THE SLIM STRANGER
When Erik Nord and Florence caught sight of the long-eared Chinaman
placidly cruising the lagoon in a Dodge-Em, Erik, as we have said, led
the girl away in hot pursuit.
Unfortunately, on reaching the nearest available craft, they found it to
be but another slow going, doddering old Dodge-Em.
“We’ll take it,” Erik decided on the instant.
“Have to. Nothing else in sight. Probably he hasn’t seen us. Slip up on
him without the least trouble.”
“And if he goes ashore I’ll get him. I can run. No Chinaman has
out-distanced me yet.” He stepped on the gas and they were away, away at
the breakneck speed of four miles an hour.
“Think of finding him right here in Chicago!” Erik exulted. “How’d you
come to know him?”
Florence did not reply.
“Look!” She leaned far forward. “There he goes! He’s headed straight down
the lagoon.”
“He’ll never go outside. Probably land. We’ll get him!” Erik trod angrily
on the lever that kept the motor going. “If only a fellow could get one
burst of speed out of this thing!”
He was making that same remark a quarter of an hour later. The long-eared
one had not gone ashore. Instead, he had headed straight down the lagoon
and out into the open lake where darkness and silence reigned. And Erik
Nord, with all the stubbornness of his race, had followed in slow
pursuit.
“It’s a turtle race,” he said without apparent emotion. “Two turtles. The
question is, which will tire first?”
“We’ll run out of gas,” Florence murmured.
“Something like that.”
“And be stuck out here for the night.” Florence thought this, but did not
say it. The moon would be out in an hour. And then—
Slowly but doggedly the Dodge-Em pushed its stout rubber nose through the
black water. The Chinaman, a dark spot above the water, was ever before
them. They did not lose. They did not gain. They only followed on.
“I’ve been told that a man crossed the lake in one of these,” Erik
rumbled. “Safe enough, I guess. Anyway, when you’ve lived in China you
get used to any mode of travel.”
Florence wondered if they would cross the lake. “And after that?” she
whispered to herself. The rumble of the city was dying away in the
distance, the lights of the Fair were growing dim. It was strange to be
out here in the night with one she had known for so short a time. And yet
this was the turn chance had taken.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. It had been a long day. The night air
sweeping in from the lake fanned her cheek. The darkness had been kind to
her tired eyes. Now she felt the need for rest.
Did she fall asleep? Perhaps. Perhaps not. All she knew was that when she
opened her eyes at last she became conscious of a change. “Wha—what is
it?”
“Motor stopped. We lose,” Erik grumbled. “We lose.”
“And here we are.” She caught a long breath. The moon was just beginning
to roll, a ball of red, along the black horizon.
“Here we are,” Erik agreed, then settled back comfortably in his corner.
* * * * * * * *
It was at about this same moment that Jeanne found herself speeding away
in a taxi with a man she had never seen before.
“He saved me,” she told herself. “Saved me from a horrible night. He knew
I was there. How? He willed to get me out of that place. Why?” To these
questions she could find no answers. There was, she believed, but one
thing to do; to sit back and allow the future to unfold itself.
They were entering the Loop. There was comfort in that. In the Loop were
many people. And in numbers there is always a degree of safety.
“You’ll be in need of a cup of coffee after that,” her companion
suggested. “Supposing we stop in here.” The cab had stopped before a well
lighted coffee house.
Without a word Jeanne followed him inside and back to a small table in
the rear. “Who is he? What does he want?” She was determined now to see
the thing through.
“I’m Tom Tobin of the _News_,” the strange rescuer announced when coffee
had been ordered.
“Oh!” Jeanne caught her breath. “You were after news! And—and I—I will be
in the paper! That explains—”
“It explains nothing.” Tom Tobin’s smile was disarming. “I wasn’t looking
for news, and this will not get you in the paper. Far from it.
“I was keeping tab on you,” he added.
“Tab on me?” Her wide eyes registered astonishment.
“Well, sort of guarding you, if that sounds better. I did it for a very
good reason, too.
“You see,” he leaned forward over the table, speaking in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, “I know you better than you think. You are not Lorena
LeMar.”
“Not—”
He held up a hand for silence. “No use!” he warned. “You are the little
French girl, Petite Jeanne.
“No, I’ll not betray you.” He had read the consternation in her eyes.
“Why should I? You—you’re doing a big thing for me.”
“For you?”
“You are planning to make a success of the scenario I wrote, ‘When the
Dogwood Is in Bloom.’”
“You wrote it? How—how wonderful!” Jeanne stretched a slim white hand
across the table. Tom Tobin grasped it frankly. “Here’s luck!” His frank
eyes shone.
“And here’s our coffee. How jolly!” Fear had flown from Jeanne’s eyes.
She was her own bright, joyous self once more.
“But how could you know I am to make a success of your picture?” she
demanded eagerly. “I do not know it myself.”
“Old Sollie, Mr. Soloman, your producer, told me. He’s all het up about
it; says you showed him how to make a great picture of it and get a lot
of free publicity. He’s working on the scene, got men after real mountain
ivy and rhododendrons and dogwood. Sent for two log cabins like the ones
in the Lincoln Group, and all that.
“Say!” he exclaimed, “Suppose we get together and work over the dialogue
and all that! Sollie says you know a lot about the mountains.”
“No, I’ve never been there.”
“But he told me—”
“Yes, I know.” Jeanne smiled. “I have a friend who prompted me. She has
lived there all her life.”
“Then she’ll help us. We’ll work it over together, beginning to-morrow
afternoon.”
“That—” Jeanne favored him with her loveliest smile. “That—how do you say
it? That is a _go_! Eh, what?”
“That’s it!” Tom grinned. “We’ll get on grand. You’re a regular guy!”
“And why not?” Jeanne laughed a merry laugh.
A half hour later, as Jeanne entered the lobby of the hotel after bidding
Tom Tobin a heartfelt “Happy dreams!” the porter stared at her for a
moment as if uncertain of her identity, then said in a matter-of-fact
tone: “Your trunk has gone up, Miss LeMar.”
“My trunk?” She stared. “Oh, but I have not—”
She broke short off. Was she about to betray her secret? She was Miss
LeMar. Perhaps the real Lorena LeMar had ordered a trunk sent over
without informing her.
Her tone changed. “Very well. Thank you.” She dropped a coin into his
hand, then hurried away.
“But a trunk?” she thought. “A trunk in our apartment!” An unreasoning
terror swept upon her.
“But only a trunk!” She shook herself free of this wild fear. “What is a
trunk?”
What indeed?