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SYNOPSIS.
At the expense of a soiled hat Robert
Orme saves from arrest a girl in a blacK
touring car who has caused a traffic Jam
on State street. He buys a new hat and
Is given in change a five dollar bill "! tH ;
“Remember the person you pay this to,
written on it. A second time tie helps tne
lady in the black car, and learns that in
Tom and Bessie Walilngham they have
' mutual friends, blit gains no further 1 nt
of her identity. Senor Poritol, South
American, calls, and claims the marked
bill. Orme refuses, and a fight ensues in
which Poritol Is overcome. He calls in
Senor Alcatrante, minister fromi his coun
try, to vouch for him. Orme still refuse,
to give up the bill. Orme goes foi a w aik
and sees two Japs attack Alcatrante. Hi
rescues him. Returning to his rooms
Orme is attacked by two Japs who ei
fect a forcible exchange of the matked
bill for another. Orme finds the gill of
the black car waiting tor him. She also
wants the bill. Orme tells lus story. She
recognizes one of the Japs as het father s
butler, Maku. A second inscription on
the bill is the key to the hiding place of
important papers stolen from her ratne..
Both Japs and South Americans want the
papers. Orme and the “Girl'’ start out m
the black car in quest of the papers, In
the university grounds in Evanston tne
hiding place is located. Maku and an
other Jap are there. Orme fells~ Maku
and the other Jap escapes. Orme finds in
Maku’s pocket a folded slip of paper. He
takes the girl, whose name is still un
known to him, to the home of a friend in
Evanston. Returning to the university
grounds Orme gets in conversation with a
guard at the life-saving station. I lies
hear a motor boat in trouble in the dark
ness on the lake. They find the crippled
boat. In it are the Jap with the papers
and “Girl.” She jumps into Ormes boat,
but the Jap eludes pursuit. Orme finds
on the paper he took from Maku the
address, “341 N. Parker street.” He goes
there and finds Arima, teacher of Jiu
jitsu is on the third floor. He calls on
Alia, clairvoyant, on the fourth floor,
descends by the fire-escape and conceals
himself under a table in Arima s room.
Alcatrante, Poritol and the Jap minister
enter. Orme finds the papers in a drawer
under the table and substitutes mining
prospectuses for them. He learns that
the papers are of international impor
tance with a time limit for signatures of
that night midnight. The substitution is
discovered. The girl appears and leaves
again after being told that the American
has the papers. Orme attempts to get
away, is discovered and set upon by
Arima and Maku. He eludes them and
Is hidden in a closet by the clairvoyant.
Orme escapes during a seance given by
Alia. On the sidewalk he encounters Al
catrante. Orme goes to find Tom M al
llngham. Alcatrante hangs on and tries
to get the papers. During the excitement
caused bv one of Alcatrante’s tricks to
delay Orme, the latter sees the girl and
follows her back to Wallingham’s office.
He and the girl are locked In a grant
specimen refrigerator by Alcatrante.
CHAPTER XlV—Continued.
He reached out and found her hand,
and she did not withdraw It from his
clasp.
“The rascal has locked us in,” he
said. “I’m afraid we shall have a long
wait.”
“Will it do any good to shout?”
“No one could hear us through these
walls. No, there’s nothing to do but
remain quiet. But you needn’t stand,
Girl.”
He led her to the wall. Removing
his coat, he folded it and placed it on
the floor for a cushion, and she seated
herself upon it. He remained standing
near by.
“The papers,” he said, “are in that
coat you are sitting on.”
He laughed, with a consciousness of
the grim and terrible humor of their
situation —which he hoped she had not
realized. Here they were, the hard
sought papers in their possession, yet
they were helpless even to save their
own lives.
“I wish you would shout,” she said.
“Very well,” he said, and going over
to the door, he called out several
times with the full power of his lungs.
The sound, pent in that narrow room,
fairly crashed in their ears, but there
was no answer from without.
“Don’t do it again,” she said at last-
Then she sighed. “Oh, the irony of it!”
she exclaimed.
“I know.” He laughed. “But don’t
give up. Girl. We’ll deliver those pa
pers yet.”
“I will not give up,” she said, grave
ly. “But tell me, how did you get the
papers?”
Orme began the story of the after
non’s adventures.
“Why don’t you sit down?” she
asked.
