The car ran silently through the Park and out on the broad Sheridan Road. Orme put on as much speed as was safe in a district where there were so many police. From time to time the girl indicated the direction with a word or two. She seemed to be using the opportunity to rest, for her attitude was relaxed. The hour was about eleven, and the streets were as yet by no means deserted. As they swung along Orme was pleased by the transition from the ugliness of central Chicago to the beauty of suburbs--doubly beautiful by night. The great highway followed the lake, and occasionally, above the muffled hum of the motor, Orme could hear the lapping of the wavelets on the beach. The girl roused herself. Her bearing was again confident and untired. "Have you been up this way before?" she asked. "No, Girl." "This is Buena Park we are passing now. We shall soon reach the city limits." Clouds had been gathering, and suddenly raindrops began to strike their faces. The girl drew her cloak more closely about her. Orme looked to see that she was protected, and she smiled back with a brave attempt at cheerful comradeship. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm quite dry." With that she leaned back and drew from the tonneau a light robe, which she threw about his shoulders. The act was an act of partnership merely, but Orme let himself imagine an evidence of solicitude in her thoughtfulness. And then he demanded of himself almost angrily: "What right have I to think such thoughts? She has known me only an hour." But to him that hour was as a year, so rich was its experience. He found himself recalling her every change of expression, her every characteristic gesture. "She has accepted me as a friend," he thought, warmly. But the joy of the thought was modified by the unwelcome reflection that the girl had had no choice. Still, he knew that, at least, she trusted him, or she would never have let him accompany her, even though she seriously needed protection. They were passing a great cemetery. The shower had quickly ended. The white stones and monuments fled by the car like dim and frightened ghosts. And now the car swung along with fine houses, set back in roomy grounds, at the left, the lake at the right. "Do you know this city?" the girl asked. "I think not. Have we passed the Chicago limits?" "Yes. We are in Evanston." "Evanston!" Orme had a glimmer. The girl turned and smiled at him. "Evanston--Sheridan Road." "Evans,--S. R.!" exclaimed Orme. She laughed a low laugh. "Ah, Monsieur Dupin!" she said. Speeding along the lake front, the road turned suddenly to the left and west, skirting a large grove of trees which hugged the shore. Just at the turn was a low brick building on the beach. "The life-saving station," explained the girl; "and these are the grounds of the university. The road goes around the campus, and strikes the lake again a mile or more farther north."