Chapter 2

When Orme answered the knock at the door a singular young man stood at
the threshold. He was short, wiry, and very dark. His nose was long and
complacently tilted at the end. His eyes were small and very black. His
mouth was a wide, uncertain slit. In his hand he carried a light cane and
a silk hat of the flat-brimmed French type. And he wore a gray sack suit,
pressed and creased with painful exactness.

"Come in, Senhor Poritol," said Orme, motioning toward a chair.

The little man entered, with short, rapid steps. He drew from his pocket
a clean pocket-handkerchief, which he unfolded and spread out on the
surface of the table. Upon the handkerchief he carefully placed his hat
and then, after an ineffectual effort to make it stand against the table
edge, laid his cane on the floor.

Not until all this ceremony had been completed did he appear to notice
Orme. But now he turned, widening his face into a smile and extending his
hand, which Orme took rather dubiously--it was supple and moist.

"Oh, this is Mr. Orme, is it not?"

"Yes," said Orme, freeing himself from the unpleasant handshake.

"Mr. _Robert_ Orme?"

"Yes, that is my name. What can I do for you?"

For a moment Senhor Poritol appeared to hover like a timid bird; then he
seated himself on the edge of a chair, only the tips of his toes touching
the floor. His eyes danced brightly.

"To begin with, Mr. Orme," he said, "I am charmed to meet you--very
charmed." He rolled his "r's" after a fashion that need not be
reproduced. "And in the second place," he continued, "while actually I am
a foreigner in your dear country, I regard myself as in spirit one of
your natives. I came here when a boy, and was educated at your great
University of Princeton."

"You are a Portuguese--I infer from your name," said Orme.

"Oh, dear, no! Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed Senhor Poritol, tapping the
floor nervously with his toes. "My country he freed himself from the
Portuguese yoke many and many a year ago. I am a South American, Mr.
Orme--one of the poor relations of your great country." Again the widened
smile. Then he suddenly became grave, and leaned forward, his hands on
his knees. "But this is not the business of our meeting, Mr. Orme."

"No?" inquired Orme.

"No, my dear sir. I have come to ask of you about the five-dollar bill
which you received in the hat-shop this afternoon." He peered anxiously.
"You still have it? You have not spent it?"

"A marked bill, was it not?"

"Yes, yes. Where is it, my dear sir, where is it?"

"Written across the face of it were the words, 'Remember person you pay
this to.'"

"Oh, yes, yes."

"And on the back of it----"

"On the back of it!" gasped the little man.

"Was a curious cryptogram."

"Do not torture me!" exclaimed Senhor Poritol. "Have you got it?" His
fingers worked nervously.

"Yes," said Orme slowly, "I still have it."

Senhor Poritol hastily took a fresh five-dollar bill from his pocket.
"See," he said, jumping to the floor, "here is another just as good a
bill. I give this to you in return for the bill which was paid to you
this afternoon." He thrust the new bill toward Orme, and waved his other
hand rhetorically. "That, and that alone, is my business with you, dear
sir."

Orme's hand went to his pocket. The visitor watched the motion eagerly,
and a grimace of disappointment contracted his features when the hand
came forth, holding a cigar-case.

"Have one," Orme urged.

In his anxiety the little man almost danced. "But, sir," he broke forth,
"I am in desperate hurry. I must meet a friend. I must catch a train."

"One moment," interrupted Orme. "I can't very well give up that bill
until I know a little better what it means. You will have to show me that
you are entitled to it--and"--he smiled--"meantime you'd better smoke."

Senhor Poritol sighed. "I can assure you of my honesty of purpose, sir,"
he said. "I cannot tell you about it. I have not the time. Also, it is
not my secret. This bill, sir, is just as good as the other one."

"Very likely," said Orme dryly. He was wondering whether this was some
new counterfeiting dodge. How easily most persons could be induced to
make the transfer!

A counterfeiter, however, would hardly work by so picturesque and
noticeable a method, unless he were carefully disguised--hardly even
then. Was Senhor Poritol disguised? Orme looked at him more closely. No,
he could see where the roots of the coarse black hair joined the scalp.
And there was not the least evidence of make-up on the face.
Nevertheless, Orme did not feel warranted in giving up the marked bill
without a definite explanation. The little man was a comic figure, but
his bizarre exterior might conceal a dangerous plot. He might be a thief,
an anarchist, anything.

"Please, my dear sir, please do not add to my already very great
anxiety," pleaded the visitor.

Orme spoke more decisively. "You are a stranger, Senhor Poritol. I don't
know what all this mystery conceals, but I can't give you that bill
unless I know more about it--and I won't," he added, as he saw Senhor
Poritol open his mouth for further pleading.

"Very well," sighed the little man. He hesitated for an instant, then
added: "I do not blame you for insisting, and I suppose I must say to you
everything that you demand. No, I do not smoke the cigar, please. But if
you do not object--" He produced a square of cigarette paper and some
tobacco from a silver-mounted pouch, and deftly rolled a cigarette with
one hand, accepting a match from Orme with the other. Closing his eyes,
he inhaled the smoke deeply, breathing it out through his nostrils.

"Well--" he hesitated, his eyes roving about the room as if in search of
something--"Well, I will explain to you why I want the bill."

Orme lighted a fresh cigar, and settled himself to hear the story. Senhor
Poritol drew a second handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp
brow.

"You must know, my very dear sir," he began, "that I come from a country
which is very rich in the resources of nature. In the unsettled interior
are very great mineral deposits which are little known, and since the day
when the great Vega made the first exploration there has been the belief
that the Urinaba Mountains hide a great wealth in gold. Many men for
three hundred years have risked their most precious lives to go look for
it. But they have not found it. No, my dear sir, they have not found it
until--But have patience, and you shall hear everything.

