But before she had started this short journey, a yellow piece of paper, closely folded, slipped from her belt where it had been tucked.

“It’s the telegram!  The one of which they were speaking.”  Miss Donovan’s voice whispered dramatically as her eyes swept the tiny clue within their ambit.

Willis started.  He almost sprung from the booth to pick it up, but the girl withheld him with a pressure of the hand.

“Not yet,” she begged.  “Wait until we see who leaves the other booth into which La Rue just went.”

And Willis fell back into the seat, his pulse pounding.  Presently, with startled eyes, they beheld Celeste la Rue leave the booth, and then five minutes later a well-dressed man, a suave, youthful man with a head inclined toward baldness.

“Enright!” muttered Willis.

“Enright,” echoed Miss Donovan, “and, Jerry, our 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.