FROM THE DEVIL TO THE DEEP SEA
"How shall we go?" asked Orme, as they descended to the street level.
"By train. There is no other convenient way, since my car is at home."
She looked at him doubtfully, and added, "but they will be watching the
railroad stations."
He nodded. "A motor would be safer--if we can get one." He gave her hand
a secret pressure while the elevator-boy was opening the door for them,
and as she passed before him she flashed upon him a look so filled with
love and trust that the sudden thrill of his happiness almost stifled
him.
At the La Salle Street entrance Orme had a fleeting glimpse of the
watching Alcatrante. The South American, after one astonished stare,
darted away in the dusk. He would follow them, of course, but Orme
decided to say nothing about him to the girl.
"I must telephone," she said suddenly, stopping as if to turn back into
the building. "Father will be very anxious."
"The booths in the building must be closed," he said. "We'd better try a
drug store."
Accordingly they made their way to the nearest, and the girl went to the
booth. The door was shut for a long time.
While he was waiting, Orme glanced through the brilliant window. In the
light of an electric lamp across the street he discerned faintly a
motionless figure; without hesitation he crossed the pavement,
recognizing Alcatrante more clearly as he left the dazzle of the store.
The minister did not budge. His face, as Orme approached, was cold and
expressionless.
"Senhor," exclaimed Orme, "does your trade include murder?"
"Not at all. Why do you ask, Mr. Orme?"
"Because only a lucky intervention has saved you from the murder of a
young lady and myself."
"You are exaggerating, my dear sir." Alcatrante laughed.
"Is it your custom to lock people into air-tight chambers?"
"Air-tight?" Alcatrante was clearly disconcerted. "I did not suppose that
it was air-tight. Also, I did not dream that the young lady was there.
But this game is a serious game, Mr. Orme. You do not appear to
understand. When one is working for his country, many strange things are
justified."
"Even murder?"
"Even murder--sometimes."
Orme had an inspiration. "Thank you for the truth, Senhor," he said. "I,
too, am working for my country. If you continue to follow us, I shall
assume that you have murder in your mind, and I shall act accordingly."
Alcatrante smiled coolly.
"This is fair warning," continued Orme.
He glanced to the drug store and saw the girl coming out of the
telephone-booth. Hastening across the street, he met her at the door.
"If father had had any idea of such complications when we came West," she
said, "there would have been plenty of men near by to help us. As it is,
we shall have to act alone. It is not a matter for detectives--or for the
police, I--I almost wish it were," she faltered.
Orme wondered again whether this father could have realized what dangers
the girl was encountering. But, as if divining his sudden anger against
the man who could let his daughter run such risks, she added: "He doesn't
know, of course, the details of our adventures. I have permitted him to
think that it is simply a matter of searching."
"And now he is reassured."
"Yes. Oh, you have no idea yet how important it is."
"You were a long time in the booth," he said.
A mysterious smile flittered across her face. "I thought of another
person I wished to talk to. That person was hard to get."
"Long distance?"
"It proved necessary to use long distance."
Then she caught a glimpse of the figure across the street. "There's Mr.
Alcatrante," she exclaimed.
"Yes, I have just had a talk with him."
Her face showed concern.
"Don't let him worry you, dear," he added. "He will try to balk us. We
must expect that. But I think I can take care of him."
"I believe it," she said, softly.
He wondered whether she could guess how relentlessly he was planning to
deal with Alcatrante. Would she justify the course he had in mind? As to
her attitude, he felt doubtful. Perhaps she did not agree with the South
American that murder was sometimes necessary in the service of one's
country.
Moreover, while Alcatrante was undoubtedly serving the interest of his
country, Orme had no real certainty that he himself was in a similar
position. He had every reason to infer that the papers were of importance
to the United States Government, but after all he could only go by
inference. The affairs of some private corporation in the United States
might have a serious bearing on problems in South America and the Far
East. He decided to sound the girl for information that would be more
definite.
But first the question as to their next move must be answered.
"Do you know where we can get a motor?" he said.
"No"--she prolonged the word doubtfully. "We may have to take a
motor-cab."
"It would be safer than the railroad or the electric line." Then he asked
with great seriousness "Girl, dear, I don't know much about the meaning
and value of these papers in my pocket, and I don't care to know any more
than you choose to tell me. But let me know just this much: Are they as
important to you as they are to our enemies? Have you really been
justified in the risks you have run?"
