When for the second time that night he bade the girl adieu and saw her enter the house of her friends, Orme went briskly to the electric-car line.

He had not long to wait. A car came racing down the tracks and stopped at his corner. Swinging aboard at the rear platform, he glanced within. There were four passengers—a man and woman who, apparently, were returning from an evening party of some sort, since he was in evening dress and she wore an opera-cloak; a spectacled man, with a black portfolio in his lap; a seedy fellow asleep in one corner, his head sagging down on his breast, his hands in his trousers pockets; and—was it possible? Orme began to think that Fate had indeed changed her face toward him, for the man who sat huddled midway of the car, staring straight before him with beady, expressionless eyes, was Maku.

Under the brim of his dingy straw hat a white bandage was drawn tight around his head—so tight that from its under edge the coarse black hair bristled out in a distinct fringe. The blow of the wrench, then, must have cut through the skin.

Well—that would mean one more scar on the face of the Japanese.

The other scar, how had Maku come by that? Perhaps in some battle with the Russians in Manchuria. He seemed to be little more than a boy, but then, one never could guess the age of a Japanese, and for that matter, Orme had more than once been told that the Japanese had begun to impress very young soldiers long before the battle of Mukden.

While making these observations, Orme had drawn his hat lower over his eyes. He hoped to escape recognition, for this opportunity to track Maku to his destination was not to be missed. He also placed himself in such a position on the platform that his own face was partly concealed by the cross-bars which protected the windows at the end of the car.

In his favor was the fact that Maku would not expect to see him. Doubtless the Japanese was more concerned with his aching head than with any suspicion of pursuit, though his somewhat indeterminate profile, as visible to Orme, gave no indication of any feeling at all. So Orme stood where he could watch without seeming to watch, and puzzled over the problem of following Maku from the car without attracting attention.

The refusal of the other Japanese to accept the girl’s offer of money for the papers had given Orme a new idea of the importance of the quest. Maku and his friend must be Japanese government agents—just as Poritol and Alcatrante were unquestionably acting for their government. This, at least, was the most probable explanation that entered Orme’s mind. The syndicate, then,—or concession, or whatever it was—must be of genuine international significance.

Though Orme continued to smother his curious questionings as to the meaning of the secret, he could not ignore his general surmises. To put his confidence in the girl—to act for her and for her alone—that was enough for him; but it added to his happiness to think that she might be leading him into an affair which was greater than any mere tangle of private interests. He knew too, that, upon the mesh of private interests, public interests are usually woven. The activity of a Russian syndicate in Korea had been the more or less direct cause of the Russo-Japanese War; the activity of rival American syndicates in Venezuela had been, but a few years before, productive of serious international complications. In the present instance, both South Americans and Japanese were interested. But Orme knew in his soul that there could be nothing unworthy in any action in which the girl took part. She would not only do nothing unworthy; she would understand the situation clearly enough to know whether the course which offered itself to her was worthy or not.

In events such as she had that night faced with him, any other girl Orme had ever met would have shown moments of weakness, impatience, or fear. But to her belonged a calm which came from a clear perception of the comparative unimportance of petty incident. She was strong, not as a man is strong, but in the way a woman should be strong.

The blood went to his cheeks as he remembered how tenderly he had spoken to her in the boat, and how plain he had made his desire for her. What should he call his feeling? Did love come to men as suddenly as this? She had not rebuked him—there was that much to be thankful for; and she must have known that his words were as involuntary as his action in touching her shoulder with his hand.

But how could she have rebuked him? She was, in a way, indebted to him. The thought troubled him. Had he unintentionally taken advantage of her gratitude by showing affection when she wished no more than comradeship? And had she gently said nothing, because he had done something for her? If her patience with him were thus to be explained, it must have been based upon her recognition of his unconsciousness.

Still, the more he pondered, the more clearly he saw that she was not a girl who, under the spell of friendly good will, would permit a false situation to exist. Her sincerity was too deep for such a glossing of fact. He dared assume, then, that her sympathy with him went even so far as to accept his attitude when it was a shade more than friendly.

More than friendly! Like a white light, the truth flashed upon him as he stood there on the rocking platform of the car. He and she would have to be more than friendly! He had never seen her until that day. He did not even know her name. But all his life belonged to her, and would belong to her forever. The miracle which had been worked upon him, might it not also have been worked upon her? He felt unworthy, and yet she might care—might already have begun to care—But he put the daring hope out of his mind, and looked again at Maku.

