The chauffeur was opening the door of the waiting car. It was a black car—a car with strangely familiar lines. Orme started. “Where did that come from?” he demanded.

Bessie smiled at him. “That is my surprise for you. My very dear friend, whom you so much desire to see, telephoned me here this evening and asked me to spend the night with her instead of returning to Chicago. She promised to send her car for me. It was long enough coming, goodness knows, but if it had appeared sooner, I should, have gone before you arrived.”

Orme understood. The girl had telephoned to Bessie while he waited there on La Salle Street. She had planned a meeting that would satisfy him with full knowledge of her name and place. And the lateness of the car in reaching Arradale was unquestionably owing to the fact that it had not set out on its errand until after the girl reached home and gave her chauffeur the order. Orme welcomed this evidence that she had got home safely.

Bessie jumped lightly into the tonneau, and Orme followed. The car glided from the grounds. Eastward it went, through the pleasant, rolling farming country, that was wrapped in the beauty of the starry night. They crossed a bridge over a narrow creek.

“You would hardly think,” said Bessie, “that this is so-called North Branch of the Chicago River.”

“I would believe anything about that river,” he replied.

She laughed nervously. He knew that she was suppressing her natural interest in the scene she had witnessed on the veranda; yet, of course, she was expecting some explanation.

“Bessie,” he said, “I am sorry to have got into such a muss there at the club. The Japanese minister was the last man I wanted to see.”

She did not answer.

“Perhaps your friend—whom we are now going to visit—will explain things a little,” he went on. “I can tell you only that I had in my pocket certain papers which the Jap would have given much to get hold of. He tried it by accusing me of stealing them from him. It was very awkward.”

“I understand better than you think,” she said, suddenly. “Don’t you see, you big stupid, that I know where we are going? That tells me something. I can put two and two together.”

“Then I needn’t try to do any more explaining of things I can’t explain.”

“Of course not. You are forgiven all. Just think, Bob, it’s nearly a year since you stood up with Tom and me.”

“That’s so!”

“How time does go! See”—as the car turned at a crossing—“we are going northward. We are bound for the village of Winnetka. Does that tell you anything?”

“Nothing at all,” said Orme, striving vainly to give the Indian name a place in his mind.

On they sped. Orme looked at his watch. It was half-past ten.

“We must be nearly there,” he said.

“Yes, it’s only a little way, now.”

They were going eastward again, following a narrow dirt road. Suddenly the chauffeur threw the brakes on hard. Orme and Bessie, thrown forward by the sudden stopping, clutched the sides of the car. There was a crash, and they found themselves in the bottom of the tonneau.

Orme was unharmed. “Are you all right, Bessie? he asked.

“All right.” Her voice was cheery.

He leaped to the road. The chauffeur had descended and was hurrying to the front of the car.

“What was it?” asked Orme.

“Someone pushed a wheelbarrow into the road just as we were coming.”

“A wheelbarrow!”

“Yes, sir. There it is.”

Orme looked at the wheelbarrow. It was wedged under the front of the car. He peered off into the field at the left. Dimly he could see a running figure, and he hastily climbed the rail fence and started in pursuit.

It was a hard sprint. The running man was fast on his feet, but his speed did not long serve him, for he stumbled and fell. He did not rise, and Orme, coming up, for the moment supposed him to be stunned.

Bending over, he discovered that the prostrate man was panting hard, and digging his hands into the turf.

“Get up,” commanded Orme.

The man got to his knees and, turning, raised supplicating hands.

“Poritol!” exclaimed Orme.

“Oh, Mr. Orme, spare me. It was an accident.” His face worked convulsively. “I—I——” Something like a sob escaped him, and Orme again found himself divided between contempt and pity.

“What were you doing with that wheelbarrow?”

Poritol kept his frightened eyes on Orme’s face, but he said nothing.

“Well, I will explain it. You followed the car when it started for Arradale. You waited here, found a wheelbarrow, and tried to wreck us. It is further evidence of your comic equipment that you should use a wheelbarrow.”

Poritol got to his feet. “You are mistaken, dear Mr. Orme. I—I——”

Orme smiled grimly. “Stop,” he said. “Don’t explain. Now I want you to stay right here in this field for a half hour. Don’t budge. If I catch you outside, I’ll take you to the nearest jail.”

Poritol drew himself up. “As an attachÉ I am exempt,” he said, with a pitiful attempt at dignity.

“You are not exempt from the consequences of a crime like this. Now, get on your knees.”

Whimpering, Poritol kneeled.

“Stay in that position.”

“Oh, sir—oh, my very dear sir. I——”

“Stay there!” thundered Orme.

Poritol was still, but his lips moved, and his interlaced fingers worked convulsively.

As Orme walked away, he stopped now and then to look back. Poritol did not move, and Orme long carried the picture of that kneeling figure.

“Who was it?” asked Bessie Wallingham, as he climbed back over the fence.

“A puppy with sharp teeth,” he replied, thinking of what the girl had said. “We might as well forget him.”

She studied him in silence, then pointed to the chauffeur, who was down at the side of the car.

“Anything damaged?” Orme queried.

“Yes, sir.”

“Much?”

“Two hours’ work, sir.”

“Pshaw!” Orme shut his teeth down hard; Poritol, had he known it, might have felt thankful that he was not near at hand. He turned to Bessie. “How much farther is it?”

