“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.