The Girl and the Bill

  THE GIRL AND THE BILL

  An American Story of Mystery, Romance and Adventure

  by

  BANNISTER MERWIN

  Illustrated

  "'Perhaps you can imagine how those letters puzzledme,' he volunteered"]

  A. L. Burt CompanyPublishers :: New York

  Copyright, 1909, byDodd, Mead and Company

  Published, March, 1909

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE I The Threshold of Adventure 1 II Senhor Poritol 21 III The Shadows 41 IV The Girl of the Car 58 V "Evans, S. R." 77 VI A Chance Lead 93 VII A Japanese at Large 115 VIII The Trail of Maku 136 IX Number Three Forty-One 162 X "Find the American" 178 XI The Way Out 192 XII Power of Darkness 209 XIII An Old Man of the Sea 223 XIV Prisoners in the Dark 253 XV From the Devil to the Deep Sea 279 XVI The Struggle 295 XVII A Chance of the Game 322 XVIII The Goal 347 XIX A Saved Situation 359

  THE GIRL AND THE BILLCHAPTER 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 thetolerant, patronizing interest which so often characterizes the Easternman. To him it was the hub of genuine Americanism--young, aggressive,perhaps a bit too cocksure, but ever bounding along with eyes towardthe future. Here was the city of great beginnings, the city ofexperiment--experiment with life; hence its incompleteness--anincompleteness not dissimilar to that of life itself. Chicago lived; itwas the pulse of the great Middle West.

  Orme watched the procession with clear eyes. He had been strollingsouthward from the Masonic Temple, into the shopping district. Theclangor, the smoke and dust, the hurrying crowds, all worked into hismood. The expectation of adventure was far from him. Nor was he a man whosought impressions for amusement; whatever came to him he weighed, andaccepted or rejected according as it was valueless or useful. Wholesomehe was; anyone might infer that from his face. Doubtless, his fault layin his overemphasis on the purely practical; but that, after all, was alawyer's fault, and it was counterbalanced by a sweet kindliness towardall the world--a loveableness which made for him a friend of every chanceacquaintance.

  It was well along in the afternoon, and shoppers were hurrying homeward.Orme noted the fresh beauty of the women and girls--Chicago has reason tobe proud of her daughters--and his heart beat a little faster. Not thathe was a man to be caught by every pretty stranger; but scarcelyrecognized by himself, there was a hidden spring of romance in hispractical nature. Heart-free, he never met a woman without wonderingwhether she was _the_ one. He had never found her; he did not know thathe was looking for her; yet always there was the unconscious question.

  A distant whistle, the clanging of gongs, the rapid beat of gallopinghoofs--fire-engines were racing down the street. Cars stopped, vehiclesof all kinds crowded in toward the curbs.

  Orme paused and watched the fire horses go thundering by, their smokingchariots swaying behind them and dropping long trails of sparks. Smallboys were running, men and women were stopping to gaze after the passingengines, but Orme's attention was taken by something that was happeningnear by, and as the gongs and the hoof-beats grew fainter he looked withinterest to the street beside him.

  He had got as far as the corner of Madison Street. The scramble to getout of the way of the engines had here resulted in a traffic-jam. Twopolicemen were moving about, shouting orders for the disentanglement ofthe street-cars and vehicles which seemed to be inextricably wedgedtogether.

  A burly Irish teamster was bellowing at his horse. The hind wheel of asmart barouche was caught in the fore wheel of a delivery wagon, and thedriver of the delivery wagon was expressing his opinion of the situationin terms which seemed to embarrass the elderly gentleman who sat in thebarouche. Orme's eye traveled through the outer edge of the disturbance,and sought its center.

  There in the midst of the tangle was a big black touring-car. Its oneoccupant was a girl--and such a girl! Her fawn-colored cloak was thrownopen; her face was unveiled. Orme was thrilled when he caught the gloryof her face--the clear skin, browned by outdoor living; the demure butregular features; the eyes that seemed to transmute and reflect softlyall impressions from without. Orme had never seen anyone like her--sonobly unconscious of self, so appealing and yet so calm.

