CHAPTER V“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 theyturned. 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 anglesand 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 countinghis 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 thefence 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 hehad 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. Anagile 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, buttime 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 darknessor 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.
CHAPTER VIA CHANCE LEAD
To follow the girl’s suggestion and return at once to Chicago was Orme’s intention when he said good-night to her. The hour was close to midnight, and the evening had been crowded so full with bewildering adventure that he was tired. Moreover, he looked forward to a morning that might well test his endurance even more strenuously.
He had now committed himself definitely to continue in the field against the Japanese. Except for his desire to serve this wonderful girl who had come so suddenly into his life, he doubtless would have permitted the mystery of the marked bill to remain unsolved. But since the recovery of the stolen papers was so important to her, he was prepared to run any risk in the struggle.
Who was she? But no, that was a question she did not wish him to ask. She was simply “Girl”—beautiful, tender, comprehending—his ideal incarnate. As he stood there, hesitant, before thehouse into which she had disappeared, he pictured her again—even to the strand of rebellious hair which had blown across her cheek. He could discover no fault in her perfection.
A man came into view on the drive at the side of the house: a servant to care for the car, of course; and Orme, with the uneasy feeling of one who has been trespassing, moved away toward the corner of the block. He looked back, however, and saw the newcomer clamber into the car and send it slowly up the drive.
At the same time a light illumined one of the upper windows of the house. A shadow was thrown on the curtain. Perhaps it was the girl herself. What explanation had she given her friends for appearing so late at their door? Probably she had told them no more than that she was tired and belated. She was not the kind of girl from whom an elaborate explanation would be asked or expected.
Then a thought startled him. Was this, perhaps, her home? No, she had spoken of the people who lived here as her friends, and she would not have tried to keep the truth from him by subterfuge. If this were her home and she had notwished him to know it, she would have requested him to leave her before they had come so far.
It dawned upon him that it would not be hard for him to learn who lived in this house, and possibly through that knowledge to get a clue to her identity. His heart warmed as he realized how completely she had trusted him. His assurance that he would not try to find out who she was had satisfied her. And Orme knew that, if she had been so readily assured, it was because she had recognized the truth and devotion in him.
With a happy sigh, he turned his back once and for all and walked rapidly away. But he did not go toward the electric-car line, which he knew must lie a few blocks to the west. Instead, he retraced the course they had come, for he had decided to visit the university campus once more and try to discover what had become of Maku, and more especially of the other Japanese, who had secured the papers. That he would be recognized and connected with the attack on Maku, was unlikely.
When he came to the corner of Sheridan Road and Chicago Avenue, he hesitated for a moment. Should he go north through the campus and seek a trace of the Japanese who had escaped? Nearlyhalf an hour had gone since the adventure among the trees, and the man must have got completely away by this time. Having the papers, he surely would not linger to learn the fate of Maku.
Orme found himself wondering how the Japanese had got to Evanston. Granting that it had not taken them long to solve the abbreviated directions on the five-dollar bill, they could hardly have come by motor-car, for they had had a good half-hour start, and yet Orme had discovered them before their work was completed. Only on the assumption that their car had broken down on the way could Orme admit that they had used a motor-car. Moreover, how were two Japanese, whose appearance did not indicate the possession of much ready money—how were they likely to have a car, or even to rent one? And had they believed that they might be pursued? Would they not have come to Evanston by an obvious route of train or trolley.
These considerations led Orme to think that the car which he and the girl had heard in the distance could not have been occupied by the escaping Japanese.
The fellow, then, had probably made for theelectric-car line, and in that event he would be well on his way to Chicago by this time. The car he had caught must have gone southward from Evanston about ten forty-five. The conductor would be likely to remember having had a Japanese on board; perhaps he would even remember where the Oriental had got off. The natural course for Orme, therefore, was to take a car himself and, if he did not meet the other car returning, to get off at the car-barns and make inquiries. The possibility that the Japanese had changed to the elevated road on the North Side was great, but the conductor might remember if the change had been made.
But Orme did not turn at once toward the car-line. Though his logic pointed in that direction, he was irresistibly influenced by a desire to walk eastward along the drive where it skirted the southern end of the campus. A half-hour might go by, and still he would not be too late to meet, on its return, the car which the Japanese would have taken. He started, therefore, eastward, toward the lake, throwing frequent glances through the iron fence at his left and into the dark shadows of the oaks.
He came to the lake without encountering anyone. The road here swept to the southward, and on the beach near the turn squatted the low brick building which the girl had told him was the life-saving station. A man was standing on the little veranda. His suit of duck was dimly white in the light from the near-by street-lamps.