“Why”—he stammered —“I —”
He had been so conscious of his
feeling toward her, so conscious of
the fact that the one woman in all the
world was locked in here alone with
him, that since he arranged her seat
he had not trusted himself to be near
her. And she did not seem to under
stand.
She wished him to sit beside her, not
knowing that he felt the almost over
powering impulse to take her in his
armg'and crush her close to him. That
desire w’ould have been more easily
controlled, had he not begun to believe
that she in some degree returned his
feeling for her. If they escaped from
this black prison, he would rest happy
in the faith that her affection for him,
now, as he supposed so largely friend
ly, would ripen into a glorious and
compelling love. But it would not be
right for him to presume—to take ad
vantage of a moment in which she
might think that she cared for him more
than she actually did. Then, too, he
already foresaw vaguely the possible
necessity for an act which would make
it best that she should not hold him
too dear. So long he stood silent that
she spoke again.
‘Do sit down,” she said. “I will
give you part of your coat.”
There was a tremulous note in her
iaugh, but as he seated himself, she
spoke with great seriousness. “When
two persons understand each other as
“■ell as you and I,” she said, “and are
as near death as * - ou and I, they need
not be embarrassed by conventions.”
“We never have been very con
ventional with each other,” he replied,
shakily. Her shoulder was against
his. He could hear her breathing.
“Now tell me the rest of the story.”
“First I must change your notion
that we are near death.”
He could feel that she was looking
at him in the blackness. “Don’t you
think I know?” she whispered. “They
will not find us until tomorrow. There
isn’t air enough to last. I have known
it from the first.”
“Some one w'ill open the door,” he
replied. “We may have to stay here
quite a while, but —”
“No, my friend. There is no likeli
hood that it will be opened. The
clerks are leaving for the night.”
He was silent.
“So finish the story,” she went on.
“Finish the story!” That was all
that he could do.
“Finish the story!” His story and
hers —only just begun, and now to end
there in the dark.
But with a calmness as great as her
own, he proceeded to tell all that had
happened to him since he boarded the
electric car at Evanston and saw Maku
sitting within. She pressed his hand
gently when he described the trick by
which the Japanese had brought the
pursuit to an end. She laughed when
he came to the meeting with the de
tective in his apartment. The episode
with Madam Alia he passed over
lightly, for part of it rankled now. Not
that he blamed himself foolishly; but
he wished that it had not happened.
“That woman did a fine thing,” said
the girl.
He went on to describe his efforts
to get free from Alcatrante.
“And you were under the table in
Arima’s room,” she exclaimed, when
he had finished.
“I was there; but I couldn’t see
you, Girl. And you seemed to doubt
me.”
“To doubt you?”
“Don’t you remember? You said
that no American had the papers; but
you added, ‘unless —’ ”
"Unless Walsh, the burglar, had
played a trick on Poritol and held the
true papers back. I went straight
from Arima's to the jail and had an
other talk with Walsh. He convinced
me that he knew nothing at all about
the papers. He seemed to think that
they were letters which Poritol wanted
for his own purposes.”
“Then you did not doubt me.” Glad
relief was in his voice.
"I have never doubted you,” she
said, simply.
There was silence. Only their breath
ing and the ticking of Orme’s watch
broke the stillness.
“I don’t believe that Alcatrante knew
that this place was unventilated,” she
remarked at last.
“No; and he didn’t know that you
were here.”
“He thinks that you will be released
in the morning, and that you will think
it wiser to make no charges. What
do you suppose his conscience will say
when he learns—”
“Girl, I simply can’t believe that
there is no hope for us.”
“What possible chance is there?”
Her voice was steady. “The clerks
must all have gone by this time. We
can't make ourselves heard.”
“Still, I feel as though I should be
fighting with the door.”
“You can’t open it.”
"But. some one of the clerks going
out may have seen that it was bolted.
Wouldn’t he have pushed the bolt
back? I’m going to see."
He groped to the door and tugged at
the handle. The door, for all the ef
fect his effort had on it, might have .
been a section of solid wall.
“Come back,” she called.
He felt his way until his foot touched
the coat. As he let himself down be
side her, his hand brushed over her
hair, and unconsciously she leaned
toward him. He felt the pressure of
her shoulder against his side, and the
touch sent a thrill through him. He
leaned back against the wall and
stared into the blackness with eyes
that saw only visions of the happiness
that might have been.
"We mustn’t make any effort to
break out,” she said. “It is useless.
