

E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustration.
      See 25799-h.htm or 25799-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/7/9/25799/25799-h/25799-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/7/9/25799/25799-h.zip)





THE GIRL AND THE BILL

An American Story of Mystery, Romance and Adventure

by

BANNISTER MERWIN

Illustrated







[Illustration: "'Perhaps you can imagine how those letters puzzled
me,' he volunteered"]



A. L. Burt Company
Publishers :: New York

Copyright, 1909, by
Dodd, Mead and Company

Published, March, 1909




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                  PAGE
      I  The Threshold of Adventure         1
     II  Senhor Poritol                    21
    III  The Shadows                       41
     IV  The Girl of the Car               58
      V  "Evans, S. R."                    77
     VI  A Chance Lead                     93
    VII  A Japanese at Large              115
   VIII  The Trail of Maku                136
     IX  Number Three Forty-One           162
      X  "Find the American"              178
     XI  The Way Out                      192
    XII  Power of Darkness                209
   XIII  An Old Man of the Sea            223
    XIV  Prisoners in the Dark            253
     XV  From the Devil to the Deep Sea   279
    XVI  The Struggle                     295
   XVII  A Chance of the Game             322
  XVIII  The Goal                         347
    XIX  A Saved Situation                359






THE GIRL AND THE BILL
CHAPTER I

THE THRESHOLD OF ADVENTURE


The roar of State Street filled the ears of Robert Orme not unpleasantly.
He liked Chicago, felt towards the Western city something more than the
tolerant, patronizing interest which so often characterizes the Eastern
man. To him it was the hub of genuine Americanism--young, aggressive,
perhaps a bit too cocksure, but ever bounding along with eyes toward
the future. Here was the city of great beginnings, the city of
experiment--experiment with life; hence its incompleteness--an
incompleteness not dissimilar to that of life itself. Chicago lived; it
was the pulse of the great Middle West.

Orme watched the procession with clear eyes. He had been strolling
southward from the Masonic Temple, into the shopping district. The
clangor, the smoke and dust, the hurrying crowds, all worked into his
mood. The expectation of adventure was far from him. Nor was he a man who
sought impressions for amusement; whatever came to him he weighed, and
accepted or rejected according as it was valueless or useful. Wholesome
he was; anyone might infer that from his face. Doubtless, his fault lay
in his overemphasis on the purely practical; but that, after all, was a
lawyer's fault, and it was counterbalanced by a sweet kindliness toward
all the world--a loveableness which made for him a friend of every chance
acquaintance.

It was well along in the afternoon, and shoppers were hurrying homeward.
Orme noted the fresh beauty of the women and girls--Chicago has reason to
be proud of her daughters--and his heart beat a little faster. Not that
he was a man to be caught by every pretty stranger; but scarcely
recognized by himself, there was a hidden spring of romance in his
practical nature. Heart-free, he never met a woman without wondering
whether she was _the_ one. He had never found her; he did not know that
he was looking for her; yet always there was the unconscious question.

A distant whistle, the clanging of gongs, the rapid beat of galloping
hoofs--fire-engines were racing down the street. Cars stopped, vehicles
of all kinds crowded in toward the curbs.

Orme paused and watched the fire horses go thundering by, their smoking
chariots swaying behind them and dropping long trails of sparks. Small
boys were running, men and women were stopping to gaze after the passing
engines, but Orme's attention was taken by something that was happening
near by, and as the gongs and the hoof-beats grew fainter he looked with
interest to the street beside him.

He had got as far as the corner of Madison Street. The scramble to get
out of the way of the engines had here resulted in a traffic-jam. Two
policemen were moving about, shouting orders for the disentanglement of
the street-cars and vehicles which seemed to be inextricably wedged
together.

A burly Irish teamster was bellowing at his horse. The hind wheel of a
smart barouche was caught in the fore wheel of a delivery wagon, and the
driver of the delivery wagon was expressing his opinion of the situation
in terms which seemed to embarrass the elderly gentleman who sat in the
barouche. Orme's eye traveled through the outer edge of the disturbance,
and sought its center.

There in the midst of the tangle was a big black touring-car. Its one
occupant was a girl--and such a girl! Her fawn- cloak was thrown
open; her face was unveiled. Orme was thrilled when he caught the glory
of her face--the clear skin, browned by outdoor living; the demure but
regular features; the eyes that seemed to transmute and reflect softly
all impressions from without. Orme had never seen anyone like her--so
nobly unconscious of self, so appealing and yet so calm.

She was waiting patiently, interested in the clamor about her, but
seemingly undisturbed by her own part in it. Orme's eyes did not leave
her face. He was merely one of a crowd at the curb, unnoted by her, but
when after a time, he became aware that he was staring, he felt the blood
rush to his cheeks, and he muttered: "What a boor I am!" And then, "But
who can she be? who can she be?"

A policeman made his way to the black car. Orme saw him speak to the
girl; saw her brows knit; and he quickly threaded his way into the
street. His action was barely conscious, but nothing could have stopped
him at that moment.

"You'll have to come to the station, miss," the policeman was saying.

"But what have I done?" Her voice was broken music.

"You've violated the traffic regulations, and made all this trouble,
that's what you've done."

"I'm on a very important errand," she began, "and----"

"I can't help that, miss, you ought to have had someone with you that
knew the rules."

Her eyes were perplexed, and she looked about her as if for help. For a
moment her gaze fell on Orme, who was close to the policeman's elbow.

Now, Orme had a winning and disarming smile. Without hesitation, he
touched the policeman on the shoulder, beamed pleasantly, and said:
"Pardon me, officer, but this car was forced over by that dray."

"She was on the wrong side," returned the policeman, after a glance which
modified his first intention to take offense. "She had no business over
here."

"It was either that or a collision. My wheel was scraped, as it was."
She, too, was smiling now.

The policeman pondered. He liked to be called "officer"; he liked to be
smiled upon; and the girl, to judge from her manner and appearance, might
well be the daughter of a man of position. "Well," he said after a
moment, "be more careful another time." He turned and went back to his
work among the other vehicles, covering the weakness of his surrender by
a fresh display of angry authority.

The girl gave a little sigh of relief and looked at Orme. "Thank you,"
she said.

Then he remembered that he did not know this girl. "Can I be of further
service?" he asked.

"No," she answered, "I think not. But thank you just the same." She gave
him a friendly little nod and turned to the steering-gear.

There was nothing for it but to go, and Orme returned to the curb. A
moment later he saw the black car move slowly away, and he felt as though
something sweet and fine were going out of his life. If only there had
been some way to prolong the incident! He knew intuitively that this girl
belonged to his own class. Any insignificant acquaintance might introduce
them to each other. And yet convention now thrust them apart.

Sometime he might meet her. Indeed, he determined to find out who she was
and make that sometime a certainty. He would prolong his stay in Chicago
and search society until he found her. No one had ever before sent such a
thrill through his heart. He must find her, become her friend,
perhaps----But, again he laughed to himself, "What a boor I am!"

After all she was but a passing stranger, and the pleasant revery into
which his glimpse of her had led him was only a revery. The memory of her
beauty and elusive charm would disappear; his vivid impression of her
would be effaced. But even while he thought this he found himself again
wondering who she was and how he could find her. He could not drive her
from his mind.

Meantime he had proceeded slowly on his way. Suddenly a benevolent,
white-bearded man halted him, with a deprecating gesture. "Excuse me,
sir," he began, "but your hat----"

Orme lifted his straw hat from his head. A glance showed him that it was
disfigured by a great blotch of black grease. He had held his hat in his
hand while talking to the girl, and it must have touched her car at a
point where the axle of