The Japanese had not moved. His face still wore its racial look of patient indifference; his hands were still crossed in his lap. He sat on the edge of the seat, in order that his feet might rest on the floor, for his legs were short; and with every lurch of the car, he swayed easily, adapting himself to the motion with an unconscious ease that betrayed supple muscles.

The car stopped at a corner and the man and woman got out, but Maku did not even seem to glance at them. Orme stepped back to make way for them on the platform, and as they descended and the conductor rang the bell, he looked out at the suburban landscape, with its well-lighted, macadamized streets, its vacant lots, and its occasional houses, which seemed to be of the better class, as nearly as he could judge in the uncertain rays of the arc-lamps. He turned to the conductor, who met his glance with the look of one who thirsts to talk.

“People used to go to parties in carriages and automobiles,” said the conductor, “but now they take the car when they’ve any distance to go. It’s quicker and handier.”

“I should think that would be so, here in the suburbs,” said Orme.

“Oh, this ain’t the suburbs. We crossed the city limits twenty minutes ago.”

“You don’t carry many passengers this time of night.”

“That depends. Sometimes we have a crowd. To-night there’s hardly anyone. Nobody else is likely to get on now.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, it’s only a short way now to the connection with the elevated road. People who want to go the rest of the way by the elevated, would walk. And after we pass the elevated there’s other car-lines they’re more likely to take, where the cars run frequenter.”

“Do you go to the heart of the city?”

“No, we stop at the barns. Say, have you noticed that Jap in there?”

The conductor nodded toward Maku.

“What about him?”

“He was put aboard by a cop. Looks as though somebody had slugged him.”

“That’s so,” commented Orme. “His head is bandaged.”

“Judging from the bandage, it must have been a nasty crack,” continued the conductor. “But you wouldn’t know he’d been hurt from his face. Say, you can’t tell anything about those Johns from their looks, can you, now?”

“You certainly can’t,” replied Orme.

The conductor glanced out. “There’s the elevated,” he said. “I’ll have to go in and wake that drunk. He gets off here.”

Orme watched the conductor go to the man who was sleeping in the corner and shake him. The man nodded his head vaguely, and settled back into slumber. Through the open door came the conductor’s voice: “Wake up!”—Shake—“You get off here!”—Shake—“Wake up, there!” But the man would not awaken.

Maku was sitting but a few feet from the sleeping man. He had not appeared to notice what was going on, but now, just as the conductor seemed about to appeal to the motorman for help, the little Japanese slid along the seat and said to the conductor: “I wake him.”

The conductor stared, and scratched his head. “If you can,” he remarked, “it’s more’n I can do.”

Maku did not answer, but putting his hand behind the sleeping man’s back, found some sensitive vertebra. With a yell, the man awoke and leaped to his feet. The conductor seized him by the arm and led him to the platform.

The car was already slowing down, but without waiting for it to stop, the fellow launched himself into the night, being preserved from falling by the god of alcohol, and stumbled away toward the sidewalk.

“Did you see the Jap?” exclaimed the conductor. “Stuck a pin into him, that’s what he did.”

“Oh, I guess not,” laughed Orme. “He touched his spine, that was all.”

The car stopped. The spectacled passenger with the portfolio arose and got off by way of the front platform. Would Maku also take the elevated? If he did, unless he also got off the front platform, Orme would have to act quickly to keep out of sight.

But Maku made no move. He had returned to his former position, and only the trace of an elusive smile on his lips showed that he had not forgotten the incident in which he had just taken part. Meantime Orme had maintained his partial concealment, and though Maku had turned his head when he went to the conductor’s help, he had not appeared to glance toward the back platform.

The conductor rang the bell, and the car started forward again with its two passengers—Maku within, Orme without—the pursuer and the pursued.

“I thought the motorman and I was going to have to chuck that chap off,” commented the conductor. “If the Jap hadn’t stuck a pin into him——”

“I don’t think it was a pin. The Japanese know where to touch you so that it will hurt.”

“An’ I didn’t even like to rub the fellow’s ears for fear of hurtin’ him. I heard of a man that was made deaf that way. Smashed his ear-drums.”

“I wonder where the Jap will get off?” said Orme.

“Oh, he’ll go right through to the barns and take a Clark Street car. There’s a lot of them Japs lives over that way. He’ll be one of ’em, I guess.”

