"A wheelbarrow!"

"Yes, sir. There it is."

Orme looked at the wheelbarrow. It was wedged under the front of the car.
He peered off into the field at the left. Dimly he could see a running
figure, and he hastily climbed the rail fence and started in pursuit.

It was a hard sprint. The running man was fast on his feet, but his speed
did not long serve him, for he stumbled and fell. He did not rise, and
Orme, coming up, for the moment supposed him to be stunned.

Bending over, he discovered that the prostrate man was panting hard, and
digging his hands into the turf.

"Get up," commanded Orme.

The man got to his knees and, turning, raised supplicating hands.

"Poritol!" exclaimed Orme.

"Oh, Mr. Orme, spare me. It was an accident." His face worked
convulsively. "I--I----" Something like a sob escaped him, and Orme again
found himself divided between contempt and pity.

"What were you doing with that wheelbarrow?"

Poritol kept his frightened eyes on Orme's face, but he said nothing.

"Well, I will explain it. You followed the car when it started for
Arradale. You waited here, found a wheelbarrow, and tried to wreck us. It
is further evidence of your comic equipment that you should use a
wheelbarrow."

Poritol got to his feet. "You are mistaken, dear Mr. Orme. I--I----"

Orme smiled grimly. "Stop," he said. "Don't explain. Now I want you to
stay right here in this field for a half hour. Don't budge. If I catch
you outside, I'll take you to the nearest jail."

Poritol drew himself up. "As an _attache_ I am exempt," he said, with a
pitiful attempt at dignity.

"You are not exempt from the consequences of a crime like this. Now, get
on your knees."

Whimpering, Poritol kneeled.

"Stay in that position."

"Oh, sir--oh, my very dear sir. I----"

"Stay there!" thundered Orme.

Poritol was still, but his lips moved, and his interlaced fingers worked
convulsively.

As Orme walked away, he stopped now and then to look back. Poritol did
not move, and Orme long carried the picture of that kneeling figure.

"Who was it?" asked Bessie Wallingham, as he climbed back over the fence.

"A puppy with sharp teeth," he replied, thinking of what the girl had
said. "We might as well forget him."

She studied him in silence, then pointed to the chauffeur, who was down
at the side of the car.

"Anything damaged?" Orme queried.

"Yes, sir."

"Much?"

"Two hours' work, sir."

"Pshaw!" Orme shut his teeth d