  She was waiting patiently, interested in the clamor about her, butseemingly undisturbed by her own part in it. Orme's eyes did not leaveher face. He was merely one of a crowd at the curb, unnoted by her, butwhen after a time, he became aware that he was staring, he felt the bloodrush to his cheeks, and he muttered: "What a boor I am!" And then, "Butwho can she be? who can she be?"

  A policeman made his way to the black car. Orme saw him speak to thegirl; saw her brows knit; and he quickly threaded his way into thestreet. His action was barely conscious, but nothing could have stoppedhim 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 regulations, 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 someone with you thatknew the rules."

  Her eyes were perplexed, and she looked about her as if for help. For amoment her gaze fell on Orme, who was close to the policeman's elbow.

  Now, Orme had a winning and disarming smile. Without hesitation, hetouched the policeman on the shoulder, beamed pleasantly, and said:"Pardon me, officer, but this car was forced over by that dray."

  "She was on the wrong side," returned the policeman, after a glance whichmodified his first intention to take offense. "She had no business overhere."

  "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 besmiled upon; and the girl, to judge from her manner and appearance, mightwell be the daughter of a man of position. "Well," he said after amoment, "be more careful another time." He turned and went back to hiswork among the other vehicles, covering the weakness of his surrender bya fresh display of angry authority.

  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 furtherservice?" he asked.

  "No," she answered, "I think not. But thank you just the same." She gavehim a friendly little nod and turned to the steering-gear.

  There was nothing for it but to go, and Orme returned to the curb. Amoment later he saw the black car move slowly away, and he felt as thoughsomething sweet and fine were going out of his life. If only there hadbeen some way to prolong the incident! He knew intuitively that this girlbelonged to his own class. Any insignificant acquaintance might introducethem to each other. And yet convention now thrust them apart.

  Sometime he might meet her. Indeed, he determined to find out who she wasand make that sometime a certainty. He would prolong his stay in Chicagoand search society until he found her. No one had ever before sent such athrill 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 revery intowhich his glimpse of her had led him was only a revery. The memory o
f herbeauty and elusive charm would disappear; his vivid impression of herwould be effaced. But even while he thought this he found himself againwondering who she was and how he could find her. He could not drive herfrom 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 wasdisfigured by a great blotch of black grease. He had held his hat in hishand while talking to the girl, and it must have touched her car at apoint where the axle of the dray had rubbed. So this was his one mementoof the incident.

  He thanked the stranger, and walked to a near-by hatter's, where a readyclerk set before him hats of all styles. He selected one quickly and lefthis soiled hat to be cleaned and sent home later.

  Offering a ten-dollar bill in payment, he received in change afive-dollar bill and a silver dollar. He gave the coin a second glance.It was the first silver dollar that he had handled for some time, for heseldom visited the West.

  "There's no charge for the cleaning," said the clerk, noting down Orme'sname and address, and handing the soiled hat to the cash-boy.

  Orme, meantime, was on the point of folding the five-dollar bill to putit into his pocket-book. Suddenly he looked at it intently. Written inink across the face of it, were the words:

  "Remember Person You Pay This To."

  The writing was apparently a hurried scrawl, but the letters were largeand quite legible. They appeared to have been written on an unevensurface, for there were several jogs and breaks in the writing, as if thepen 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 remember that. The gentleman who paid itin this morning called our attention to it."

  "If he's the man who wrote this, he probably doesn't know that there's alaw against defacing money."

  "But it's perfectly good, isn't it?" inquired the clerk. "If you wantanother 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 liketo find out."

  He looked again at the writing. Puzzles and problems always interestedhim, especially if they seemed to involve some human story.

  "Very well," said the clerk, "I'll remember that you have it, Mr.----" hepeered at the name he had set down--"Mr. Orme."