"A few days ago a countryman of mine sent word that he was about to die.
He asked that I, his early friend, should come to him immediately and
receive news of utmost importance. He was lying sick in the hotel of a
small city in Wisconsin. He was a tobacco agent and he had been attacked
by Death while he was on a business trip.

"Filled with the heartbroken hope to see him once more before he died, I
went even as I was, to a train and made all haste to his bedside."

"What was his name?" asked Orme.

"Lopez," replied Senhor Poritol promptly; and Orme knew that the answer
might as well have been Smith. But the little man returned quickly to his
story.

"My friend had no strength left. He was, oh, so weak that I wept to see
him. But he sent the doctor and the priest out of the room, and then--and
then he whispered in my ear a secret. He had discovered rich gold in the
Urinaba country. He had been trying to earn money to go back and dig up
the gold. But, alas! now he was dying, and he wished to give the secret
to me, his old friend.

"Tears streamed on my cheek." Senhor Poritol's eyes filled, seemingly at
the remembrance. "But I took out my fountain-pen to write down the
directions he wished to give. See--this was the pen." He produced a
gold-mounted tube from his waistcoat.

"I searched my pockets for a piece of paper. None could I discover. There
was no time to be lost, for my friend was growing weaker, oh, very fast.
In desperation I took a five-dollar bill, and wrote upon it the
directions he gave me for finding the gold. Even as I finished it, dear
Lopez breathed his last breath."

Orme puffed at his cigar. "So the bill carries directions for finding a
rich deposit in the Urinaba Mountains?"

"Yes, my dear sir. But you would not rob me of it. You could not
understand the directions."

"Oh, no." Orme laughed. "I have no interest in South American gold
mines."

"Then accept this fresh bill," implored Senhor Poritol, "and give me back
the one I yearn for."

Orme hesitated. "A moment more," he said. "Tell me, how did you lose
possession of the 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," said Orme. "It is only fair. Yes, I will keep the
bill until to-morrow morning."

"One other suggestion," continued Alcatrante. "You may not be willing to
give up the bill, but is there any reason why you should refuse to let
Senhor Poritol copy the writing that is on it?"

"Only my determination to think the whole matter over before I do
anything at all," Orme replied.

"But the bill came into your hands by chance," insisted the minister.
"The information means nothing to you, though obviously it means a great
deal to my young friend, here. May I ask what right you have to deny this
request?"

"What right?" Orme's eyes narrowed. "My right is that I have the bill and
the information, and I intend to understand the situation better before I
give the information to anyone else."

"But you recognized Senhor Poritol's handwriting on the bill," exclaimed
the minister.

"On the face of it, yes. He did not write the abbreviations on the back."

"Abbreviations!" exclaimed Poritol.

"Please let the matter rest till morning," said Orme stubbornly. "I have
told you just what I would do."

Poritol opened his mouth, to speak, but Alcatrante silenced him with a
frown. "Your word is sufficient, Mr. Orme," he said. "We will call
to-morrow morning. Is ten o'clock too early?"

"Not at all," said Orme. "Doubtless I shall be able to satisfy you. I
merely wish to think it over."

With a formal bow, Alcatrante turned to the door and departed, Poritol
following.

Orme strolled back to his window and stood idly watching the lights of
the vessels on the lake. But his mind was not on the unfolded view before
him. He was puzzling over this mystery in which he had so suddenly become
a factor. Unquestionably, the five-dollar bill held the key to some
serious problem.

Surely Alcatrante had not come merely as the friend of Poritol, for the
difference in the station of the two South Americans was marked. Poritol
was a cheap character--useful, no doubt, in certain kinds of work, but
vulgar and unconvincing. He might well be one of those promoters who hang
on at the edge of great projects, hoping to pick up a commission here and
there. His strongest point was his obvious effort to triumph over his own
insignificance, for this effort, by its comic but desperate earnestness,
could not but command a certain degree of respect.

Alcatrante, on the other hand, was a name to make statesmen knit their
brows. A smooth trouble-maker, he had set Europe by the ears in the
matter of unsettled South American loans, dexterously appealing to the
much-overworked Monroe Doctrine every time his country was threatened by
a French or German or British blockade. But his mind was of no small
caliber. He could hold his own not only at his own game of international
chess, but in the cultured discussion of polite topics. Orme knew of him
as a clever after-dinner speaker, a man who could, when he so desired,
please greatly by his personal charm.

No, Alcatrante was no friend of Poritol's; nor was it likely that, as
protector of the interests of his countrymen, he would go so far as to
accompany them on their errands unless much was at stake. Perhaps Poritol
was Alcatrante's tool and had bungled some important commission. It
occurred to Orme that the secret of the bill might be connected with the
negotiation of a big business concession in Alcatrante's country. "S. R.
Evans" might be trying to get control of rubber forests or mines--in the
Urinaba Mountains, perhaps, after all.

In any event, he felt positive that the secret of the bill did not
rightfully belong to Poritol. If the bill had been in his possession, he
should have been able to copy the abbreviated message. Indeed, the lies
that he had told were all against the notion of placing any confidence in
him. The two South Americans were altogether too eager.

Orme decided to go for a walk. He could think better in the open air. He
took up his hat and cane, and descended in the elevator.

In the office the clerk stopped him.

"A man called to see you a few minutes ago, Mr. Orme. When I told him
that you were engaged with two visitors he went away."

"Did he leave his name?" asked Orme.

"No, sir. He was a Japanese."

Orme nodded and went on out to the street. What could a Japanese want of
him?