CHAPTER XVIIITHE GOAL
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 muchto 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 forwardby 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 prostrateman 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 anattachéI 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 simplyknewyou 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.
CHAPTER XIXA SAVED SITUATION
He waited impatiently for her return. Bessie, he knew, might be in one of the rooms just across the hall, but, though Bessie was a trump, he did not go to look for her. The girl might come back at any moment—and he did not wish to miss one instant of her presence.
Again he considered the miracle of her appearance in his life, and he rejoiced that, from the first, he had been able to be of service to her. Those loving, trusting words that she had just spoken—how they glowed in his heart! She had known that he would succeed! He could only think that the secret telegraphy of his love had sent her messages of confidence.
And yet he did not even know her name. The house was just such a one as he might have imagined to be her home—beautiful, with the air of a longer family tradition than is commonly found in the Middle West—unobtrusive but complete. And the furnishings of the room in which he was standing were in quiet but perfect taste.
On a table near him lay a book. Mechanically he picked it up.
It opened at the fly-leaf. Something was written there—her name, perhaps.
He closed the cover without reading the inscription, conscious only of a line of writing in a feminine hand that might be hers or another’s. No, he could wait. The name did not matter. She was his, and that was enough.
Near the book lay an empty envelope, addressed to—he averted his eyes.
He found himself wondering whether Poritol was still kneeling in the field, and whether Maku was still running, and whether the Japanese minister was still telling charming stories on the porch at Arradale.
And presently, when she came again, her face radiant, and said softly, “You have done a great thing, my dear”—when she said that, he could only look and look and thank Heaven for his blessedness.
“Where were the papers when you fooled me into leaving you?” she asked.
“Arima had them. It’s quite a story, Girl, dear.”
“Then, wait a little while,” she interrupted; “we have permission to see the papers signed.”
A smile of mischief alone betrayed her recognition of his bewilderment.
Why should the signing be treated as a matter of such importance? It must mean a great deal to her and hers. The hour was now about half-past eleven, and he remembered that in a short time it would have been too late.
She led him through the adjoining room and to the curtained doorway of a library—long, alcoved, shelved with books, and furnished with heavy leather chairs. In the center was a large table of polished mahogany, upon which rested a reading-lamp.
The glow of this lamp illuminated the forms and faces of a group of serious-faced men—two seated, the others standing. In the golden light, with the dim background of shelves, surmounted here and there by a vase or a classic bust, the group impressed Orme like a stately painting—a tableau distinguished by solemn dignity.
“We are to remain here and keep very quiet,” whispered the girl.
Orme nodded. His eyes were fixed on the faceof a man who sat at the table, a pen poised in his hand. Those strong, straight features—the eyes, with their look of sympathetic comprehension, so like the girl’s—the lips, eloquent in their calmness—surely this was her father. But Orme’s heart beat faster, for the face of this man, framed in its wavy gray hair, was familiar. He seemed to know every line of it.
Where had he seen this man? That they had never met, he felt certain, unless, indeed, they had shaken hands in a casual and forgotten introduction.
Or was he led into a feeling of recognition by the undoubted resemblance of father to daughter? No, it could not be that; and yet this man, or his picture—ah! The recognition came to Orme in a flash.
This was the magnetic face that was now so often appearing in the press—the face of the great, the revered, the able statesman upon whom rested so great a part of the burden of the country’s welfare. No wonder that Orme recognized it, for it was the face of the Secretary of State! And the girl was his daughter.
Orme was amazed to think how he had failedto piece the facts together. The rumors of important international negotiations; the sudden but not serious illness of the Secretary; his temporary retirement from Washington to Chicago, to be near his favorite physician—for weeks the papers had been full of these incidents.
When South Americans and Japanese combined to hinder the signing of mysterious papers, he should have realized that the matter was not of private, but of public importance. But the true significance of the events into which he had been drawn had escaped his logical mind. It had never occurred to him that such a series of plots, frequent though they might be in continental Europe, could ever be attempted in a country like the United States. And then, he had actually thought of little besides the girl and her needs.
He glanced at her now, but her gaze was fixed on the scene before them. The brightness of her eyes and her quickened breathing told him how intense was her interest.
Across the table from the Secretary of State sat a younger man. His breast glittered with decorations, and his bearing and appearance had all the stiffness of the high-born Teuton.
Of the men who stood behind the two seated figures, some were young, some were old, but all were weighted with the gravity of a great moment. Orme inferred that they were secretaries andattachés.
And now pens scratched on paper. The Secretary of State and the German Ambassador—for Orme knew that it must be he—were signing documents, apparently in duplicate, for they exchanged papers after signing and repeated the action. So these were the papers which at the last hour Orme had restored; and this was the scene which his action had made possible—all for the sake of a girl.
And when the last pen-stroke had been completed and the seated men raised their eyes and looked at each other—looked at each other with the responsible glance of men who have made history—at that moment the girl whispered to Orme: “Come,” and silently he followed her back to the room in which he had first awaited her.
“Oh, Girl,” he whispered, as she turned and faced him, “Oh, Girl, I am so glad!”
She smiled. “Please wait for a moment.”
When she had disappeared he repictured thescene they had just witnessed. With all its absence of pomp, it had left with him an impression that could never be effaced.
Again the girl appeared in the doorway, and leaning on her arm was her father. Orme stepped forward. The Secretary smiled and extended his hand.
