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GIRL
^^BILL
CHAPTER I.
The Threshold of Adventure.
The roar of State street filled the
ears of Robert Orme not unpleasantly.
He liked Chicago, felt towards the
western city something more than the
tolerant, patronizing interest which
go often characterizes the eastern
man. To him it was the hub of gen
uine Americanism—young, aggressive,
pernaps a bit too cocksure, but ever
bounding along with eyes toward the
future. Here was the city of great
beginnings, the city of experiment
experiment with life; hence its incom
pleteness—an incompleteness not dis
similar to that of life itself. Chi
cago lived; it was the pulse of the
great middle west.
Orme watched the procession with
clear eyes. He had been strolling
southward from the Masonic Temple,
Into the shopping district. Th&
clangor, the smoke and dust, the hur
rying crowds, all worked into his
mood. The expectation of adventure
was far from him. Nor was he a man
who sought impressions for amuse
ment; whatever came to him he weigh
ed, and accepted or rejected according
as it was valueless or useful. Whole
some he was; any one might infer
that from his face. Doubtless, his
fault lay in his overemphasis on the
purely practical; but that, after all,
was a lawyer’s fault, and it was
counterbalanced by a sweet kindliness
toward all the world—a loveableness
which made for him a friend of every
chance acquaintance.
It was well along in the afternoon,
and shoppers were hurrying home
ward. Orme noted the fresh beauty
of the women and girls—Chicago has
reason to be„proud of her daughters
■—and his heart beat a little faster.
Not that he was a man to be caught
by every pretty stranger; but scarce
ly recognized by himself, there was a
hidden spring of romance in his prac
tical nature. Heart-free, he never met
a woman without wondering whether
she was the one. He had never found
her; he did not know that he was
looking for her; yet always there was
the unconscious question.
A distant whistle, the clanging of
gongs, the rapid beat of galloping
hoofs —fire engines were racing down
the street. Cars stopped, vehicles of
all kinds crowded in toward the curbs.
Orme paused and watched the fire
horses go thundering by, their smo
king chariots swaying behind them
and dropping long trails of sparks.
'Small boys were running, men and
women were stopping to gaze after
the passing engines, but Orme’s at
tention was taken by something that
was happening near by, and as the
gongs and the hoof-beats grew fainter
he looked with Interest to the street
beside him.
He had got as far as the corner of
>Madison street. The scramble to get
out of the way of the engines had
here resulted in a traffic jam. Two
^policemen were moving about, shout
ing orders for the disentanglement of
the street cars and vehicles which,
seemed to be inextricably wedged to
gether.
A burly Irish teamster was bellow-
Ing at his horse. The hind wheel of
* smart barouche was caugiit in the
fore wheel of a delivery wagon, and
the driver of the delivery wagon was
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/// I I X.
'"~ 1 'VI
Orme Lifted Hie Straw Hat From His Head.
expressing his opinion of the situation
in terms which seemed to embarrass
the elderly gentleman who sat in the
barouche- Orme’s eye traveled
through the outer edge of the dis
turbance, and sought its center.
There in the midst of the tangle
was a big black touring car. Its one
occupant was a girl—and sjich a girl!
Her fawn-colored cloak was thrown
open; her face was unveiled. Orme
was thrilled when he caught the
glory of her sac clear skin,
browned by outdoor living; the de
mure but regular features; the eyes
that seemed to transmute and reflect
softly all impressions from without.
Orme had never seen any one like
her —so nobly unconscious of self, so
appealing and yet so calm.
She was waiting patiently, inter
ested in the clamor about her, but
seemingly undisturbed by her own
part in it. Orme’s eyes did not leave
her face. He was merely one of a
crowd at the curb, unnoted by her,
•but when after a time, he became
aware that he was staring, he felt the
blood 1 rush to his cheeks, and he mut
tered: “What a boor I am!” And
then, “But who can she be? Who can
she be?”
