“Is that you, Ned?”

“Sure; what are you doing up at this hour?”

“Never mind that.  Who have you got with you?”

“Enright and Lacy—­why?”

“I want you all to come in here a minute; don’t make so much noise.”

A voice or two grumbled, but feet shuffled along the bare floor, and the door creaked again as it was carefully closed behind them.  Stella opened her own door a crack and listened; the hall, lighted only by a single oil-lamp at the head of the stairs, was deserted and silent.  She stole cautiously forward, but the voices in Miss La Rue’s room were muffled and indistinct, not an audible word reaching her ears.  The key was in the lock, shutting out all view of the interior.  Well, what was the difference?  She knew what was occurring within—­the stolen telegram was being displayed, and discussed.  That would not delay them long, and it would never do for her to be discovered in the hall.

Convinced of the uselessness of remaining, she returned to her own room, closing and bolting the door.

This time she removed some of her clothing, and lay down on the bed, conscious of being exceedingly tired, yet in no degree sleepy.  She rested there, with wide-open eyes, listening until the distant door creaked again, and she heard the footsteps of the men in the hall.  They had not remained in the chorus girl’s room long, nor was anything said outside to arouse her suspicions.  Reassured, Miss Donovan snuggled down into her pillow, unable to distinguish where the men went, but satisfied they had sought their rooms.  They would attempt nothing more that night, and she had better gain what rest she could.  It was not easy falling asleep, in spite of the silence, but at last she dropped off into a doze.

Suddenly some unusual noise aroused her, and she sat upright, unable for the moment to comprehend what had occurred.  All was still, oppressively still; she could hear the pounding of her own heart.  Then something tingled at the glass of her window, sharply distinct, as though a pebble had been tossed upward.  Instantly she was upon her feet, and had crossed the room, her head thrust out.  The light in the office had been extinguished, and the night was black, yet she could make out dimly the figure of a man close in against the side of the house, a mere hulking shadow.  At the same instant he seemed to move slightly, and some missile grazed her face, and fell upon the floor, striking the rug with a dull thud.  She drew back in alarm, yet immediately grasped the thought that this must be some secret message, some communication from Westcott.

Drawing down the torn curtain, she touched a match to the lamp and sought the intruding missile.  It had rolled beneath the bed—­a small stone with a bit of paper securely attached.  The girl tore this open eagerly, her eyes searching the few lines: 

Must see you to-night.  Have learned things, and am going away.  Go down back stairs, and meet me at big cottonwood behind hotel; don’t fail.