“Mr. Orme,” he said, “we owe you much. My daughter has told me something of your experiences. You may be sure that I had no notion, when this affair began, that she would have to envelop herself and others in so much mystery, but now that all has ended well, I can only be thankful.” He seated himself. “You will excuse me; I am not quite strong yet, though, as I might say, very convalescent.”
The girl was leaning on the back of her father’s chair. “Tell father the story, won’t you, please?” she asked.
So Orme quickly narrated the series of events that began with his stroll along State Street the afternoon of the day before. “It doesn’t sound true, does it?” he concluded.
“But the marked five-dollar bill will always be evidence of its truth,” said the girl; and then,with a suggestion of adorable shyness, “We must go and redeem that bill sometime.”
The Secretary was pondering. He had listened with manifest interest, interrupting now and then with questions that helped to bring out salient points. At the report of the conversation between Alcatrante and the Japanese concerning the commissions on ships, he had leaned forward with especial attention. And now, after a few moments of thought, he said:
“The Japanese minister we can handle. As for Alcatrante, I must see to it that he is recalled—and Poritol.”
“Poor little Mr. Poritol!” exclaimed the girl. “Do you think he is still kneeling in that field?”
“Possibly,” said Orme, smiling. “We will look to see when we go to redeem the bill.”
“I think, Mr. Orme,” said the Secretary, “that I may fairly give you a little clearer insight into the importance of the papers which you rescued for us. You have seen stories of the rumors of negotiations with some foreign Power?”
“Yes,” said Orme.
“But, perhaps you have not known of the secret but aggressive policy which Japan has latelyadopted toward us. The exchange of friendly notes a few years ago might as well not have occurred. If we had done nothing to check the tendencies in the Pacific, we should have been at war within another year. Only a complete understanding and definite agreement with some strong nation could prevent hostilities. The Anglo-Japanese alliance eliminated Great Britain as a possible ally. There were reasons why it seemed inadvisable to turn to France, for an arrangement there would involve the recognition of Russian interests. Therefore, we sought an alliance with Germany.
“The German Ambassador and myself drafted a treaty last month, with the proviso that it must be signed within a certain period which, as you know, will expire within a few minutes. My illness followed, and with it the necessity of coming to our home, here. I had expected to return to Washington last week, but as Doctor Allison forbade me to travel for a while longer, I had the drafts of the treaty sent on, and urged the German Ambassador to pay me a long-deferred visit. He and his suite have been here several days, in mufti.
“Now, Mr. Orme, this treaty concerns two important relations—a just balance of power in the Pacific and a just arrangement by which the countries of South America can be made to live up to their obligations. I cannot go into details, and it will be some months before the treaty will be made public—but Japan must not dominate our Pacific trade routes, and the Monroe Doctrine must be applied in such a manner that it will not shelter evil-doers. You understand now why Alcatrante and the Japanese minister were working together.”
“It is quite clear,” said Orme. “I don’t wish you to tell me any more than is advisable, but the Japanese minister said that, if the new treaty should lapse, the German Government would not renew it.”
“Very true,” said the Secretary. “The German Ambassador is pleased with the treaty. After it had been drafted, however, and after his home government had agreed to the terms, Japan brought pressure to bear in Germany. The result of this Japanese effort—which contained a counter-proposition for the isolation of Russia—was that the German Government weakened—not tothe point of disavowing the arrangement with us, but in the event of a redrafting of the treaty, to the adoption of a less favorable basis of negotiations, or, possibly, even to the interposition of such obstacles as would make a treaty possible. You can see how essential these papers were to us. There was not time to provide new copies, for the lost drafts carried certain seals and necessary signatures which could not be duplicated on short notice.”
“Did the German Ambassador know of the loss?” Orme was encouraged to ask questions by the Secretary’s obvious desire to explain as fully as he could.
“No one knew of it, Mr. Orme, excepting my daughter and myself—that is, no one besides the South Americans and the Japanese. It seemed wise to say nothing. There were no secret service men at hand, and even if there had been, I doubt if they would have acted as efficiently as you have acted. The police, I know, would have bungled, and, above all else, publicity had to be avoided.
“As things have turned out, I am glad that Poritol set his burglar on us when he did; otherwiseMaku would have got the treaty at the last moment. Alcatrante’s desire to secure a diplomatic advantage over the Japanese was really the saving of us.”
The Secretary paused. His face lighted up with a rare smile. “Above everything else, Mr. Orme, I thank you.”
He arose and rang for a servant.
“And now,” he continued, “I know you will excuse me if I return to my guests. My daughter will bring you in presently, so that we may have the pleasure of making you acquainted with them. And, of course, you will remain with us till to-morrow.” He smiled again and went slowly from the room on the arm of the servant.
Orme turned to the girl. Her face was rosy and her eyes were fixed on the arm of her chair.
“Girl, dear,” he said, “I can hardly believe that it is all true.”
She did not answer, and while he gazed at her, surprised at her silence, failing to understand her sudden embarrassment, Bessie Wallingham appeared in the doorway and stood hesitant.
“Am I still not wanted?” said Bessie, roguery in her voice. “Sure, ye’ll find me a faithful servant.I minds me own business and asks no questions.”
The girl rushed over to her friend.
“Oh, Bessie,” she cried, with a little laugh—“Oh, Bessie, won’t you please come in and—and——”
Orme began to understand. “And wait for us a little longer,” he broke in.
Masterfully he led the girl out through the doorway to the hall.
Bessie Wallingham looked after their retreating figures. “Well? I never!” she exclaimed.
THE END
THE END