“But what are you doing here?” gasped Orme, amazed.
“Why, a foreign fellow came to the chief and said you wanted a man to keep an eye on your quarters to-night—and the chief sent me. I was dozing a bit—but I’m a light sleeper. I wake at the least noise.”
Orme smiled reminiscently, thinking of the snore. “Tell me,” he said, “was it Senhor Alcatrante who had you sent?”
“I believe that was his name.” He was slowly regaining his sleep-benumbed wits. “That reminds me,” he continued. “He gave me a note for you.”
An envelope was produced from an inside pocket. Orme took it and tore it open. The sheet within bore the caption, “Office of The Chief of Police,” and the few lines, written beneath in fine script, were as follows:
“Dear Mr. Orme:
“You will, I am sure, pardon my seeming over-anxiety for your safety, and the safety of Poritol’s treasure, but I cannot resist using my influence to see that you are well-protected to-night by what you in America call ‘a plain-clothes man.’ I trust that he will frighten away the Yellow Peril and permit you to slumber undisturbed. If you do not wish him inside your apartment, he will sit in the hall outside your door.
“With all regard for your continued good health, believe me, dear Mr. Orme,
“Yours, etc., etc.,
“Pedro Alcatrante.”