r hunch was right. He
and La Rue are playing Cavendish--and for something big. But now is
our time to get the telegram. Quick--before the waiter returns."

At her words Willis was out of the booth. As Miss Donovan watched, she
saw him pass by the folded evidence. What was wrong? But,
no--suddenly she saw his handkerchief drop, saw him an instant later
turn and pick it up, and with it the telegram. Disappearing in the
direction of the men's room, he returned a moment later, paid the
check, and with Miss Donovan on his arm left the cafe.

Outside, and three blocks away from Steinway's, they paused under an
arc-light, and with shaking hands Willis showed her the message. There
in the flickering rays the girl read its torn and yet enlightening
message.

lorado, May 19, 1915.

him safe. Report and collect.
come with roll Monday sure
've seen papers. Remember Haskell.

NED.

"It's terribly cryptic, Jerry," she said to the other, "but two things
we know from it."

"One is that La Rue's going to blow the burg some day--soon."

"The other, that 'Ned' is Ned Beaton, the man mentioned back there in
Steinway's. Whatever his connection is, we don't know. I think we had
better go to Farriss, don't you?"

"A good hunch," Willis replied, taking her arm. "And let's move on it
quick. One of us may have to hop to Colorado if Farriss thinks well of
what we've dug up."

"I hope it's you--you've worked hard," said Miss Donovan.

"But you got the big clue of it all--the telegram," gallantly returned
her companion, as he raised his arm to signal a passing cab which would
take them to the Star office.

Once there, in their enthusiasm they upset the custom of the office and
broke into Farriss's fullest hour, dragged him from his slot in the
copy desk and into his private office, which he rarely used. There,
into his impatient ears they dinned the story of what they had just
learned, ending up by passing him the telegram.

For a mere instant he glanced at them, then his lips began to move.
"Beaton--Ned--Ned Beaton--Ned Beaton," he mused, and then sat bolt
upright in his chair, while he banged the desk with a round, hard fist.
"Hell's bells!" he ejaculated. "You've run across something. I know
that name. I know the man. Ned Beaton is a 'gun,' and he pulled his
first job when I was doing 'police' in Philadelphia for the _Record_.
Well, well, my children, this is splendid! And what next?"

"But,