The chauffeur answered. “About three miles, sir.”

Three miles over dark country roads—and it was nearly eleven o’clock. He glanced ahead. In the distance a light twinkled.

“Bessie,” he said, “come with me to that farmhouse. We must go on. Or, if you prefer to wait here——”

“I’ll go with you, of course.”

They walked along the road to the farm gate. A cur yelped at their feet as they approached the house, and an old man, coatless and slippered, opened the door, holding an oil lamp high above his head. “Down, Rover! What do you want?” he shouted.

“We’ve got to have a rig to take us to Winnetka,” said Orme. “Our car broke down.”

The old man reflected. “Can’t do it,” he said, at last. “All shet up fer the night. Can’t leave the missus alone.”

A head protruded from a dark upper window. “Yes, you can, Simeon,” growled a woman’s guttural voice.

“Wall—I don’t know——”

“Yes, you can.” She turned to Orme. “He’ll take ye fer five dollars cash. Ye can pay me.”

Orme turned to Bessie. “Have you any money?” he whispered.

“Heavens! I left my hand-bag in my locker at the clubhouse. How stupid!”

“Never mind.” Orme saw that he must lose the marked bill after all. Regretfully he took it from his pocket. The woman had disappeared from the window, and now she came to the door and stood behind her husband. Wrapped in an old blanket, she made a gaunt figure, not unlike a squaw. As Orme walked up the two or three steps, she stretched her hand over her husband’s shoulder and snatched the bill, examining it closely by the lamplight.

“What’s this writin’ on it?” she demanded, fiercely.

“Oh, that’s just somebody’s joke. It doesn’t hurt anything.”

“Well, I don’t know.” She looked at it doubtfully, then crumpled it tight in her fist. “I guess it’ll pass. Git a move on you, Simeon.”

The old man departed, grumbling, to the barn, and the woman drew back into the house, shutting the door carefully. Orme and Bessie heard the bolts click as she shot them home.

“Hospitable!” exclaimed Bessie, seating herself on the doorstep.

After a wait that seemed interminable, the old man came driving around the house. To a ramshackle buggy he had hitched a decrepit horse. They wedged in as best they could, the old man between them, and at a shuffling amble the nag proceeded through the gate and turned eastward.

In the course of twenty minutes they crossed railroad tracks and entered the shady streets of the village, Bessie directing the old man where to drive. Presently they came to the entrance of what appeared to be an extensive estate. Back among the trees glimmered the lights of a house. “Turn in,” said Bessie.

A thought struck Orme. If Poritol, why not the Japanese? Maku and his friends might easily have got back to this place. And if the minister had been able to telephone to his allies from Arradale, they would be expecting him.

“Stop!” he whispered. “Let me out. You drive on to the door and wait there for me.”

Bessie nodded. She did not comprehend, but she accepted the situation unhesitatingly.

Orme noted, by the light of the lamp at the gate, the shimmer of the veil that was wound around her hat.

“Give me your veil,” he said.

She withdrew the pins and unwound the piece of gossamer. He took it and stepped to the ground, concealing himself among the trees that lined the drive.

The buggy proceeded slowly. Orme followed afoot, on a parallel course, keeping well back among the trees. At a certain point, after the buggy passed, a figure stepped out into the drive, and stood looking after it. From his build and the peculiar agility of his motions, he was recognizable as Maku. Orme hunted about till he found a bush from which he could quietly break a wand about six feet long. Stripping it of leaves, he fastened the veil to one end of it and tip-toed toward the drive.

The Japanese was still looking after the buggy, which had drawn up before the house.

Suddenly, out of the darkness a sinuous gray form came floating toward him. It wavered, advanced, halted, then seemed to rush. The sÉance the afternoon was fresh in the mind of the Japanese. With screams of terror, he turned and fled down the drive, while Orme, removing the veil from the stick, moved on toward the house. Madame Alia’s game certainly was effective in dealing with Orientals.

A moment later Orme and Bessie had crossed the roomy veranda and were at the door, while the old man, still grumbling, swung around the circle of the drive and rattled away. Orme’s heart was pounding. When the servant answered the bell, he drew back and he did not hear the words which Bessie spoke in a low voice. They were ushered into a wide reception-hall, and the servant went to announce them.

“You wish to see her alone,” said Bessie. “Go in there and I will arrange it.”

He went as she directed, into a little reception-room, and there he waited while subdued feminine greetings were exchanged in the hall without. Then, at last, through the doorway came the gracious, lovely figure of the girl.

“Oh,” she whispered, “I knew you would come, dear—I knew.”

He took her hands and drew her to him. But with a glance at the doorway she held herself away from him.

In his delight at seeing her he had almost forgotten his mission. But now he remembered.

“I have the papers,” he said, taking them from his pocket.

“I was sure you had them. I was sure that you would come.”

He laid them in her hands. “Forgive me, Girl, for fooling you with that blank contract.”

She laughed happily. “I didn’t look at it until I got home. Then I was so disappointed that I almost cried. But when I thought it over, I understood. Oh, my dear, I believed in you so strongly that even then I went to my father and told him that the papers were on the way—that they would be here in time. I just simply knew you would come.”

Regardless of the open doorway he clasped her closely, and she buried her face in his coat with a little laugh that was almost a sob. Then, suddenly, she left him standing there and, holding the papers tight, went from the room.