“Unless he’s somebody’s cook or valet.”

“I don’t believe he is. But, of course, you never know.”

“That’s true,” said Orme. “One never knows.”

As the car plunged onward, Maku suddenly put his hand in his pocket. He drew it out empty. On his face was an expression which may mean “surprise,” among the Japanese. He then fumbled in his other pockets, but apparently he did not find what he was looking for. Orme wondered what it might be.

The search continued. A piece of twine, a pocket-knife, a handkerchief, were produced in turn and inspected. At last he brought out a greenback, glancing at it twice before returning it to his pocket. Orme knew that it must be the marked bill. But Maku was looking for something else. His cheek glistened with perspiration; evidently he had lost something of value. After a time, however, he stopped hunting his pockets, and seemed to resign himself to his loss—a fact from which Orme gathered that the object of his search was nothing so valuable that it could not be replaced.

When he had been quiet for a time, he again produced the greenback, and examined it attentively. From the way he held it, Orme judged that he was looking at the well-remembered legend: “Remember Person You Pay This To.” Presently he turned it over and held it closer to his eyes. He was, of course, looking at the abbreviated directions.

“You’d think that Jap had never seen money before,” remarked the conductor.

“Perhaps he hasn’t—that kind,” replied Orme.

“Maybe he guesses it’s a counterfeit.”

“Maybe.”

“Looks as though he was trying to read the fine print on it.”

“Something you and I never have done, I imagine,” said Orme.

“That’s a fact,” the conductor chuckled. “I never noticed anything about a bill except the color of it and the size of the figure.”

“Which is quite enough for most men.”

“Sure! But I bet I pass on a lot of counterfeits without knowin’ it.”

“Very likely. The Jap has evidently finished his English lesson. See how carefully he folds the bill before he puts it away.”

“We’re comin’ to the barns,” said the conductor. “Far as we go.”

As he spoke, the car slowed down and stopped, and Maku arose from his seat. Orme was at the top of the steps, ready to swing quickly to the ground, if Maku left the car by the rear door. But the Japanese turned to the forward entrance. Orme waited until Maku had got to the ground, then he, too, descended.

Maku did not turn at once toward the Clark Street car that was waiting to start down-town. He stood hesitant in the street. After a moment, his attention seemed to be attracted by the lights of an all-night restaurant, not far away, and he crossed the street and walked rapidly to the gleaming sign.

Orme followed slowly, keeping on the other side of the street. If Maku was hungry, why, Maku would eat, while he himself would wait outside like a starving child before a baker’s window. But Maku, it seemed, was not hungry. Through the window Orme saw him walk to the cashier’s desk and apparently ask a question. In answer, the woman behind the desk-pointed to a huge book which lay on the counter near by. Orme recognized it as the city directory.

For some time Maku studied the pages. Then he seemed to appeal to the cashier for help, for she pulled the book to her, looked at him as though she were asking a question, and then, rapidly running through the leaves, placed her finger at a certain part of a certain page and turned the book around so that the Japanese could see. He nodded and, after bowing in a curious fashion, came back to the street.

Orme had, meantime, walked on for a little way. He would have gone to the restaurant in an endeavor to find out what address Maku had wished, but for two reasons: The cashier might refuse to tell him, or she might have forgotten the name. In either event his opportunity to follow Maku would thus be lost—and to follow Maku was still his best course. Accordingly he watched the Japanese go back to a Clark Street car and climb aboard.

It was an open car, with transverse seats, and Maku had chosen a position about two-thirds of the way back. There was, as yet, only one other passenger. How to get aboard without being seen by Maku was a hard problem for Orme, but he solved it by taking a chance. Walking rapidly toward the next corner, away from the car, he got out of the direct rays of the street-lamp, and waited.

Presently the car started. It almost reached Orme’s corner when he signaled it and, hurrying into the street, swung on to the back platform.

There had been barely time for the car to slow down a little. Maku could not well have seen him without turning his head, and Orme had watched the little Japanese closely enough to know that he had continued to stare straight before him.

Safe on the back platform, a desire to smoke came to Orme. He found a cigar in his case and lighted it. While he was shielding the match, he looked over his hollowed hand and saw Maku produce a cigarette and light it. The Japanese had apparently wished the consolation of tobacco just as Orme had.

“An odd coincidence,” muttered Orme. “I hope it wasn’t mind-reading.” And he smiled as he drew a mouthful of smoke.

