? Was he among the near
shadows? If so, he might even now be creeping stealthily toward Orme. The
likelihood of such an attack was disconcerting to think of. But as Orme
was wondering about it, it occurred to him that the man in the tree would
not have gone on guard so quickly, if his confederate were near at hand.
It was natural that he should have put the light out, but would he not
immediately afterward have given some signal to the friend below? And
would he not take it for granted that, were a stranger near, his watcher
would have managed to give warning? No, the other Japanese could not be
on guard.
Perhaps, thought Orme, only one of them had come on this quest. He hoped
that this might be the case. He could deal with one.
The man in the tree was taking his own time to descend. Doubtless he
would await a favorable moment, then alighting on the ground as far from
Orme as possible, make off at top speed.
But now, to Orme's surprise, a figure swung from the lower branch
apparently without haste. Once on the ground, however, the stranger
leaped toward Orme.
An intuition led Orme to thrust out his left arm. It was quickly seized,
but before the assailant could twist it, Orme struck out with the wrench,
which was in his right hand. Swift though the motion was, his opponent
threw up his free arm and partly broke the force of the blow. But the
wrench reached his forehead nevertheless, and with a little moan, he
dropped to the ground in a heap.
As Orme knelt to search the man, another figure swung from the tree and
darted northward, disappearing in the darkness. Orme did not pursue--it
was useless--but a sickening intuition told him that the man who had
escaped was the man who had the envelope.
He struck a match. The man on the ground was moving uneasily and moaning.
There was a scar on his forehead. It was Maku.
He went through the unconscious man's pockets. There was no envelope such
as he was looking for, but he did find a folded slip of paper which he
thrust into his own pocket. A discovery that interested him, though it
was not now important, he made by the light of a second match. It was the
marked five-dollar bill. He would have liked to take it as a souvenir, if
for no other reason, but time was short and Maku, who evidently was not
seriously hurt, showed signs of returning consciousness.
Another occurrence also hastened him. A man was strolling along the lake
shore, not far away. Orme had not seen his approach, though he was
distinctly outlined against the open background of lake and sky. The
stranger stopped. The striking of the two matches had attracted his
attention.
"Have you lost something?" he called.
"No," Orme replied.
The man started toward Orme, as if to investigate, and then Orme noticed
that outlined on his head was a policeman's helmet.
To be found going through the pockets of an unconscious man was not to
Orme's liking. It might be possible to explain the situation well enough
to satisfy the local authorities, but that would involve delays fatal to
any further effort to catch the man with the envelope.
So he jumped to his feet and ran northward, then turned to the west.
Circling about, he made for the gate at which he had entered. His pursuer
either took the wrong lead in the darkness or stopped to examine Maku, if
or when Orme went through the gate and doubled back, outside the fence,
to the car, there was no sound of steps behind him. He jumped to the
chauffeur's seat.
"Well?" inquired the girl, eagerly.
"Too late," said Orme. "I'm sorry. I caught Maku, but the man with the
envelope got away."
She laid a hand on his arm. "Are you hurt?" There was unconcealed anxiety
in her voice.
To say the things he yearned to say! To be tender to her! But he
controlled his feelings and explained briefly what had happened, at the
same time throwing on the power and driving the car slowly northward.
"I only know that the fellow ran northward," he said. "He may have worked
back or he may have gone on. He may have climbed another tree and
waited."
By this time they had come to the northern limits of the grounds, but he
had seen no one.
Suddenly the girl exclaimed "Listen!"
Orme stopped the car. Somewhere from the distance came a faint hum.
"Another car!" he muttered.
"Yes," she said. "Oh, but I can do no more. I am tired, Mr. Orme. We
cannot catch that car, even if it does hold the man we want--and there is
no way of being sure that it does."
"If there is any place to leave you, I will go after him alone." He had
turned the car as he spoke and was sending it slowly southward.
"No," she said wearily. "We--you must do no more to-night. You have been
so good, Mr. Orme--to help me in a matter of which I could tell you
almost nothing. I won't even try to thank you--except by saying that you
have understood."
He knew what she meant. He had met her need, because he had known its
greatness without her telling him. His recognition of her plight had been
unaccompanied by any suggestion of ignored conventions. No gushing thanks
would have pleased him half so much.
He smiled at her wistfully. "Does it all end here?"
"No," she said, "I will not let it end here. We are friends already; in
fact, Mr. Orme, as soon as I can do so, I will see that we are friends in
name. Can you accept as little a promise as that?"
"I can accept any promise from you," he said gravely. "And now shall I
take you home?"
"Not home. It is too far. But I have some friends a few blocks away who
will take me in. Turn here, please."
Under her guidance he took the car through several streets, drawing up at
last before a large, comfortable-looking place, set back from the street,
with a wide, shrub-dotted lawn before it. Several windows were still
lighted. He descended to help her out.
She hesitated. "I hate to ask it, Mr. Orme," she finally said, "but you
can catch the trolley back to Chicago. They will take care of the car
here."
He nodded. "But one thing, Girl," he said. "I am going to find that other
Japanese to-morrow. I shall get the envelope. Will you call me up at the
apartment to-morrow noon? If I am not there, leave word where I can find
you."
"I will do that. But don't get yourself hurt." She let him help her to
the ground.
"At noon," he said.
"At noon. Good-night, my friend." She offered her hand.
"Good-night, Girl," he said, and then he bent over and kissed her fingers
gently.
He stood by the car until she had crossed the lawn and ascended the
steps--until the door opened and admitted her.