Speeding along the lake front, the road turned suddenly to the left and west, skirting a large grove of trees which hugged the shore. Just at the turn was a low brick building on the beach. “The life-saving station,” explained the girl; “and these are the grounds of the university. The road goes around the campus, and strikes the lake again a mile or more farther north.”
Large buildings were at their right after they turned. Orme noted that they were scattered among the trees—some near the street, some at a distance back. Then the road again turned to the north, at a point where less imposing streets broke in from the west and south.
“Stop at this corner,” said the girl.
Orme threw on the brakes.
“We are in Evanston, on the Sheridan Road,” she said, “and this street cutting in from the south is Chicago Avenue.”
“‘Chi. A.’!” exclaimed Orme.
She had taken the paper from the pocket of her coat, and was scanning it closely. “One hundred paces north and two hundred and ten east. ‘T.’ must mean ‘tree.’”
Orme jumped to the ground. He noticed that the university grounds were cut off from the street by an iron fence. There was a gate at the corner by which they had stopped. The gate was not closed. If it were customary to shut it at night, there had been some neglect on this particular evening.
“You’d better go in through the gate,” said the girl, “and follow the west fence northward for one hundred paces. Then turn east, at right angles and go two hundred and ten paces—I suppose it must be paces, not feet.”
“Yes,” said Orme. “That would be the natural way for a burglar in a hurry to measure.”