Lincoln Park slid by them on the left. The car was getting well down into the city. Suddenly Maku worked along to the end of his seat and got down on the running-board. The conductor pulled the bell. The car stopped and the Oriental jumped off.

The action had been so quick that Orme, taken off his guard, had not had time to get off first. He, therefore, remained on the car, which began to move forward again. Looking after Maku, he saw that the Japanese, glancing neither to right nor to left, was making off down the side street, going west; so he in turn stepped to the street, just as Maku disappeared beyond the corner. He hurried quickly to the side street and saw Maku, half a block ahead, walking with short, rapid steps. How had Maku got so far? He must have run while Orme was retracing the way to the corner. And yet Maku seemed to have had no suspicion that he was being followed.

The chase led quickly to a district of poor houses and shops—an ill-looking, ill-smelling district, where every shadow seemed ominous. Whenever they approached a corner, Orme hurried forward, running on his toes, to shorten the distance in the event that Maku turned, but the course continued straight until Orme began to wonder whether they were not getting near to the river, one branch of which, he knew, ran north through the city.

At last Maku turned into an alley, which cut through the middle of a block. This was something which Orme had not expected. He ran forward and peered down the dark, unpleasant passage. There was his man, barely visible, picking a careful way through the ash-heaps and avoiding the pestilential garbage-cans.

Orme followed, and when Maku turned west again at the next street, swung rapidly after him and around the corner, with the full expectation of seeing him hurrying along, half a block away. But no one was in sight. Had he slipped into one of the near-by buildings?

While Orme was puzzling, a voice at his elbow said, “Hello!”

He turned with a start. Flattened in a shadowed niche of the wall beside him was Maku!

“Hello!” the Japanese said again.

“Well?” exclaimed Orme sharply, trying to make the best of the situation.

“You mus’ not follow me.” The Japanese spoke impassively.

“Follow you?”

“I saw you in a mirror at the other end of car.”

So that was it! Orme remembered no mirror, but the Japanese might apply the word to the reflecting surface of one of the forward windows.

“You lit a match,” continued Maku. “I saw. Then I come here, to find if you follow.”

Orme considered. Now that he was discovered, it would be futile to continue the chase, since Maku, naturally, would not go to his destination with Orme at his heels. But he said:

“You can’t order me off the streets, Maku.”

“I know. If you follow, then we walk an’ walk an’ walk—mebbe till nex’ week.” Orme swore under his breath. It was quite clear that the little Japanese would never rejoin the man who had the papers until he was sure that he had shaken off his pursuer. So Orme simply said:

“Good-night.”

Disappointed, baffled, he turned eastward and walked with long strides back toward the car-line. He did not look to see whether Maku was behind him. That did not matter now. He had missed his second opportunity since the other Japanese escaped him in the university campus.

Crossing North Clark Street a block north of the point at which he and Maku had left the car, he continued lakeward, coming out on the drive only a short distance from the PÈre Marquette, and a few minutes later, after giving the elevator-boy orders to call him at eight in the morning, he was in his apartment, with the prospect of four hours of sleep.

But there was a final question: Should he return to the all-night restaurant near the car-barns and try to learn from the cashier the address which Maku had sought? Surely she would have forgotten the name by this time. Perhaps it was a Japanese name, and, therefore, the harder to remember. True, she might remember it; if it were a peculiar combination of letters, the very peculiarity might have fixed it in her mind. And if he hesitated to go back there now, the slim chance that the name remained with her would grow slimmer with every added moment of delay. He felt that he ought to go. He was dog-tired, but—he remembered the girl’s anxiety. Yes, he would go; with the bare possibility that the cashier would remember and would be willing to tell him what she remembered, he would go.

He took up his hat and stepped toward the door. At that moment he heard a sound from his bedroom. It was an unmistakable snore. He tip-toed to the bedroom door and peered within. Seated in an arm-chair was a man. He was distinctly visible in the light which came in from the sitting-room, and it was quite plain that he was sound asleep and breathing heavily. And now for the second time his palate vibrated with the raucous voice of sleep.

Orme switched on the bedroom lights. The man opened his eyes and started from the chair.

“Who are you?” demanded Orme.

“Why—the detective, of course.”

“Detective?”

“Sure—regular force.”

“Regular force?”

The stranger pulled back his coat and displayed his nickeled star.

“But what are you doing here?” gasped Orme, amazed.

