“You will make a mistake, officer, if you detain me,” he said, speaking distinctly, so that the girl would be sure to hear.
“Cut it out,” said the policeman.
“A little telephoning will set me free in an hour,” Orme continued, bending to pick up his hat, which had fallen to the ground at the beginning of the fight. “You can’t do anything except take me to the station and find out that you have bungled.”
“That’s my affair,” said the policeman. “But here, we’ve done enough talkin’.” He waved his revolver in a gesture which indicated that they were to enter the car.
Now, Orme knew that the girl had not seen him throw the papers to the road. Neither had she seen Arima pick them up. Whatever guess she had made as to his disposal of them, there was no reason for her to doubt that he had again got them into his possession, during some stage of the struggle.
He looked at her earnestly and significantly, then smiled slightly, in the thought of reassuring her.
When he was certain that she was watching his every move, he glanced at the car, then up the road to the north. Then, with such quickness that the policeman had no time to prevent, he snatched from the inner pocket of his coat the envelope containing the blank contract which had first disappointed Arima, and tossed it into the tonneau.
“Go!” he shouted.
Like a shot, she sent the car forward. It disappeared swiftly into the night.
Thus far, Orme was satisfied. He had got the girl safely away. She thought that he had thrown the papers into the car, and when she came to examine them she would be disappointed, but Orme felt that she would then understand—that she would continue to trust him.