“One of the crew,” Orme surmised, and he sauntered slowly down the little path.
The beach sloped grayly to the edge of the lake, where a breakwater thrust its blunt nose out like a stranded hulk. The water was calm, lapping the sand so gently that it was hard to believe that so gentle a murmur could ever swell into the roar of a northeaster. A launch that was moored at the outer end of the breakwater lay quiet on the tideless surface.
“Good-evening,” said Orme, as the man turned his head. “Are you on watch?”
The life-saver slowly stretched. “Till twelve,” he answered.
“Not much longer, then?”
“No, thank heaven!”
Orme laughed. “I suppose you do get more than you want of it,” he said. “But on a finenight like this I should think it would be mighty pleasant.”
“Not if you have to put in several hours of study after you get through.”
“Study?”
“Yes. You see, I have a special examination to-morrow.”
“A service examination?”
“Oh, no—college.”
“Are you a student?”
“All the crew are students. It helps a good deal, if you are working your way through college.”
“Oh, I see. But surely the university hasn’t opened for the fall?”
“No, but there are preliminary exams, for those who have conditions to work off.”
Orme nodded. “It’s a fine campus you have—with the groves of oaks.”
“Yes.”
“Just the place for a quiet evening stroll. I thought I’d walk up the shore.”
“There’s a rule against going in there after dark.”
“Is there? That’s too bad.”
“Something funny happened there just a little while ago.”
“So? What was it?” Orme was getting close to the subject he most desired to hear explained.
“Why, one of the cops was walking along the shore and he found a Japanese, stunned.”
“A Japanese!”
“He evidently had wandered in there and somebody had hit him over the head with a club.”
“After money?”
“Probably. There’ve been a good many holdups lately. But the slugger didn’t have a chance to get anything this time.”
“How so?”
“He was bending over the Jap when the cop came up. He got away.”
“Didn’t the cop chase him?”
“No, the fellow had a good start, so the cop stayed by the Jap.”
“And what became of the Jap?”
The life-saver jerked his head toward the door beside him. “He’s in there, getting over his headache.”
“Is he?” This was a contingency which Orme had not foreseen. Nor had he any desire to comeface to face with Maku. But if he betrayed his surprise, the life-saver did not notice it.
“The cop is taking another look through the campus,” he continued.
“What does the Jap say about it?” asked Orme.
“He doesn’t say anything. It looks as though he couldn’t speak English. The cop is going to get Asuki.”
“Asuki?”
“A Jap student who lives in the dormitory.”
“Oh,” said Orme.
The fact that Maku would not talk was in a measure reassuring. His apparent inability to understand English was, of course, assumed, unless, indeed, he was still too completely dazed by the blow which Orme had given him, to use a tongue which was more or less strange to him. But what would he say if he saw Orme? Would he not accuse his assailant, hoping thus to delay the pursuit of his companion?
The danger was by no means slight. Orme decided quickly to get away from this neighborhood. But just as he was about to bid the life-saver a casual good-night, two men came around the corner of the building. One was a policeman, theother a young Japanese. Orme unobtrusively seated himself on the edge of the little veranda.
“How is he?” asked the policeman.
“All right, I guess,” replied the life-saver. “I looked in a few minutes ago, and he was sitting up. Hello, Asuki.”
“Hello, there,” responded the little Japanese.
“Come,” said the policeman, after an unsuspicious glance at Orme, and, mounting the steps, he led his interpreter into the station.
Now, indeed, it was time for Orme to slip away. Maku might be brought out at any moment. But Orme lingered. He was nearer to the solution of the secret if he kept close to Maku, and he realized, for that matter, that by watching Maku closely and, perhaps, following him home, he might be led straight to the other man. If Maku accused him, it should not, after all, be hard to laugh the charge away.
A murmur of voices came from within the station, the policeman’s words alone being distinguishable.
“Ask him,” the policeman said, “if he knows who hit him.”
The undertones of a foreign jargon followed.
“Well, then,” continued the policeman, “find out where he came from and what he was doing on the campus.”
Again the undertones, and afterward an interval of silence. Then the policeman spoke in an undecided voice.
“If he don’t know anything, I can’t do anything. But we might as well get a few more facts. Something might turn up. Ask him whether he saw anybody following him when he went into the campus.”
Orme had been straining his ears in a vain endeavor to catch the words of Asuki. But suddenly his attention was diverted by a sound from the lake. It was the “puh-puh-puh-puh” of a motor-boat, apparently a little distance to the northward. The explosions followed one another in rapid succession.
