is it not?” 

“Yes,” said Orme, freeing himself from the unpleasant handshake. 

“Mr. Robert Orme?” 

“Yes, that is my name. What can I do for you?” 

For a moment Senhor Poritol appeared to hover like a timid bird; then he seated himself on the edge of a chair, only the tips of his toes touching the floor. His eyes danced brightly. 

“To begin with, Mr. Orme,” he said, “I am charmed to meet you—very charmed.” He rolled his “r’s” after a fashion that need not be reproduced. “And in the second place,” he continued, “while actually I am a foreigner in your dear country, I regard myself as in spirit one of your natives. I came here when a boy, and was educated at your great University of Princeton.” 

“You are a Portuguese—I infer from your name,” said Orme. 

“Oh, dear, no! Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed Senhor Poritol, tapping the floor nervously with 23 his toes. “My country he freed himself from the Portuguese yoke many and many a year ago. I am a South American, Mr. Orme—one of the poor relations of your great country.” Again the widened smile. Then he suddenly became grave, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “But this is not the business of our meeting, Mr. Orme.” 

23

“No?” inquired Orme. 

“No, my dear sir. I have come to ask of you about the five-dollar bill which you received in the hat-shop this afternoon.” He peered anxiously. “You still have it? You have not spent it?” 

“A marked bill, was it not?” 

“Yes, yes. Where is it, my dear sir, where is it?” 

“Written across the face of it were the words, ‘Remember person you pay this to.’” 

“Oh, yes, yes.” 

“And on the back of it——” 

“On the back of it!” gasped the little man. 

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