Senhor Poritol said nothing. He was breathing hard. "On the other hand," continued Orme, turning the bill over and eyeing the inscription on its face, "your mistake in first writing the name instead of printing it, shows me that you did write the words on the _face_ of the bill." He returned the bill to his pocket-book. "I can't give you the bill," he said. "Your story doesn't hold together." With a queer little scream, the South American bounded from his chair and flung himself at Orme. He struck no blow, but clawed desperately at Orme's pocket. The struggle lasted only for a moment. Orme, seizing the little man by the collar, dragged him, wriggling, to the door. "Now get out," said Orme. "If I find you hanging around, I'll have you locked up." Senhor Poritol whispered: "It is my secret. Why should I tell you the truth about it? You have no right to know." Orme retained his hold. "I don't like your looks, my friend," he said. "There may have been reason why you should lie to me, but you will have to make things clear." He considered. After all, he must make allowance; so he said: "Come back to-morrow with evidence that you are entitled to the bill, and you shall have it." He released Senhor Poritol. The little man had recovered his composure. He went back to the table and took up his hat and cane, refolding the handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket. Once more he was the Latin fop. He approached Orme, and his manner was deprecatory. "My most abject apologies for attacking you, sir. I was beside myself. But if you will only permit me, I will bring up my friend, who is waiting below. He will, as you say, vouch for me." "Who is he?" "A very, very distinguished man." Orme pondered. The adventure was opening up, and he felt inclined to see it through. "Bring him," he said shortly. When Senhor Poritol had disappeared Orme telephoned to the clerk. "Send me up a porter," he ordered, "and have him stand just outside my door, with orders to enter if he hears any disturbance." He waited at the door till the porter appeared, then told him to remain in a certain place until he was needed, or until the visitors left. Senhor Poritol remained downstairs for several minutes. Evidently he was explaining the situation to his friend. But after a time Orme heard the clang of the elevator door, and in response to the knock that quickly followed, he opened his own door. At the side of his former visitor stood a dapper foreigner. He wore a long frock coat and carried a glossy hat, and his eyes were framed by large gold spectacles. "This is the Senhor Alcatrante," explained Senhor Poritol. The newcomer bowed with suave dignity. "Senhor Alcatrante? The name is familiar," said Orme, smiling. Poritol assumed an air. "He is the minister from my country to these United States." Orme understood. This was the wary South American diplomat whose name had lately been so prominent in the Washington dispatches. What was he doing in Chicago?