A policeman made his way to the
black car. Orme saw him speak to
the girl; saw her brows knit; and he
quickly threaded his way into the
street. His action was barely con
scious, but nothing could have stopped
him at that moment.
“You’ll have to come to the station,
miss,” the policeman was saying.
"But what have I done?” Her voice
was broken music.
"You’ve violated the traffic regula
tions, and made all this trouble, that’s
what you’ve done.”
"I’m on a very important errand,”
she began, “and —”
“I can’t help that, miss, you ought
to have had some one with you that
knew the rules.”
Her eyes were perplexed, and she
looked about her as if for help. For
a moment her gaze fell on Orme, who
was close to the policeman’s elbow.
Now, Orme had a winning and dis
arming smile. Without hesitation, he
touched the policeman on the shoul
der, beamed pleasantly, and said;
"Pardon me, officer, but this car was
forced over by that dray.”
“She was on the wrong side,” re
turned the policeman, after a glance
which modified his first intention to
take offence. “She had no business
over here.”
“It was either that or a collision.
My wheel was scraped, as it was.”
She, too, was smiling now.
The policeman pondered. He liked
to be called “officer;” he liked to be
smiled upon; and the girl, to judge
from her manner and appearance,
might well be the daughter of a man
of position. “Well,” he said after a
moment, "be more careful another
time.’’ He turned and went back to
his work among the other vehicles,
covering the weakness of his sur
render by a fresh display of angry au
thority.
The girl gave a little sigh of relief
and looked at Orme. “Thank you,"
she said.
Then he remembered that he did
not know this girl. “Can I be of
further service?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, “I think not.
But thank you just the same.” She
gave him a friendly little nod and
turned to the steering gear.
There was nothing for it but to go,
and Orme returned to the curb. A
moment later he saw the black car
move slowly away, and he felt as
though something sweet and fine
were going out of his life. If only
there had been some way to prolong
the Incident! He knew intuitively
that this girl belonged to his own
class. Any insignificant acquaintance
might introduce them to each other.
And yet convention now thrust them
apart.
Sometime he might meet her. In
deed, he determined to find out who
she was and make that sometime a
certainty. He would prolong his stay
in Chicago and search society until
he found her. No one had ever before
sent such a thrill through his heart.
He must find her, become her friend,
perhaps— But, again he laughed to
himself, “What a boor I am!”
After all she was but a passing
stranger, and the pleasant reverie into
which his glimpse of her had led him
was only a reverie. The memory of
her beauty and elusive charm would
disappear; his vivid impression of her
would be effaced. But even while he
thought this he found himself again
wondering who she was and how he
could find her. He could not drive
her from his mind.
Meantime he had proceeded slowly
on his way. Suddenly a benevolent,
white-bearded man halted him, with
a deprecating gesture. "Excuse me,
sir,” he began, “but your hat—”
Orme lifted his straw hat from his
head. A glance showed him that it
was disfigured by a great blotch of
black grease. He had held his hat in
his hand while talking to the girl,
and it must have touched her car at
a point where the axle of the dray
had rubbed. So this was his one me
mento of the incident.
He thanked the stranger, and walked
to a near-by hatter’s, where a ready
clerk set before him hats of all styles.
He selected one quickly and left his
soiled hat to be cleaned and sent
home later.
Offering a ten-dollar bill in payment,
he received in change a five-dollar bill
and a silver dollar. He gave the coin
a second glance. It was the first sil
ver dollar that he had handled for
some time, for he seldom visited the
west.
“There’s no charge for the clean
ing,” said the clerk, noting down
Orme's name and address, and hand
ing the soiled hat to the cash boy.
Orme, meantime, was on the point
of folding the five-dollar bill to put it
into his pocket book. Suddenly he
looked at it intently. Written in ink
across the face of it, were the word.s:
“Remember Person You Pay This To.”
The writing was apparently a hur
ried scrawl, but the letters were large
and quite legible. They appeared to
have been written on an uneven sur
face, for there -were several jogs and
breaks in the writing, as if the pen
had slipped.