And every time we move about and
tug at the door, it makes us breathe
1 that much faster.”
“Yes,” he sighed, “I suppose we can
only sit here and wait.”
“Do you know,” she said softly, “I
am wondering why our situation does
not seem more terrible to me. It
should, shouldn’t it?”
"I hardly think so,” he replied.
“The relative importance of our
worldly affairs,” she w r ent on dream
ily, “appears to change when one sees
that they are all to stop at once. They
i recede into the background of the
i mind. What counts then is, oh, I don’t
■ want to think of it! My father—he—”
i Her shoulders shook for a moment un
i der the stress of sudden grief, but
. she quickly regained her control.
“There, now,” she whispered, “I won’t
I do that.”
For a time they sat in silence. His
• own whirling thoughts were of a sort
i that he could not fathom; they pos
i sessed him completely, they destroyed,
t seemingly, all power of analysis, they
; made him dumb; and they were tan
- 11 gled inextricably in the blended im
’ j pressions of possession and loss.
’*’■■l r Ilir '
"Try to Take a Different View, Girl.”
“But you,” she said at last, “is your
father living?”
“No,” he replied.
“And your mother?” she faltered.
“She has been dead many years.
And I have no brothers or sisters.”
“My mother died w'hen I was a lit
tle child,” she mused. “Death seemed
to me much more awful then than it
does now.”
“It is always more aw’ful to those
who are left than to those who go,” he
said. "But don’t think of that yet.”
“We must think of it,” she insisted.
He did not answer.
“Oh!’’she cried, suddenly. “To think
that I have brought you to this! That
what you thought would be a little fa
vor to me has brought you to death.”
She began to sob convulsively.-
It was as though for the first time
she realized her responsibility for his
life; as though her confidence in her
complete understanding of him had
disappeared and he was again a stran
ger to her —a stranger whom she had
coolly led to the edge of life with
her.
“Don’t, Girl —dont!” he commanded.
Her self-blame was terrible to him.
But she could not check her grief, and
finally, hardly knowing what he did, he
put his arm around her and drew her
closer to him. Her tear-wet cheek
touched his. She removed her hat, and
her hair brushed his forehead.
“Girl, Girl!” he whispered, "don’t you
know? —Don’t you understand? If
chance had not kept us together, I
would have followed you until I won
you. From the moment I saw you, I
have had no thought that was not
bound up with you.”
“But think what I have done to
you!” she sobbed. "I never realized
that there was this danger. And you
—you have your own friends, your in
terests. Oh, I —”
“My interests are all here —with
you,” he answered. "It is I who am to
blame. I should have known what Al
catrante would do.”
“You couldn’t know. There was no
way— ’”
“I sent you up here to wait for me.
Then, when he and I came in, I turned
my back on him, like a blind fool.”
“No, no.” she protested.
“After all,” he said, “it was, per
haps, something that neither you nor
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I could foresee. No one is to blame.
Isn’t that the best view to take of it?”
Her cheek moved against his as she
inclined her head.
“It may be selfish in me,” he went
on, “but I can’t feel unhappy —now.”
Her sobs had ceased, and she buried
her face in his shoulder.
“I love you, Girl,” he said, brokenly.
“I don’t expect you to care so much
for me —yet. But I must tell you what
I feel. There isn’t—there isn’t any
thing I wouldn’t do for you, Girl—and
be happy doing it.”
She did not speak, and for a long
time they sat in silence. Many emo
tions were racing through him. His
happiness was almost a pain, for it
came to him in this extremity when
there was no hope ahead. She had
not yielded herself, but she had not re
sisted his embrace; even now her head
was on his shoulder. Indeed, he had
given her no chance to confess what
she might feel for him.
Nor wmuld he give her that chance.
No, it was better that her love for him
—he knew now that in her heart she
must love him —it was better that it
should not be crystallized by definite
expression. For he had thought of a
way by which she, at least, might be
saved. With the faint possibility of
rescue for them both, he hesitated to
take the step. And yet every moment
he was using that much more of the
air that might keep her alive through
the night.
It would be only right to wait until
he was reasonably sure that all the
clerks in the office had gone. That
time could not be long now. But al
ready the air was beginning to seem
close; it was not so easy to breathe as
it had been.
Gently putting her from him, he
said: “The air will last longer if we lie
down. The heart does not need much
blood, then.”
