A young hopeful, frightened into frenzy, obeyed with alacrity, and
Farriss, seizing the atlas from his hand, thumbed it until he found a
map of Colorado. 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. What you can do
is call up, say you're the detective bureau, and ask carelessly about
Beaton. That'll throw a scare into her. You've got her number?"

"Riverside 7683," Willis said in a businesslike voice. "The Beecher
apartments. I'll try it."

He disappeared into the clattering local room, to return a moment
later, white of face, bright of eye, and with lips parted.

"What's the dope?" Farriss shot at him.

"Nothing!" cried the excited young man. "Nothing except that fifteen
minutes ago Celeste La Rue kissed the Beecher apartments good-bye and,
with trunk, puff, and toothbrush, beat it."

"To Haskell," added the city editor, "or my hair is pink. And by God,
I believe there's a story there. What's more, I believe we can get it.
It's blind chance, but we'll take it."