“Not very far from Arradale. Bob, you come right out here. I will see to the rest. It certainly is the funniest coincidence.”
“I’ll catch the first train.”
“There’s one at six—for men who come out to dine.”
“All right. Expect me. Good-by.”
Orme looked at his watch. He had an hour and a half—which meant that time must be killed. It would be unwise to return to the Père Marquette, for the South Americans and the Japanese might both be on watch for him there. But he did not care to wander about the streets, with the chance of coming face to face with some of his enemies. It was obvious that swift and elaborate machinery would be set in motion to catch him. Of course, there were many places where he could conceal himself for an hour, but——
Tom Wallingham’s office! Why had he not thought of that before? Tom was at Arradale with Bessie, but the clerks would let Orme stay in the reception-room until it was time to start for his train. Indeed, Orme remembered that Bixby, the head clerk, had been at the wedding of Tom and Bessie—had in fact taken charge of the arrangements at the church.
Moreover, Tom’s office was in this very building—the Rookery. Doubtless it was for this reason that the Rookery had popped into his head when he gave directions to the cab-driver on North Parker Street.
Hurrying to the elevators, Orme was about to enter the nearest one, when suddenly a hand seized his elbow and pulled him to one side. He turned quickly and saw—Alcatrante.
The minister was breathing rapidly. It was plain that he had made a quick pursuit, but though his chest heaved and his mouth was partly open, his eyes were curiously steady. “One minute, Mr. Orme,” he said, forcing his lips to a smile. “I had hard work to follow you. There was no other cab, but a small boy told me that you directed your driver to the Rookery. Therefore, I got on a street-car and rode till I found a cab.” He said all this in the most casual tone, retaining his hold on Orme’s elbow as though his attitude were familiar and friendly. Perhaps he was thus detailing his own adventures merely to gain time; or perhaps he was endeavoring to puzzle Orme.
But Orme was simply annoyed. He knew how dangerous Alcatrante could be. “I am tired of being followed, Senhor,” he said disgustedly, freeing his elbow.