e 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 instea