“This is curious,” remarked Orme.
The clerk blinked his watery eyes
and looked at ,the bill in Orme’s hand.
“Oh, yes, sir," he explained. “I re
member that. The gentleman who
paid it in this morning called our at
tention to it.”
“If he’s the man who wrote this, he
probably doesn’t know that there’s a
law against defacing money.”
“But it’s perfectly good, isn't it?”
inquired the clerk. “If you want an
other instead —”
“Oh, no,” laughed Orme. “ The
banks would take it.”
"But, sir—” began the clerk.
“I should like to keep it. If I can’t
get rid of it, I’ll bring it bacK. It’s a
hoax or an endless chain device or
something of the sort. I’d like to
find cut.”
He looked again at the writing.
Puzzles and problems always inter
ested him, especially if they seemed
to involve some human story.
"Very well,” said the clerk, “I'll re
member that you have it, Mr ” he
peered at the name he had set down
—“Mr. Orme.”
Leaving the hatters’s, Orme turned
itack on Sta ( te street, retracing his
steps. It was close to the dinner
hour, and the character of the street
crowds had changed. The shoppers
had disappeared. Suburbanites were
by this time aboard their trains and
homeward bound. The street was
thronged with hurrying clerks and
shop girls, and the cars were jammed
with thousands more, all of them
thinking, no doubt, of the same two
things—something to eat and relaxa
tion.
What a hive it was, this great
street! And how scant the lives of
the great majority! Working, eating,
sleeping, marrying and given in mar
riage, bearing children and dying—
was that all? “But growing, too," said
Orme to himself. “Growing, too.”
Would this be the sum of his own
life —that of a worker in - the hive?
It came to him with something of an
inner pang that thus far his scheme
of things had include'd little more.
He wondered why he was now recog
nizing this scantiness, this lack in his
life.,
He came out of his reverie to find
himself agars at ,t^e Madisofi street
corner. Again he seemed to see that
beautiful girl in the car, and to hear
the music of her voice.
How could he best set about to find
her? She might be, like himself, a
visitor in the city. But there was the
touring car. Well, she might have
run in from one of the suburbs. He
could think of no better plan than to
call that evening on the Wallinghams
and describe the unknown to Bessie
and try to get her 'assistance. Bessie
would divine the situation, and she
would guy him unmercifully, he knew;
but he would face even that for an
other glimpse of the girl of the car.
And at that moment he was start
led by a sharp explosion. He looked
to the street. There was the black
car, bumping along with one flat tire.
The girl threw on the brakes and
came to a stop.
In an instant Orme was in the
street. If he thought that she would
not remember him, her first glance al
tered the assumption, for she looked
down at him with a ready smile and
said: “You see, I do need you again,
after all.”
As for Orme, he could think of
nothing better to say than simply: “I
am glad.” With that he began to un
fasten the spare tire.
“I shall watch you with interest,”
she went on. “I know how to run a
car —though you might not think it —
but I don’t know how to repair one.”
“That’s a man’s job, anyway,” said
Orme, busy now with the jack, which
was slowly raising the wheel from
the pavement.
“Shall I get out?” she asked. “Does
my weight make any difference?”
“Not at all,” said Orme; but, never
theless, she descended to the street
and stood beside him while he worked.
"I didn’t know there were all those
funny things inside,” she mused.
Orme laughed. Her comment was
vague, but to him it was enough just
to hear her voice. He had got the
wheel clear of the street and was
taking off the burst tire.
“We seem fated to meet,” she said.
Orme looked up at her. “I hope you
won’t think me a cad,” he said, “if I
say that I hope we may meet many
times.”
Her little frown warned him that
she had misunderstood.
“Do you happen to know the Tom
Wallinghams?” he asked.
Her smile returned. “I know a
Tom Wallingham and a Bessie Wall
ingham.”
