“Have you lost something?” he called.
“No,” Orme replied.
The man started toward Orme, as if to investigate, and then Orme noticed that outlined on his head was a policeman’s helmet.
To be found going through the pockets of an unconscious man was not to Orme’s liking. It might be possible to explain the situation well enough to satisfy the local authorities, but that would involve delays fatal to any further effort to catch the man with the envelope.
So he jumped to his feet and ran northward, then turned to the west. Circling about, he made for the gate at which he had entered. His pursuer either took the wrong lead in the darkness or stopped to examine Maku, if or when Orme went through the gate and doubled back, outside the fence, to the car, there was no sound of steps behind him. He jumped to the chauffeur’s seat.
“Well?” inquired the girl, eagerly.
“Too late,” said Orme. “I’m sorry. I caught Maku, but the man with the envelope got away.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Are you hurt?” There was unconcealed anxiety in her voice.
To say the things he yearned to say! To be tender to her! But he controlled his feelings and explained briefly what had happened, at the same time throwing on the power and driving the car slowly northward.
“I only know that the fellow ran northward,” he said. “He may have worked back or he may have gone on. He may have climbed another tree and waited.”