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, 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."

"I thought it might be the last word in the message--Haskell," ventured
Willis.

Mr. Farriss paused a moment, then,

"Boy!" he yelled through the open door.

"Boy, get me an atlas here quick, or I'll hang your hair on a
proof-hook!"