She leaned closer to him. "Dear," she whispered impulsively, "I am going to tell you everything--who I am, and about the papers----" "Wait!" He held his hand before her mouth. "Don't tell me now. Do as you planned to do. Be simply 'Girl' to me for a while longer." She moved closer to him. Their errand, the danger, were for the time forgotten, and the motor hummed along with a burden of happiness. "You haven't looked at the papers yet," said Orme, after a time. They were turning east toward Lincoln Park. "Do I need to?" "Perhaps not. I took them from the envelope which you saw at Arima's. But here they are. I did not look at them, of course." He drew the parchments from within his coat and placed them in her hand. While she examined them, he looked straight ahead, that he might not see. He could hear them crackle as she unfolded them--could hear her sigh of content. And then something occurred that disquieted him to a degree which seemed unwarranted. The chauffeur suddenly turned around and glanced swiftly through his goggles at the girl and the papers. The action was, perhaps, natural; but there was an assured expectancy in the way he turned--Orme did not like it. Moreover, there was something alarmingly familiar in the manner of the movement. Somewhere Orme had seen a man move his body like that. But before his suspicions could take form, the chauffeur had turned again. The girl handed the papers back to Orme. "These are the right papers," she said. "Oh, my dear, if you only knew how much they mean." He held them for a moment in his hand. Then, after returning them to his pocket with as little noise as possible, he caught the girl's eye and, with a significant glance toward the chauffeur, said in a distinct voice: "I will slip them under the seat cushion. They will be safer there." Did the chauffeur lean farther back, as if to hear better? or was the slight movement a false record by Orme's imagination? Orme decided to be on the safe side, so he slipped under the cushion of the extra seat another mining prospectus which he had in his pocket, placing it in such a way that the end of the paper protruded. Then he put his lips close to the girl's ear and whispered: "Don't be alarmed, but tell me, does our chauffeur remind you of anyone?" She studied the stolid back in front of them. The ill-fitting dust-coat masked the outline of the figure; the cap was so low on the head that the ears were covered. "No," she said, at last, "I think not." With that, Orme sought to reassure himself. They were in Lincoln Park now. Over this same route Orme and the girl had ridden less than twenty-four hours before. To him the period seemed like a year. Then he had been plunging into mysteries unknown with the ideal of his dreams; now he was moving among secrets partly understood, with the woman of his life--loving her and knowing that she loved him.