She did not answer, but moved from
her seat on his folded coat, and he
took it and arranged it as a piljow,
and, finding her hand, showed her
where it was. He heard the rustle of
her clothing as she adjusted herself on
the floor. She clung to his hand, while
he still sat beside her.
"Now,” he said, cheerfully, “I am
going to find out what time it is, by
breaking the crystal of my w’atch.
I’Ve seen blind men tell the time by
feeling the dial.”
His watch was an old hunting-case
which had belonged to his father. He
opened it and cracked the crystal w’ith
his pocketknife. As nearly as he could
determine by the sense of touch it was
seven o’clock. Bessie Wallingham
would be wondering by this time why
he had broken an engagement with her
for the second time that day.
“There is one thing more to do,” he
said. “It is seven o’clock; I don’t know
how much longer we shall be able to
breathe easily, and I am going to write
a note which will explain matters to
the persons who find us —if we should
not happen to be able to tell them.”
Laboriously he penciled on the back
of an old envelope the explanation of
their presence there, making a com
plete and careful charge against Alca
trante. He laid the message on the
floor.
On second thought, he picked it up
again and put it in his pocket, for if
by any chance they should be rescued,
he might forget it. In that event its
discovery would possibly bring an ex
posure of facts which the girl and her
father would not care to have dis
closed.
A faint whisper from the girl.
“What is it?” he asked, bending
tenderly for her answer.
“You must lie down, too.”
He began to move away, as if to^
obey her.
“No,” she whispered—“here. I want
you near me.”
Slowly he reclined and laid his head
on the coat. Her warm breath was on
his face. He felt for her hand, and
found it held tightly to his.
His own mind was still torn with
doubts as to the best course. Should
he put himself out of the way that she
might live? The sacrifice might prove
unnecessary. Rescue might come when
it was too late for him, yet not too
late, if he did not hurry his own end.
And if she truly loved him and knew
that she loved him, such an act on his
part would leave her a terrible grief
which time would harly cure.
He tried to analyze their situation
more clearly, to throw new light on his
duty. The clerks must all have gone
by now. There would be a visit or tw'o
from a night watchman, perhaps, but
there was scarcely one chance in a
hundred that he would unbolt the
door.
The air was vitiating rapidly; they
could not both live through the night.
But —if she loved him as he loved her,
she would be happier to die with him
than to live at the cost of his life.
He pictured for himself again that
last look of her face; its beauty, its
strength, its sweet sympathy. He
seemed to see the stray wisp of hair
that had found its way down upon her
cheek. Her perfect lips—how well he
remembered! —were the unopened
buds of pure womanly passion.
After all, whether she loved him or
not, there would still be much in life
for her.
Time would cure her sorrow. There
would be many claims upon her, and
she would sooner or later resume her
normal activities.
Slowly he disengaged his hand from
her clinging fingers. In his other hand
he still held his pocketknife. To open
a vein in his wrist would take but a
moment. His life would well away,
there on the tiles.
She would think he was asleep; and
then she herseif would drift away into
I unconsciousness which would be bro
i ken only after the door was opened in
i the morning.
Bah! His mind cleared in a flash.
What a fool he was! Need he doubt
her for an instant? Need he question
what she would do when she found
that he w-as dead? And she would
know it quickly. This living pulsing
girl beside him loved him!
They were one forever. They still
lived, and while they lived they must
hope. And if hope failed, there still
would be love.
His pent-up emotions broke restraint.
With unthinking swiftness, he threw
his arm over her and drew her tight to
him. His lips found hers in a long
kiss —clung in ecstasy for another, and
another.
Her arms went about his neck. He
felt as though her soul had passed from
her lips to his own.
“My lover!” she whispered. “I think
I have always cared.”
"Oh, Girl, Girl!” He could utter no
more.
With a faint sigh she said: “I am
glad it is to be together.” She sat up,
still holding his hand. “If it need be
at all,” she added, a new firmness in
her voice.
"If it need be at all!” Grmo searched
his mind again for some promise of es
cape from this prison which had been
so suddenly glorified for them. The
smooth, unbreakable walls; the thin
seam of the door; the thermometer.
Why had he not thought of it before?
The thermometer!
IWith an exclamation, he leaped to
his feet.
“What is it?” she cried.
I “A chance! A small chance—but
still a chance!"