  Leaving the hatter's, Orme turned back on State Street, retracing hissteps. It was close to the dinner hour, and the character of the streetcrowds had changed. The shoppers had disappeared. Suburbanites were bythis time aboard their trains and homeward bound. The street was throngedwith hurrying clerks and shop-girls, and the cars were jammed withthousands more, all of them thinking, no doubt, of the same twothings--something to eat and relaxation.

  What a hive it was, this great street! And how scant the lives of thegreat majority! Working, eating, sleeping, marrying and given inmarriage, bearing children and dying--was that all? "But growing, too,"said Orme to himself. "Growing, too." Would this be the sum of his ownlife--that of a worker in the hive? It came to him with something of aninner pang that thus far his scheme of things had included little more.He wondered why he was now recognizing this scantiness, this lack in hislife.

  He came out of his revery to find himself again at the Madison Streetcorner. Again he seemed to see that beautiful girl in the car, and tohear the music of her voice.

  How could he best set about to find her? She might be, like himself, avisitor in the city. But there was the touring-car. Well, she might haverun in from one of the suburbs. He could think of no better plan than tocall that evening on the Wallinghams and describe the unknown to Bessieand try to get her assistance. Bessie would divine the situation, and shewould guy him unmercifully, he knew; but he would face even that foranother glimpse of the girl of the car.

  And at that moment he was startled by a sharp explosion. He looked to thestreet. There was the black car, bumping along with one flat tire. Thegirl threw on the brakes and came to a stop.

  In an instant Orme was in the street. If he thought that she would notremember him, her first glance altered the assumption, for she lookeddown 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 amglad." With that he began to unfasten the spare tire.

  "I shall watch you with interest," she went on. "I know how to run acar--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 wasslowly raising the wheel from the pavement.

  "Shall I get out?" she asked. "Does my weight make any difference?"

  "Not at all," said Orme; but, nevertheless, she descended to the streetand stood beside him while he worked. "I didn't know there were all thosefunny things inside," she mused.

  Orme laughed. Her comment was vague, but to him it was enough just tohear her voice. He had got the wheel clear of the street and was takingoff 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 Isay 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_Wallingham."

  "They're good friends of mine. Don't you think that they might introduceus?"

  "They might," she vouchsafed, "if they happened to see us both at thesame time."

  Orme returned to his task. The crowd that always gathers was now closeabout them, and there was little opportunity for talk. He finished hisjob 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 apparentlyrelenting: "Perhaps the next time we meet----"

  Orme groaned. With a little nod like that which had dismissed him at thetime of his first service to her, she pulled the lever and the car movedaway.

  Tumult in his breast, Orme walked on. He watched the black car thread itsway down the street and disappear around a corner. Then he gave himselfover to his own bewildering reflections, and he was still busy with themwhen he found himself at the entrance of the Pere Marquette. He hadcrossed the Rush Street bridge and found his way up to the Lake ShoreDrive almost without realizing whither he was going.

  Orme had come to Chicago, at the request of Eastern clients, to meethalf-way the owners of a Western mining property. When he registered atthe Annex, he found awaiting him a telegram saying that they had beendetained at Denver and must necessarily be two days late. Besides thetelegram, there had been a letter for him--a letter from his friend, JackBaxter, to whom he had written of his coming. Jack had left the city onbusiness, it appeared, but he urged Orme to make free of his North Sideapartment. So Orme left the Annex and went to the rather too gorgeous,but very luxurious Pere Marquette, where he found that the staff hadbeen instructed to keep a close eye on his comfort. All this had happenedbut three short hours ago.

  After getting back to the apartment, Orme's first thought was totelephone to Bessie Wallingham. He decided, however, to wait till afterdinner. He did not like to appear too eager. So he went down to thepublic dining-room and ate what was placed before him, and returned tohis apartment just at dusk.

  In a few moments he got Bessie Wallingham on the wire.


  "Why, Robert Orme!" she exclaimed. "Wherever did you come from?"

