“Get up,” commanded Orme.
The man got to his knees and, turning, raised supplicating hands.
“Poritol!” exclaimed Orme.
“Oh, Mr. Orme, spare me. It was an accident.” His face worked convulsively. “I—I——” Something like a sob escaped him, and Orme again found himself divided between contempt and pity.
“What were you doing with that wheelbarrow?”
Poritol kept his frightened eyes on Orme’s face, but he said nothing.
“Well, I will explain it. You followed the car when it started for Arradale. You waited here, found a wheelbarrow, and tried to wreck us. It is further evidence of your comic equipment that you should use a wheelbarrow.”
Poritol got to his feet. “You are mistaken, dear Mr. Orme. I—I——”
Orme smiled grimly. “Stop,” he said. “Don’t explain. Now I want you to stay right here in this field for a half hour. Don’t budge. If I catch you outside, I’ll take you to the nearest jail.”
Poritol drew himself up. “As an attaché I am exempt,” he said, with a pitiful attempt at dignity.