The man got to his knees and, turning, raised supplicating hands. "Poritol!" exclaimed Orme. "Oh, Mr. Orme, spare me. It was an accident." His face worked convulsively. "I--I----" Something like a sob escaped him, and Orme again found himself divided between contempt and pity. "What were you doing with that wheelbarrow?" Poritol kept his frightened eyes on Orme's face, but he said nothing. "Well, I will explain it. You followed the car when it started for Arradale. You waited here, found a wheelbarrow, and tried to wreck us. It is further evidence of your comic equipment that you should use a wheelbarrow." Poritol got to his feet. "You are mistaken, dear Mr. Orme. I--I----" Orme smiled grimly. "Stop," he said. "Don't explain. Now I want you to stay right here in this field for a half hour. Don't budge. If I catch you outside, I'll take you to the nearest jail." Poritol drew himself up. "As an _attaché_ I am exempt," he said, with a pitiful attempt at dignity. "You are not exempt from the consequences of a crime like this. Now, get on your knees." Whimpering, Poritol kneeled. "Stay in that position." "Oh, sir--oh, my very dear sir. I----" "Stay there!" thundered Orme. Poritol was still, but his lips moved, and his interlaced fingers worked convulsively. As Orme walked away, he stopped now and then to look back. Poritol did not move, and Orme long carried the picture of that kneeling figure. "Who was it?" asked Bessie Wallingham, as he climbed back over the fence. "A puppy with sharp teeth," he replied, thinking of what the girl had said. "We might as well forget him." She studied him in silence, then pointed to the chauffeur, who was down at the side of the car. "Anything damaged?" Orme queried. "Yes, sir." "Much?" "Two hours' work, sir." "Pshaw!" Orme shut his teeth down hard; Poritol, had he known it, might have felt thankful that he was not near at hand. He turned to Bessie. "How much farther is it?" The chauffeur answered. "About three miles, sir." Three miles over dark country roads--and it was nearly eleven o'clock. He glanced ahead. In the distance a light twinkled. "Bessie," he said, "come with me to that farmhouse. We must go on. Or, if you prefer to wait here----" "I'll go with you, of course." They walked along the road to the farm gate. A cur yelped at their feet as they approached the house, and an old man, coatless and slippered, opened the door, holding an oil lamp high above his head. "Down, Rover! What do you want?" he shouted. "We've got to have a rig to take us to Winnetka," said Orme. "Our car broke down." The old man reflected. "Can't do it," he said, at last. "All shet up fer the night. Can't leave the missus alone." A head protruded from a dark upper window. "Yes, you can, Simeon," growled a woman's guttural voice. "Wall--I don't know----" "Yes, you can." She turned to Orme. "He'll take ye fer five dollars cash. Ye can pay me." Orme turned to Bessie. "Have you any money?" he whispered.