"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 café.

Outside, and three blocks away from Steinway's, they paused under an
arc-light, and with shaking hands Willis showed her the message. There