"You have seen how far Alcatrante and the Japanese have been willing to
go," she replied, gravely. "I am sure that they would not hesitate to
kill us, if it seemed necessary to them in their effort to get possession
of the papers. Now, my dear, they are even much more important to my
father."
"In his business interests?"
"Much more than that."
They were walking along the glimmering canyon of La Salle Street, which
was now almost deserted in the dusk. A motor-car swept slowly around the
corner ahead and came toward them. It had but one occupant, a chauffeur,
apparently. He wore a dust-coat, a cap, and goggles which seemed to be
too large for him.
Regardless of Alcatrante, who was following them, Orme hailed the
chauffeur. "Will you take a fare?" he called.
The man stopped his car and after a moment of what Orme interpreted as
indecision, nodded slowly.
"How much by the hour?" asked Orme.
The chauffeur held up the ten fingers of his two hands.
Orme looked at the girl. He hadn't that much money with him.
"If I only had time to cash a check," he said.
"All right," she whispered. "I have plenty."
They got into the tonneau, and the girl, leaning forward, said: "Take the
Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road to Evanston."
Again the chauffeur nodded, without turning toward them.
"He doesn't waste many words," whispered the girl to Orme.
While the car was turning Orme noted that Alcatrante had stopped short
and was watching them. It was some reason for surprise that he was not
hunting for a motor in which to follow.
Perhaps his plans were so completely balked that he was giving up
altogether. No, that would not be like Alcatrante. Orme now realized that
in all likelihood the minister had foreseen some such circumstance and
had made plans accordingly.
He was more and more inclined to believe that Alcatrante had but half
expected to keep him long imprisoned in Wallingham's office. Then what
had been the purpose underlying the trick? Probably the intention was to
make Orme prisoner for as long a period as possible and, in any event, to
gain time enough to communicate with Poritol and the Japanese and
whatever other persons might be helping in the struggle to regain the
papers. The probabilities were that Alcatrante had been using the last
two hours to get in touch with his friends.
And now those friends would be informed promptly that Orme and the girl
were setting out by motor. This analysis apparently accounted for
Alcatrante's nonchalance. Orme and the girl seemed to be escaping, but in
truth, if they approached their destination at all, they must run into
the ambuscade of other enemies. Then the nearer the goal, the greater the
danger.
As the motor slid smoothly northward on La Salle Street, Orme looked
back. Alcatrante had made no move. The last glimpse that Orme had of him
showed that slight but sinister figure alone on the sidewalk of the
deserted business street.
They crossed the Clark Street bridge. "Keep on out North Clark Street
until you can cross over to Lincoln Park," said Orme to the chauffeur.
The only indication that the order had been heard was a bending forward
of the bowed figure on the front seat.
Orme explained to the girl. "It will be better not to take the Lake Shore
Drive. They may be watching the Pere Marquette."
"You are right," she said. "As a precaution, we'd better not pass the
hotel."
"How surprised I was to find you waiting for me there last evening,"
mused Orme--"and how glad!"
"I never called on a man before," she laughed.
"I had made up my mind only a little while before," he continued, "to
stay in Chicago till I found you."
"I'm afraid that would not have been easy." She returned the pressure of
his hand, which had found hers. "If it hadn't been for those papers, we
might never have met."
"We were bound to meet--you and I," he said. "I have been waiting all my
life just for you."
"But even now you don't know who I am. I may be a--a political
adventuress--or a woman detective--or----"
"You may be," he said, "but you are the woman I love. Your name--your
business, if you have one--those things don't matter. I know you, and I
love you."
She leaned closer to him. "Dear," she whispered impulsively, "I am going
to tell you everything--who I am, and about the papers----"
"Wait!" He held his hand before her mouth. "Don't tell me now. Do as you
planned to do. Be simply 'Girl' to me for a while longer."
She moved closer to him. Their errand, the danger, were for the time
forgotten, and the motor hummed along with a burden of happiness.
"You haven't looked at the papers yet," said Orme, after a time. They
were turning east toward Lincoln Park.
"Do I need to?"
"Perhaps not. I took them from the envelope which you saw at Arima's. But
here they are. I did not look at them, of course."
He drew the parchments from within his coat and placed them in her hand.
While she examined them, he looked straight ahead, that he might not see.
He could hear them crackle as she unfolded them--could hear her sigh of
content.
And then something occurred that disquieted him to a degree which seemed
unwarranted. The chauffeur suddenly turned around and glanced swiftly
through his goggles at the girl and the papers. The action was, perhaps,
natural; but there was an assured expectancy in the way he turned--Orme
did not like it. Moreover, there was something alarmingly familiar in the
manner of the movement.