He found his way to the handle of
I the door, which his first attempt at
escape had taught him was not con
nected with the outer knob. Then he
located the covering which protected
the coils of the thermometer.
Striking with his heel, he tried to
break the metal grating. It would not
yield. Again and again he threw his
weight into the blows, but without ef
fect.
At last he remembered his pocket
knife. Thrusting one end of it through
the grating, he prodded at the glass
coils within. There was a tinkling
sound. He had succeeded.
He groped his way back to the girl
and seated himself beside her. With
the confession of their love, a new
hope had sprung up in them. They
might still be freed, and, though the
air was becoming stifling, neither of
them believed that a joy as great as
theirs could be born to live but a few
hours.
For the hundredth time he was say
ing: “I can’t believe that we have
known each other only one day.”
"And even now,” she mused, “you
don’t know my name. Do you want
me to tell you?”
“Not until you are ready.”
“Then wait. It will come In due
form. Some one will say, ‘Mr. Orme,
Miss ”
“The name doesn’t matter,” said
Orme. “To me you will always be just
—Girl.”
The joyous moments rushed by.
She had crept close to him again, and
with her head on his shoulder, was
saying: “There is so much for us to
tell each other.”
"There seems to be only one thing to
say now.” He kissed her tenderly.
“Oh, but there is much more.”
“Where shall we begin?” asked
Orme.
“Well, to be matter-of-fact, do you
live in Chicago?”
“No, dear. I live in New York.”
“I didn’t even know that,” she whis
pered. “And aboet me. Our family
home has been in one of the suburbs
here since I was a small girl. For sev
eral years I was sent east to school,
and after that I went abroad- with
some friends. And since then —”
“It can’t be so very long,” he whis
pered, “though you speak as though it
were decades.”
“It is six years. Since then my
father and I have spent our winters in
the east, coming back home for the
summers. Just think how much you
are learning about me!”
Orme lifted her hand to his .Ups.
Suddenly the room filled with a light
which to their expanded pupils seemed
bright as the sun. The door had been
opened and an electric light in the re
ception hall shone in. Framed in the
doorway was the outline of a man.
Orme shouted joyfully and jumped
to his feet.
“Why—what—?” the man began.
Orme helped the girl up, and to
gether they went to the outer light,
For a moment they could do nothing
but breathe, so good the fresh air ot
the reception room seemed to them.
Then, Looking at the man again, Onna
saw it was the clerk to w'hom Alca
trante had made his accusation two
hours before.
“How did you come to be in there?”
the clerk demanded.
Orme hesitated; then he decided to
make no charges. “I got rid of that
crazy fellow who was following ma
around,” he said, “and I came back,
and this young lady and I went in to
examine your refrigerator. The doos
was ajar, and some one pushed it shut
and locked it. We should have
smothered if you had not come.”
“It was the merest chance,” said
the clerk. ‘My work kept me late. As
I was leaving, I happened to glance at
the thermometer dial here. It regis
tered below freezing. I couldn’t under
stand that, for there is no ice in the
refrigerator, so I opened the door to
see.”
“I broke the coil,” explained Orme,
“in the hope that the night watchman
might be interested in the dial."
“Well,” said the clerk, drawing a
long breath, “you had a close shave.
There isn’t aty night watchman —at
least not in this office. If I had bal
anced my books on time today, you
1 two would have stayed where you
' were until tomorrow morning.”
“I will come in tomorrow to see Mr.
Wallingham and explain everything. I
■ will pay for a new thermometer, too, i£
i he will let me.”
“I don’t think he will let you do
that,” said the clerk. “He will be
grateful that nothing worse happened.”
1 “Yes, I believe he will,” replied
Orme.
He glanced at the clock. It w’as a
1 quarter after seven. Going back into
’ the chamber which had been the scene
of both their danger and their happi
ness, he got his coat and the girl’s hat.
The parchment papers crackled in hie
pocket as he put the coat on. The girl,
meantime, adjusted her hat.
“Say," said the clerk, holding the
outer door op*n for them to pass
through, "v. as that fellow’s story about
your holding notes of ours —was there
anything in it?”
1 “Absolutely untrue,” replied Orme.
“Ho must have had you confused
with somebody else.”
“He must have.” Orme held out his
hand. “Many thanks to you for saving
f our lives.”
Then Orme and the girl made them
■ way U> the elevator.
! (TO BE CONTINUED^
