"Rubbish!" laughed Orme. "That would never work at all. Too many persons understand my part in this matter. And then"--as he noticed the flash of triumph in Alcatrante's eyes--"I could not be arrested for stealing a document which was not in my possession." It was too late; Alcatrante had been able to verify his strong suspicion that Orme had the papers. A wave of anger swept over Orme. "Publicity or no publicity," he said, "unless this annoyance stops, I will have you arrested." Alcatrante smiled. "That would not pay, Mr. Orme. There would be counter-charges and you would be much delayed--perhaps even till after midnight to-night. You Americans do not know how to play at diplomacy, Mr. Orme." Controlling himself, Orme hurried quickly to the nearest elevator. He had timed his action; the starter was just about to close the door as he hurried in. But quick though he was, Alcatrante was close behind him. The agile South American squeezed into the elevator by so close a margin that the door caught his coat. "Here! What you tryin' to do?" shouted the starter. Alcatrante, pressing in against Orme, did not reply. The starter jerked the door open, and glared at Alcatrante. The steady and undisturbed eye of the minister had its effect, and after a moment of hesitation the starter banged the door shut and gave the signal and the car leaped upward. Tom Wallingham's office was on the eighth floor. Though he knew that Alcatrante would cling to him, Orme could think of nothing better to do than to go straight to the office and count on the assistance of Bixby, who would certainly remember him. Accordingly he called out "Eight!" and, ignoring Alcatrante, left the elevator and walked down the hall, the South American at his elbow. They passed a long series of doors, the glass panels of which were inscribed, "The Wallingham Company--Private," with index-fingers pointing the direction of the main entrance. This was the Chicago branch of the great New York Corporation, and Thomas Wallingham, senior, had placed his son in charge of it two years before. The business was the manufacturing of refrigerators. One side of the reception-room which Orme entered hurriedly, Alcatrante still beside him, was given over to a large specimen refrigerator chamber, built in with glistening white tiles. The massive door, three feet thick, was wide open, showing the spotless inner chamber. In the outer wall was a thermometer dial fully a foot in diameter. Once inside the reception-room, Orme stopped and looked again at Alcatrante. There was menace in the look, but the South American did not flinch. Indeed, the glance which met his own seemed to Orme to be disarmingly good-natured. Its essence was a humorous recognition that the situation had its ridiculous side.