“They’re good friends of mine.
Don't you think that they might intro
duce us?" '
"They might,” she vouchsafed, “if
they happened to see us both at the
same time.”
Orme returned to his task. The
crowd that always gathers was now
close about them, and there was little
opportunity for talk. He finished his
job neatly, and stowed away the old
tire.
She was in the car before he could
offer to help her. “Thank you again,”
she said.
“If only you will let me arrange it
with the Wallinghams,” he faltered.
“I will think about it.” She smiled.
He felt that she was slipping away.
“Give me some clue,” he begged.
“Where is your spirit of romance?”
she railed at him; then apparently re
lenting: “Perhaps the next time we
meet —”
Orme groaned. With a little nod
like that which had dismissed him at
the time of his first service to her,
she pulled the lever and the car
moved away. •
Tumult in his breast, Orme walked
on. He watched the black car thread
its way down the street and disappear
around a corner. Then he gave him
self over to his own bewildering re
flections, and he was still busy with
them when he found himself at the
entrance of the Pere Marquette. He
had crossed the Rush street bridge
and found his way up to the Lake
Shore drive almost without realizing
whither he was going.
Orme had come to Chicago at the
request of eastern clients to meet half
way the owners of a western mining
property. When he registered at the
Annex he found awaiting him a tele
gram spying that they had been de
tained at Denver and must necessari
ly be two days late. Besides the tele
gram, there had been a letter for him
—a letter from his friend, Jack Bax
ter, to whom he had written of his
coming. Jack had left the city on
business, it appeared, but he urged
Orike to make free of his North side
apartment. So Orme left the Annex
and went to the rather too gorgeous,
but very luxurious, Pere Marquette,
where he found that the staff had
been instructed to keep a close eye
on -his comfort. All this had hap
pened but three short hours ago.
After getting back to the apartment,
Orme’s first thought was to telephone
to Bessie Wallingham. He decided,
however, to wait till after dinner. He
did not like to appear too eager. So
he went down to the public dining
’room and ate what was placed before
him, and returned to his apartment
just at dusk.
In a few moments he got Bessie
Wallingham on the wire.
“Why, Robert Orme!” she ex
claimed. '‘Wherever did you come
from?”
“The usual place. Are you and
Tom at home this evening?”
TMWTER.MERW
Izzx/J’TRAJTOMS’ JSX
RAY WAITERS
COPWOHT 1909 $ CortVANV 4
“I’m so sorry. We’re going out with
some new friends. Wish I knew them
well enough to ask you along. Can
you have some golf with us at Arra
dale tomorrow afternoon?”
“Delighted! Say, Bessie, do you
know a girl who runs a black touring
car?”
“What?”
“Do you know a tall, dark girl who
has a black touring car?”
“I know lots of tall, dark girls, and
several of them have black touring
cars. Why?”
“Who are they?”
There was a pause and a little
chuckle; then: “Now, Bob, that won’t
do. You must tell me all about it to
morrow. Call for us in time to catch
the one-four.”
That was all that Orme could get
out of her; and after a little banter
and a brief exchange of greetings
with Tom, who was called to the tele
phone by his wife, the wire was per
mitted to rest.
Orme pushed a chair to the window
of the sitting room and smoked lazily,
looking out over the beautiful expanse
of Lake Michigan, which reflected
from its glassy surface the wonderful
opalescence of early evening. He
seemed to have set forth on a new and
adventurous road. How strangely the
girl of the car had come into his life!
Then he thought of the five-dollar
bill, with the curious inscription. He
took it from his pocketbook and ex
amined it by the fading light. The
words ran the full length of the face.
Orme noticed that the writing had a
foreign look. There were flourishes
which seemed distinctly un-American.
He turned the bill over. Apparent
ly there was no writing on the back,
but as he looked more closely he saw
a dark blur in the upper left-hand
corner. Even in the dusk he could
make out that this was not a spot of
dirt; the edges were defined too dis
tinctly for a smudge; and it was not
black enough for an ink-blot.
