The Girl and The Bill Part 47

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 j.a.panese 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 j.a.p 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 _attache_ 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."