"And there were numerals--a number, then the letter 'N.'; another number, followed by the letter 'E.' So far north, so far east, I read it--though I couldn't make out whether the numbers stood for feet or paces or miles." "Yes, yes," she whispered. Her eyes were intent on his. They seemed to will him to remember. "What else was there?" "Odd letters, which meant nothing to me. It's annoying, but I simply can't recall them. Believe me, I should like to." "Perhaps you will a little later," she said. "I'm sorry to be such a bother to you." "Bother!" "But it does mean so much, the tracing of this bill." "Shall we go to see Walsh?" he asked. "I suppose so." She sighed. Apparently she was discouraged. "But even if he gives the information, it may be too late. The Japanese have the directions." "But perhaps they will not be able to make them out," he suggested. She smiled. "You don't know the Japanese," she said. "They are abominably clever at such things. I will venture that they are already on their way to the hiding-place." "But even if the papers are in the pocket of one of them, it may be possible to steal them back." "Hardly." She arose. "I fear that the one chance is the mere possibility that Maku couldn't read the directions. Then, if Walsh _will_ speak out----" "Now, let me say something," he said. "My name is Robert Orme. Apparently we have common friends in the Wallinghams. When I first saw you this afternoon, I felt that I might have a right to your acquaintance--a social right, if you like; a sympathetic right, I trust." He held out his hand. She took it frankly, and the friendly pressure of her fine, firm palm sent the blood tingling through him. "I am sorry," she said, "that I can't give you my name. It would be unfair just now--unfair to others; for if you knew who I am, it might give you a clue to the secret I guard." "Some day, I hope, I may know," he said gravely. "But your present wish is my law. It is good of you to let me try to help you." At the same instant they became conscious that their hands were still clasped. The girl blushed, and gently drew hers away. "I shall call you Girl," Orme added. "A name I like," she said. "My father uses it. Oh, if I only knew what that burglar wrote on the bill!" Orme started. What a fool he had been! Here he was, trying to help the girl, forcing her to the long, tired recital of her story, when all the time he held her secret in the table in his sitting-room. For there was still the paper on which he had copied the abbreviated directions. "Wait here," he said sharply, and without answering the look of surprise on her face, hurried from the room and to the elevator. A few moments later he was back, the sheet of paper in his hand.