  "The usual place. Are you and Tom at home this evening?"

  "I'm so sorry. We're going out with some new friends. Wish I knew themwell enough to ask you along. Can you have some golf with us at Arradaleto-morrow afternoon?"

  "Delighted! Say, Bessie, do you know a girl who runs a blacktouring-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 blacktouring-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 theone-four."

  That was all that Orme could get out of her and after a little banter anda brief exchange of greetings with Tom, who was called to the telephoneby his wife, the wire was permitted 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 reflectedfrom its glassy surface the wonderful opalescence of early evening. Heseemed to have set forth on a new and adventurous road. How strangely thegirl of the car had come into his life!

  Then he thought of the five-dollar bill, with the curious inscription. Hetook it from his pocket-book and examined it by the fading light. Thewords ran the full length of the face. Orme noticed that the writing hada foreign look. There were flourishes which seemed distinctlyun-American.

  He turned the bill over. Apparently there was no writing on the back, butas he looked more closely he saw a dark blur in the upper left-handcorner. Even in the dusk he could make out that this was not a spot ofdirt; the edges were defined too distinctly for a smudge; and it was notblack enough for an ink-blot.

  Moving to the center-table, he switched on the electric lamp, and lookedat the blur again. It stood out plainly now, a series of letters andnumbers:

  Evans, S. R. Chi. A. 100 N. 210 E. T.

  The first thought that came to Orme was that this could be no hoax. Ajoker would have made the curious cryptogram more conspicuous. But whatdid it mean? Was it a secret formula? Did it give the location of aburied treasure? And why in the name of common sense had it been writtenon a five-dollar bill?

  More likely, Orme reasoned, it concealed information for or about someperson--"S. R. Evans," probably. And who was this S. R. Evans?

  The better to study the mystery, Orme copied the inscription on a sheetof note-paper, which he found in the table drawer. From the first hedecided that there was no cipher. The letters undoubtedly wereabbreviations. "Evans" must be, as he had already determined, a man'sname. "Chi" might be, probably was, "Chicago." "100 N. 210 E." lookedlike "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 he was to be found--a placesufficiently indicated by the letter. Now as to the "T."--was it"treasure"? Or was it "time"? Or "true"? Orme had no way of telling. Itmight even be the initial of the person who had penned the instructions.

  Without knowing where "A." was, Orme could make nothing of thecryptogram. For that matter, he realized that unless the secret werecriminal it was not his affair. But he knew that legitimate businessinformation is seldom transmitted by such mysterious means.

  Again and again he went over the abbreviations, but the more closely hestudied them, the more baffling he found them. The real meaning appearedto hinge on the "A." and the "T." Eventually he was driven to theconclusion that those two letters could not be understood by anyone whowas not already partly in the secret, if secret it was. It occurred tohim to have the city directory sent up to him. He might then find theaddress of "S. R. Evans," if that person happened to be a Chicagoan. Butit was quite likely that the "Chi." might mean something other than that"Evans" lived in Chicago. Perhaps, in the morning he would satisfy hiscuriosity about "S. R. Evans," but for the present he lacked theinclination to press the matter that far.

  In the midst of his puzzling, the telephone-bell rang. He crossed theroom and put the receiver to his ear. "Yes?" he questioned.

  The clerk's voice answered. "Senhor Poritol to see Mr. Orme."

  "Who?"

  "S-e-n-h-o-r--P-o-r-i-t-o-l," spelled the clerk.

  "I don't know him," said Orme. "There must be some mistake. Are you surethat he asked for me?"

  There was a pause. Orme heard a few scattered words which indicated thatthe clerk was questioning the stranger. Then came the information: "Hesays he wishes to see you about a five-dollar bill."

  "Oh!" Orme realized that he had no reason to be surprised. "Well, sendhim up."

  He hung up the receiver and, returning to the table, put the marked billback into his pocket-book and slipped into a drawer the paper on which hehad copied the inscription.