Moving to the center table, he
switched on the electric lamp, and
looked at the blur again. It stood out
plainly now, a series of letters and
numbers:
“Evans, S. R. Chi. A. 100 N. 210 E.
T.”
The first thought that came to Orme
was that this could be no hoax. A
joker would have made the curious
cryptogram more conspicuous. But
what did it mean? Was it a secret
formula? Did it give the location of
a buried treasure? And Why in the
name of common sense had it been
written on a five-dollar bill?
More likely, Orme reasoned, it con
cealed information for or about
some person —“S. R. Evans,” probably.
And who was this S. R. Evans?
The better to study the mystery,
Orme copied the inscription on a sheet
of note paper, which he found in the
tablb drawer. From the first he de
cided that there was no cipher. The
letters undoubtedly were abbrevia
tions. ‘Evans” must be, as he had al
ready determined, a man’s name.
“Chi” might be, probably was, “Chi
cago.” “100 N. 210 E.” looked like
“100 (feet? paces?) north, 210 (feet?
paces?) east.”
The “A.” and the "T.” bothered him.
“A.” might be the place to which “S.
R. Evans” Was directed, or at which
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V Could Make Nothin® of th* Uryptograre.
he was to be found —a place sufficient
ly indicated by the letter. Now as to
the “T.”—was it “treasure?” Or was
it “time?” Or “true?” Orme had no
way of telling. It might even be the
initial of the person who had penned
the instructions.
• Without knowing where "A” was,
Orme could make nothing of the
cryptogram. For that matter, he
realized that unless the secret were
criminal it was not his affair. But he
knew that legitimate business in
formation is seldom transmitted by
such mysterious means.
Again and again he went over the
abbreviations, but the more closely he
studied them, the more baffling he
found them. The real meaning ap
peared to hinge on the “A.” and the
“T » Eventually he was driven to the
conclusion that those two letters
could not be understood by anyone
who was not already partly in the
secret, if secret it was. It occurred to
him to have the city directory sent
up to him. He might then find the
address of “S. R. Evans,” if that per
son happened to be a Chicagoan. But
it was quite likely that the “Chi.”
might mean something other than
that “Evans” lived in Chicago. Per
haps, In the morning he would satisfy
his curiosity about “S. R. Evans,” but
for the present he lacked the inclina
tion to press the matter that far.
In the midst of his puzzling, the
telephone bell rang. He crossed the
room and put the receiver to his ear.
“Yes?” he questioned.
The clerk’s voice answered. “Se
nor Poritol to see Mr. Orme.”
“Who?”
“S-e-n-o-r —P-o-r-i-t-o-I,” spelled the
clerk.
“I don’t know him,” said Orme.
“There must be some mistake. Are
you sure that he-asked for me?”
There was a pause. Orme heard a
few scattering words which indicated
that the clerk was questioning the
stranger. Then came the informa
tion: “He says he wishes to see you
about a five-dollar bill.”
“Oh!” Orme realized that he had
no reason to be surprised. “Well, send
him up.”
He hung up the receiver and, re
turning to the table, put the marked
bill back into his pocketbook and
slipped into a drawer the paper on
which he had copied the inscription.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
.—, „ ■ I. - — (
Retort Courteous.
Two men were occupying a double
seat in a crowded car. One of them
was a long-distance whistler and the
other was evidently annoyed.
“You don’t seem to like my whist
ling?” said the noisy one, after a five
minute continuous performance.
“No, I don’t,” was the frank reply.
"Well,” continued the other, “maybe
you think you are man enough to
stop it?”
“Nd, I don’t think I am,” rejoined
the other, “but I hope you are.”
And the whistling was discontin
ued.
The Philosopher of Folly.
“Don't marry your stenographer,’*
advises the Philosopher of Folly. “She
belongs to the union and knows the
rules and she’ll never let you hire
another one.”