marked bill?”

The South American writhed in his chair and leaned forward eagerly. “That is the most distressing part of all,” he exclaimed. “I had left Chicago at a time when my presence in this great city was very important indeed. Nothing but the call from a dying friend would have induced me to go away. My whole future in this country depended upon my returning in time to complete certain business.

“So, after dear Lopez was dead, I rushed to the local railroad station. A train was coming in. I searched my pocket for my money to buy my ticket. All I could find was the five-dollar bill!

“It was necessary to return to Chicago; yet I could not lose the bill. A happy thought struck me. I wrote upon the face of it the words you have seen, and paid it to the ticket-agent. I called his attention to the writing and implored him to save the bill if he could until I returned, and if not, to be sure to remember the person he gave it to.”

Orme laughed.

“It does seem funny,” said Senhor Poritol, rolling another cigarette, “but you cannot imagine my most frantic desperation. I returned to Chicago and transacted my business. Then I hastened back to the Wisconsin city. Woe is me! The ticket-agent had paid the bill to a Chicago citizen. I secured the name of this man and finally found him at his office on La Salle Street. Alas! he, too, had spent the bill, but I tracked it from person to person, until now, my dear sir, I have found it? So——” he paused and looked eloquently at Orme.

“Do you know a man named Evans?” Orme asked.

Senhor Poritol looked at him in bewilderment.

“S. R. Evans,” insisted Orme.

“Why, no, dear sir—I think not—But what has that to do——?”

Orme pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “Oblige me, Senhor Poritol. Print in small capitals the name, ‘S. R. Evans.’”

Senhor Poritol was apparently reluctant. However, under the compulsion of Orme’s eye, he finally took out his fountain-pen and wrote the name in flowing script. He then pushed the paper back toward Orme, with an inquiring look.

“No, that isn’t what I mean,” exclaimed Orme. “Print it. Print it in capital letters.”

Senhor Poritol slowly printed out the name.

Orme took the paper, laying it before him. He then produced the coveted bill from his pocket-book. Senhor Poritol uttered a little cry of delight and stretched forth an eager hand, but Orme, who was busily comparing the letters on the paper with the letters on the bill, waved him back.

After a few moments Orme looked up. “Senhor Poritol,” he said, “why didn’t you write the secret on a time-table, or on your ticket, before you gave the bill to the agent?”

Senhor Poritol was flustered. “Why,” he said uncertainly, “I did not think of that. How can we explain the mistakes we make in moments of great nervousness?”

“True,” said Orme. “But one more point. You did not yourself write your friend’s secret on the bill. The letters which you have just printed are differently made.”

Senhor Poritol said nothing. He was breathing hard.

“On the other hand,” continued Orme, turning the bill over and eyeing the inscription on its face, “your mistake in first writing the name instead of printing it, shows me that you did write the words on the face of the bill.” He returned the bill to his pocket-book. “I can’t give you the bill,” he said. “Your story doesn’t hold together.”

With a queer little scream, the South American bounded from his chair and flung himself at Orme. He struck no blow, but clawed desperately at Orme’s pocket. The struggle lasted only for a moment. Orme, seizing the little man by the collar, dragged him, wriggling, to the door.

“Now get out,” said Orme. “If I find you hanging around, I’ll have you locked up.”

Senhor Poritol whispered: “It is my secret. Why should I tell you the truth about it? You have no right to know.”

Orme retained his hold. “I don’t like your looks, my friend,” he said. “There may have been reason why you should lie to me, but you will have to make things clear.” He considered. After all, he must make allowance; so he said: “Come back to-morrow with evidence that you are entitled to the bill, and you shall have it.” He released Senhor Poritol.

The little man had recovered his composure. He went back to the table and took up his hat and cane, refolding the handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket. Once more he was the Latin fop. He approached Orme, and his manner was deprecatory.

“My most abject apologies for attacking you, sir. I was beside myself. But if you will only permit me, I will bring up my friend, who is waiting below. He will, as you say, vouch for me.”

“Who is he?”

“A very, very distinguished man.”

Orme pondered. The adventure was opening up, and he felt inclined to see it through. “Bring him,” he said shortly.

When Senhor Poritol had disappeared Orme telephoned to the clerk. “Send me up a porter,” he ordered, “and have him stand just outside my door, with orders to enter if he hears any disturbance.” He waited at the door till the porter appeared, then told him to remain in a certain place until he was needed, or until the visitors left.

Senhor Poritol remained downstairs for several minutes. Evidently he was explaining the situation to his friend. But after a time Orme heard the clang of the elevator door, and in response to the knock that quickly followed, he opened his own door. At the side of his former visitor stood a dapper foreigner. He wore a long frock coat and carried a glossy hat, and his eyes were framed by large gold spectacles.

“This is the Senhor Alcatrante,” explained Senhor Poritol.

The newcomer bowed with suave dignity.

“Senhor Alcatrante? The name is familiar,” said Orme, smiling.

Poritol assumed an air. “He is the minister from my country to these United States.”

Orme understood. This was the wary South American diplomat whose name had lately been so prominent in the Washington dispatches. What was he doing in Chicago?

“I am glad to meet you,” said Orme.

Alcatrante smiled, displaying a prominent row of uneven teeth.

“My young friend, Poritol,” he began, “tells me that you have in your possession the record of a secret belonging to him. What that secret is, is immaterial to you and me, I take it. He is an honorable young man—excitable, perhaps, but well-meaning. I would suggest that you give him the five-dollar bill he desires, accepting from him another in exchange. Or, if you still doubt him, permit me to offer you a bill from my own pocket.” He drew out a fat wallet.

The situation appeared to be simplified. And yet Orme was dubious. There was mischief in the bill; so much he felt sure of. Alcatrante’s reputation was that of a fox, and as for Poritol, he was, to say the least, a person of uncertain qualities. Orme could not but admire the subtle manner in which Alcatrante sought delicately to limit his doubts to the mere possibility that Poritol was trying to pass spurious money. He decided not to settle the question at this moment.

“This seems to be rather a mixed-up affair, Senhor Alcatrante,” he said. “There is much more in it than appears. Call on me to-morrow morning, and you shall have my decision.”

Alcatrante and Poritol looked at each other. The minister spoke:

“Will you engage not to give the bill to anyone else in the interval?”

“I will promise that,”