“Why, a foreign fellow came to the chief and said you wanted a man to keep an eye on your quarters to-night—and the chief sent me. I was dozing a bit—but I’m a light sleeper. I wake at the least noise.”

Orme smiled reminiscently, thinking of the snore. “Tell me,” he said, “was it Senhor Alcatrante who had you sent?”

“I believe that was his name.” He was slowly regaining his sleep-benumbed wits. “That reminds me,” he continued. “He gave me a note for you.”

An envelope was produced from an inside pocket. Orme took it and tore it open. The sheet within bore the caption, “Office of The Chief of Police,” and the few lines, written beneath in fine script, were as follows:

In view of everything that had happened since the note was penned, Orme smiled a grim smile. Alcatrante must have been very anxious indeed; and yet, considering that the minister knew nothing of Orme’s encounter with the Japanese and his meeting with the girl, the sending of the detective might naturally have been expected to pass as an impressive, but friendly, precaution.

The detective was rapidly losing his self-assurance. “I had only been asleep for a moment,” he said.

“Yes?” Orme spoke indifferently. “Well, you may go now. There is no longer any need of you here.”

“But my instructions——”

“Were given under a misapprehension. My return makes your presence unnecessary. Good-night—or good-morning, rather.” He nodded toward the door.

The detective hesitated. “Look a here!” he suddenly burst out. “I never saw you before.”

“Nor I you,” replied Orme.

“Then how do I know that you are Mr. Orme? You may be the very chap I was to keep out, far as I know.”

“Sure enough, I may be,” said Orme dryly, adding—“But I am not. Now go.”

The detective narrowed his eyebrows. “Not without identification.”

“Ask the night-clerk,” exclaimed Orme impatiently. “Can’t you see that I don’t wish to be bothered any longer?”

He went over to the door and threw it open.

“Come,” he continued. “Well, here then”—as the detective did not move—“here’s my card. That ought to do you.”

He took a card from his pocket-case and offered it to the detective, who, after scrutinizing it for a moment, let it fall to the floor.

“Oh, it’s all right, I guess,” he said. “But what shall I say to the chief?”

“Simply say that I didn’t need you any longer.”

The detective picked up his hat and went.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Orme as he closed the door. “But I wonder why I didn’t notice his hat. It was lying here in plain sight.”

He went to the telephone and spoke to the clerk. “Did you let that detective into my apartment?” he asked.

“Why, yes, Mr. Orme. He was one of the regular force, and he said that you wanted him here. I called up the chief’s office, and the order was corroborated. I meant to tell you when you came in, but you passed the desk just while I was down eating my supper. The elevator-boy let you in, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Never mind, it’s all right. Good-night.”

But when Orme examined his traveling-bag, he found that someone had evidently made a search through it. Nothing had been taken, but the orderly arrangement of his effects had been disturbed. His conclusion was that Alcatrante had bribed the fellow to go much farther than official zeal demanded. Doubtless the minister had paid the detective to hunt for a marked five-dollar bill and make a copy of whatever was written on it—which would have been quite a safe proceeding for the detective, if he were not caught at the task. A subtle man, Alcatrante; but no subtler than the Japanese.

Dismissing the incident from his mind, Orme again made ready to return to the all-night restaurant. He paused at the door, however, to give the situation a final analysis. Maku had lost something. After hunting for it vainly, he had gone to the city directory for information which appeared to satisfy him. Then what he lost must have been an address. How would he have been likely to lose it?

Orme’s fatigue was so great that he repeated the question to himself several times without seeing any meaning in it. He forced his tired brain back to the first statement. Maku had lost something. Yes, he had lost something. What was it he had lost? Oh, yes, a paper.

It was futile. His brain refused to work.

Maku had lost a paper. A paper?

“Ah!” Orme was awake now.

“How stupid!” he exclaimed.

For he had entirely forgotten the paper which he had taken from the pocket of the unconscious Maku, there on the campus! He had thrust it into his pocket without looking at it, and in the excitement of his later adventures it had passed utterly from his memory.

Another moment and he had the paper in his hand. His fingers shook as he unfolded it, and he felt angry at his weakness. Yes, there it was—the address—written in an unformed hand. If he had only thought of the paper before, he would have been saved a deal of trouble—would have had more sleep. He read it over several times—“Three forty-one, North Parker Street”—so that he would remember it, if the paper should be lost.

“I’m glad Maku didn’t write it in Japanese!” he exclaimed.