Somewhere Orme had seen a man move his body like that. But before his
suspicions could take form, the chauffeur had turned again.
The girl handed the papers back to Orme. "These are the right papers,"
she said. "Oh, my dear, if you only knew how much they mean."
He held them for a moment in his hand. Then, after returning them to his
pocket with as little noise as possible, he caught the girl's eye and,
with a significant glance toward the chauffeur, said in a distinct voice:
"I will slip them under the seat cushion. They will be safer there."
Did the chauffeur lean farther back, as if to hear better? or was the
slight movement a false record by Orme's imagination?
Orme decided to be on the safe side, so he slipped under the cushion of
the extra seat another mining prospectus which he had in his pocket,
placing it in such a way that the end of the paper protruded. Then he put
his lips close to the girl's ear and whispered:
"Don't be alarmed, but tell me, does our chauffeur remind you of anyone?"
She studied the stolid back in front of them. The ill-fitting dust-coat
masked the outline of the figure; the cap was so low on the head that the
ears were covered.
"No," she said, at last, "I think not."
With that, Orme sought to reassure himself.
They were in Lincoln Park now. Over this same route Orme and the girl had
ridden less than twenty-four hours before. To him the period seemed like
a year. Then he had been plunging into mysteries unknown with the ideal
of his dreams; now he was moving among secrets partly understood, with
the woman of his life--loving her and knowing that she loved him.
One short day had brought all this to pass. He had heard it said that
Love and Time are enemies. The falseness of the saying was clear to him
in the light of his own experience. Love and Time are not enemies; they
are strangers to each other.
On they went northward. To Orme the streets through which they passed
were now vaguely familiar, yet he could hardly believe his eyes when they
swung around on to the Lake Front at Evanston, along the broad ribbon of
Sheridan Road.
But there was the dark mysterious surface of Lake Michigan at their
right. Beyond the broad beach, he could see the line of breakwaters, and
at their left the electric street lights threw their beams into the
blackness of little parks and shrubby lawns.
The car swept to the left, past the university campus.
"Do you remember?" asked the girl, in a low voice, pressing his arm.
Then, "Don't!" she whispered. "Someone will see!" for he had drawn her
face to his.
They came to the corner of Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road, where they
had halted the night before in their search for the hidden papers. "We'd
better give him further directions," said the girl.
But the chauffeur turned north at the corner and put on more speed.
"He's taking the right direction," she laughed. "Perhaps his idea is to
follow Sheridan Road till we tell him to turn."
"I don't quite like it," said Orme, thoughtfully. "He's a bit too sure of
what he's doing."
The girl hesitated. "It _is_ funny," she exclaimed. "And he's going
faster, too." She leaned forward and called up to the chauffeur: "Stop at
this corner."
He did not seem to hear. She repeated the order in a louder voice, but
the only answer was another burst of speed.
Then Orme reached up and touched the chauffeur's shoulder. "Stop the
car!" he cried.
The chauffeur did not obey. He did not even turn his head.
Orme and the girl looked at each other. "I don't understand," she said.
"I'm afraid I am beginning to," Orme replied. "He will not stop until we
are where he wishes us to be."
"We can't get out," she exclaimed.
"No. And if I pull him out of the seat, the car will be ditched." He
puzzled vainly to hit on a method of action, and meantime the moments
sped.
They passed the university grounds quickly. Orme retained an impression
of occasional massive buildings at the right, including the dome of an
observatory, and at the left the lighted windows of dwellings.
He saw, too, the tower of a lighthouse, a dark foundation supporting a
changing light above; and then the road turned sharply to the left and,
after a few hundred yards, curved again to the north.
Suddenly the chauffeur slowed down. On either side were groves of trees.
Ahead were the lights of an approaching motor.
Orme was still at a loss, and the girl was awaiting some decision from
him. When the chauffeur at last turned and spoke--three short words--Orme
realized too late the situation he and the girl were in.
"We stop now," said the chauffeur.
And the girl, with a horrified gasp, exclaimed: "Maku!"
Yes, it was the Japanese.
Calmly he put on the brakes and brought the car to a standstill by the
roadside; then, removing his goggles, turned to Orme and the girl and
smiled an unscrutable smile. There was an ugly bruise on his forehead,
where Orme had struck him with the wrench.
But quick though Maku was, he was not quick enough to see a motion which
Orme had made immediately after the moment of recognition--a motion which
had even escaped the notice of the girl. Perhaps it accounted for the
coolness with which Orme met his enemy's eyes.