He turned to the life-saver.
“What boat is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Some party from Chicago, probably. She came up an hour or so ago—at least, I suppose she’s the same one.”
The explosions were now so rapid as to make almost one continuous roar.
“She’s a fast one, all right,” commented the life-saver. “Hear her go!”
“Are there many fast boats on the lake?”
“Quite a number. They run out from Chicago harbor now and then.”
Orme was meditating.
“Exactly how long ago did this boat pass?”
“Oh, an hour or more. Why?”
“She seems to have been beached up north here a little way.”
“She may have been. Or they’ve been lying to out there.”
In Orme’s mind arose a surmise that in this motor-boat Maku and his companion had come from Chicago. The surmise was so strong as to develop quickly into a certainty. And if the Japanese had come by this boat, it stood to reason that the one who had the papers was escaping in it. He must have waited some time for Maku and, at last, had pushed off to return alone.
Were these Japanese acting for themselves? That did not seem possible. Then who was their employer?
Orme did not puzzle long over these questions, for he had determined on a course of action. Hespoke to the life-saver, who appeared to be listening to the droning conversation which continued within the station.
“The hold-up men may be in that boat,” remarked Orme.
“Hardly.” A laugh accompanied the answer.
“Well, why not? She came north an hour or so ago and either was beached or lay to until just now.”
“You may be right.” Then, before Orme knew what was happening, the young man opened the door and called into the station: “Hey, there! Your robber is escaping on that motor-boat out there.”
“What’s that?” The policeman strode to the door.
“Don’t you hear that boat out there?” asked the life-saver.
“Sure, I hear it.”
“Well, she came up from the south an hour or more ago and stopped a little north of here. Now she’s going back. Mr. Holmes, here”—he grinned as he said it—“Mr. Holmes suggests that the hold-up man is aboard.”
The reference to the famous detective of fictionwas lost upon the policeman. “I guess that’s about it, Mr. Holmes,” he said excitedly; and Orme was much relieved to note that the life-saver’s humorous reference had passed for an introduction. The policeman would have no suspicion of him now—unless Maku——
There was an exclamation from within the room. “What’s the matter?” asked the policeman, turning in the doorway.
The voice of Asuki replied: “He say the robber came in a bicycle—not in a boat.”
“But I thought he didn’t see the fellow coming.”
“He remember now.”
The policeman started. “How did he know what we were talking about out here?” he demanded.
“He understand English, but not speak it,” replied Asuki readily.
To the policeman this explanation was satisfactory. Orme, of course, found in it a corroboration of his guess. Maku evidently did not wish suspicion directed against the motor-boat.
The policeman re-entered the station, eager to avail himself of the information which Maku was now disposed to give him.
Orme turned to the life-saver. “The Jap is lying,” he said.
“Think so?”
“Of course. If he understands English so well, he certainly knows how to make himself understood in it. His story of the bicycle is preposterous.”
“But what then?”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that perhaps the Jap himself is the robber? His intended victim may have got the better of him.”
“Yes,” said the young man doubtfully, “but the fellow ran.”
“That would be natural. Doubtless he didn’t want any notoriety. It’s possible that he thought he had killed his assailant, and had an unpleasant vision of being detained in the local jail until the affair could be cleared up.”
The life-saver looked at Orme searchingly.
“That sounds pretty straight,” he said at last. “I guess you know what you are talking about.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Orme quietly. “In any event I’d like to see who’s in that boat out there.”
“There isn’t a boat nearer than Chicago that could catch her. They have run her several miles out into the lake before turning south, or she wouldhave been pretty close to Chicago already. She’s going fast.”
The roar of the motor was indeed becoming a far-off sound.
“Why not telephone the Chicago police to intercept her?”
“There’s no evidence against her,” replied Orme; “only surmises.”
“I know, but——”
“And, as I suggested, whoever was attacked by that Jap in there may not want notoriety.”
Suddenly the distant explosions stopped—began again—stopped. Several times they were renewed at short intervals—“puh-puh-puh”——“puh-puh”——“puh-puh-puh-puh”—then they ceased altogether.
“Hello!” exclaimed the life-saver. “They’ve broken down.”
He picked up a pair of binoculars which had been lying on the veranda near him, and scanned the surface of the lake.
“Make her out?” queried Orme.
“No, she’s too small, and too far off.” He handed the night-glass to Orme, who in turn searched the water vainly.
“Whose boat is that moored to the breakwater?” asked Orme, lowering the glass.
“Belongs to a man here in town.”
