is could be no hoax. A
joker would have made the curious cryptogram more conspicuous. But what
did it mean? Was it a secret formula? Did it give the location of a
buried treasure? And why in the name of common sense had it been written
on a five-dollar bill?

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

The better to study the mystery, Orme copied the inscription on a sheet
of note-paper, which he found in the table drawer. From the first he
decided that there was no cipher. The letters undoubtedly were
abbreviations. "Evans" must be, as he had already determined, a man's
name. "Chi" might be, probably was, "Chicago." "100 N. 210 E." looked
like "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 place
sufficiently indicated by the letter. Now as to the "T."--was it
"treasure"? Or was it "time"? Or "true"? Orme had no way of telling. It
might even be the initial of the person who had penned the instructions.

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

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

In the midst of his puzzling, the telephone-bell rang. He crossed the
room 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