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At the desk, wide-eyed with excitement, Miss Donovan took a service-worn pen proffered by landlord Pete Timmons, whose grey whiskers were as unkempt as his hotel, and registered her name. "A telegram came to-day for you, ma'am," Peter said in a cracked voice, and tossed it over. Miss Donovan tore it open. It was from Farriss. It read: If any clues, advise immediately. Willis digging hard.
The three passed out together, following the guidance of Timmons, and as the sound of their voices subsided into a confused murmur, Westcott glanced into the face beside him. "You must be very tired, dear." "I am tired, Jim," she said, "but I mustn't allow it. I have a big job on hand. Farriss will want three thousand words of this and he'll want it to-night so that he can scoop the town."
"Then hop to it," Farriss rejoined. "Stick around there until you get something deeper. As for me I'm going home. It's two o'clock." It was the second night after Farriss had given them his instructions that Miss Donovan and Willis, sitting in the last darkened booth in Steinway's Café, were rewarded for their vigil.
Their fears would lead to this conclusion, and they could safely argue that nothing else would require the presence in Haskell of a New York newspaper writer. Besides, if the man Enright had recognised her and knew of her connection with the Star, it was scarcely probable that he would be wholly unfamiliar with the name of Farriss, the city editor.
Together the three pored over it. "There it is!" Stella Donovan cried suddenly. "Down toward the bottom. Looks like desert country." "Pretty dry place for Celeste," laughed Willis. "I might call her up and kid her about it if " Farriss looked at him sourly. "You might get a raise in salary," he snapped sharply, "if you'd keep your mind on the job.
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, Mr. Farriss, where is he?" put in Stella Donovan. "Where was the message sent from? Colorado, yes, but where in Colorado? That's the thing to find out."
In the city room of the Star, Farriss, the city editor, sat back in his swivel chair smoking a farewell pipe preparatory to going home. The final edition had been put to bed, the wires were quiet, and as he sat there Farriss was thinking of plunging "muskies" in Maine streams.
"Valois's statement that he was almost positive that the dead man was not Cavendish," the city editor snapped. "I now believe Valois is mistaken, in view of developments," said Willis with finality. "So does Stella Miss Donovan, I mean. Remember the body was charred across the face and chest and Valois was excited." Farriss was silent a moment.
"But it cost us real money enough to make the business office moan, I expect, too," Miss Donovan added. "Well, for Pete's sake, shoot!" demanded Farriss. "Cavendish, I suppose?" The two nodded. Their eyes were alight with enthusiasm. "In the first place," said the girl, with grave emphasis, "Frederick Cavendish did not die intestate as supposed. He left a will." Farriss blinked.
"Kid," he said sharply but kindly, "you're too good a hound for the desert. The city needs you here and, dammit, you keep on sniffing." Turning to the unsettled girl beside him, he went on briskly: "Work guardedly; query us when you have to; be sure of your facts, and consign your soul to God. Do I see you moving?" And when Farriss looked again he did.
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