“Would he rent it?”
“No. But he lets us run it once in a while. We keep an eye on it for him.”
Orme took out his watch. “It’s almost twelve,” he said. “You’ll be relieved in a few moments. Do you suppose I could persuade you to take me out to the other boat?”
The life-saver hesitated. “I’d like to,” he said. “But my study——”
“There’ll be some sport, if we get within reach of the man out there,” Orme put in.
“Well—I’ll do it—though the chances are that they will make their repairs and be off again before we come within a mile.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” said Orme. “If you would let me make it right——”
“For taking you out in another man’s boat? No, sir.”
“I know. Well—my name is Orme, not Holmes.”
“And mine,” grinned the life-saver, “is Porter.”
A man turned in from the drive, and sauntered toward them.
“There’s my relief,” said Porter. “Hello, Kelmsley.”
“Hello,” replied the newcomer.
“Just wait till I punch the clock,” said Porter to Orme.
“Punch the clock? Oh, I see; the government times you.”
“Yes.”
Porter went into the station for a moment; then, returning, he exchanged a few words with the relief and led Orme down to the breakwater. The launch which was moored there proved to be a sturdy boat, built for strength rather than for speed.
Orme cast off while Porter removed the tarpaulin from the motor and made ready to turn the wheel over.
“Is the policeman still busy with the Jap?” Orme questioned suddenly.
“Yes.”
“He won’t get anything out of him,” said Orme—“except fairy-stories.”
Porter started the motor and stepped forwardto the steering-wheel. Slowly the launch pushed out into the open lake, and the lights of the shore receded.
No sound had come from the disabled boat since its motor stopped. Doubtless it was too far off for the noise of repairs to be heard on the shore. Orme peered over the dark surface of the water, but he could see nothing except the lights of a distant steamer.
“I know why he went out so far,” remarked Porter. “He is running without lights.”
“That in itself is suspicious, isn’t it?” Orme asked.
“Why, yes, I suppose so—though people aren’t always as careful as they might be. Our own lights aren’t lighted, you see.”
“Have you any clue at all as to where she is?”
“Only from the direction the sounds came from just before the explosions stopped. She had headway enough to slide some distance after that, and I’m allowing for it—and for the currents. With the lake as it is, she would be carried in a little.”
For nearly half an hour they continued straight out toward mid-lake. Orme noticed that there was a slight swell. The lights of Evanston were nowmere twinkling distant points, far away over the dark void of the waters.
Porter shut off the power. “We must be pretty near her,” he said.
They listened intently.
“Perhaps I steered too far south,” said Porter at last.
He threw on the power, and sent the boat northward in slow, wide circles. The distant steamship had made progress toward the northeast—bound, perhaps, for Muskegon, or some other port on the Michigan shore. She was a passenger steamer, apparently, for lines of portholes and deck-windows were marked by dots of light. There was no other sign of human presence to be seen on the lake, and Orme’s glance expectantly wandered to her lights now and then.
At last, while he was looking at it, after a fruitless search of the darkness, he was startled by a strange phenomenon. The lights of the steamer suddenly disappeared. An instant later they shone out again.
With an exclamation, Orme seized the steering-wheel and swung it over to the right.
“There she is,” he cried, and then: “Excuseme for taking the wheel that way, but I was afraid I’d lose her.”
“I don’t see her,” said Porter.
“No; but something dark cut off the lights of that steamer. Hold her so.” He let go the wheel and peered ahead.
Presently they both saw a spot of blacker blackness in the night. Porter set the motor at half-speed.
“Have you got a bull’s-eye lantern?” asked Orme in an undertone.
“Yes, in that locker.”
Orme stooped and lighted the lantern in the shelter of the locker.
“Now run up alongside,” he said, “and ask if they need help.”
The outline of the disabled boat now grew more distinct. Porter swung around toward it and called:
“Need help?”
After a moment’s wait, a voice replied:
“Yes. You tow me to Chicago. I pay you.”
It was a voice which Orme recognized as that of the Japanese who had been with Maku in the attack at the Père Marquette.
“Can’t do that,” answered Porter. “I’ll take you in to Evanston.”
“No!” The tone was expostulatory. “I go to Chicago. I fix engine pretty soon.”
At this moment Orme raised his lantern and directed its light into the other boat. It shone into the blinking eyes of the Japanese, standing by the motor. It shone——
Great Heaven! Was he dreaming? Orme could not believe his eyes. The light revealed the face of the one person he least expected to see—for, seated on a cushion at the forward end of the cockpit, was the girl!