“I am sorry,” she said, “that I can’t give you my name. It would be unfair just now—unfair to others; for if you knew who I am, it might give you a clue to the secret I guard.”
“Some day, I hope, I may know,” he said gravely. “But your present wish is my law. It is good of you to let me try to help you.”
At the same instant they became conscious that their hands were still clasped. The girl blushed, and gently drew hers away.
“I shall call you Girl,” Orme added.
“A name I like,” she said. “My father uses it. Oh, if I only knew what that burglar wrote on the bill!”
Orme started. What a fool he had been! Here he was, trying to help the girl, forcing her to the long, tired recital of her story, when all the time he held her secret in the table in his sitting-room. For there was still the paper on which he had copied the abbreviated directions.
“Wait here,” he said sharply, and without answering the look of surprise on her face, hurried from the room and to the elevator. A few moments later he was back, the sheet of paper in his hand.
“I can’t forgive my own stupidity,” he said. “While I was puzzling over the bill this evening I copied the secret on a sheet of paper. When Poritol came I put it away in a drawer and forgot all about it. But here it is.” He laid the paper on the little, useless onyx table that stood beside her chair.
She snatched it quickly and began to examine it closely.
“Perhaps you can imagine how those letters puzzled me,” he volunteered.