ting 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 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 them
well enough to ask you along. Can you have some golf with us at Arradale
to-morrow 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 telephone
by 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 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 pocket-book and examined 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. Apparently 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 distinctly 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 th