ng it in such a way that the end of the paper protruded. Then he put
his lips close to the girl's ear and whispered:

"Don't be alarmed, but tell me, does our chauffeur remind you of anyone?"

She studied the stolid back in front of them. The ill-fitting dust-coat
masked the outline of the figure; the cap was so low on the head that the
ears were covered.

"No," she said, at last, "I think not."

With that, Orme sought to reassure himself.

They were in Lincoln Park now. Over this same route Orme and the girl had
ridden less than twenty-four hours before. To him the period seemed like
a year. Then he had been plunging into mysteries unknown with the ideal
of his dreams; now he was moving among secrets partly understood, with
the woman of his life--loving her and knowing that she loved him.

One short day had brought all this to pass. He had heard it said that
Love and Time are enemies. The falseness of the saying was clear to him
in the light of his own experience. Love and Time are not enemies; they
are strangers to each other.

On they went northward. To Orme the streets through which they passed
were now vaguely familiar, yet he could hardly believe his eyes when they
swung around on to the Lake Front at Evanston, along the broad ribbon of
Sheridan Road.

But there was the dark mysterious surface of Lake Michigan at their
right. Beyond the broad beach, he could see the line of breakwaters, and
at their left the electric street lights threw their beams into the
blackness of little parks and shrubby lawns.

The car swept to the left, past the university campus.

"Do you remember?" asked the girl, in a low voice, pressing his arm.
Then, "Don't!" she whispered. "Someone will see!" for he had drawn her
face to his.

They came to the corner of Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road, where they
had halted the night before in their search for the hidden papers. "We'd
better give him further directions," said the girl.

But the chauffeur turned north at the corner and put on more speed.

"He's taking the right direction," she laughed. "Perhaps his idea is to
follow Sheridan Road till we tell him to turn."

"I don't quite like it," said Orme, thoughtfully. "He's a bit too sure of
what he's doing."

The girl hesitated. "It _is_ funny," she exclaimed. "And he's going
faster, too." She leaned forward and called up to the chauffeur: "Stop at
this corner."

He did not seem to hear. She repeated the order in a louder vo