The South American writhed in his chair and leaned forward eagerly. "That is the most distressing part of all," he exclaimed. "I had left Chicago at a time when my presence in this great city was very important indeed. Nothing but the call from a dying friend would have induced me to go away. My whole future in this country depended upon my returning in time to complete certain business. "So, after dear Lopez was dead, I rushed to the local railroad station. A train was coming in. I searched my pocket for my money to buy my ticket. All I could find was the five-dollar bill! "It was necessary to return to Chicago; yet I could not lose the bill. A happy thought struck me. I wrote upon the face of it the words you have seen, and paid it to the ticket-agent. I called his attention to the writing and implored him to save the bill if he could until I returned, and if not, to be sure to remember the person he gave it to." Orme laughed. "It does seem funny," said Senhor Poritol, rolling another cigarette, "but you cannot imagine my most frantic desperation. I returned to Chicago and transacted my business. Then I hastened back to the Wisconsin city. Woe is me! The ticket-agent had paid the bill to a Chicago citizen. I secured the name of this man and finally found him at his office on La Salle Street. Alas! he, too, had spent the bill, but I tracked it from person to person, until now, my dear sir, I have found it? So----" he paused and looked eloquently at Orme. "Do you know a man named Evans?" Orme asked. Senhor Poritol looked at him in bewilderment. "S. R. Evans," insisted Orme. "Why, no, dear sir--I think not--But what has that to do----?" Orme pushed a sheet of paper across the table. "Oblige me, Senhor Poritol. Print in small capitals the name, 'S. R. Evans.'" Senhor Poritol was apparently reluctant. However, under the compulsion of Orme's eye, he finally took out his fountain-pen and wrote the name in flowing script. He then pushed the paper back toward Orme, with an inquiring look. "No, that isn't what I mean," exclaimed Orme. "Print it. Print it in capital letters." Senhor Poritol slowly printed out the name. Orme took the paper, laying it before him. He then produced the coveted bill from his pocket-book. Senhor Poritol uttered a little cry of delight and stretched forth an eager hand, but Orme, who was busily comparing the letters on the paper with the letters on the bill, waved him back. After a few moments Orme looked up. "Senhor Poritol," he said, "why didn't you write the secret on a time-table, or on your ticket, before you gave the bill to the agent?" Senhor Poritol was flustered. "Why," he said uncertainly, "I did not think of that. How can we explain the mistakes we make in moments of great nervousness?" "True," said Orme. "But one more point. You did not yourself write your friend's secret on the bill. The letters which you have just printed are differently made."