“Give this to Miss Donna” said Mr. Hennage, and thrust the envelope into the Indian's hand. “Ain't got no time to talk to you, Sam. This is my busy day,” and then, for the last time, he gave Sam Singer the inevitable half dollar and a cigar.
“Good-by, Sam” he called as he descended the stairs. “Be a good Injun till I see you again.”
He went to the ticket window, purchased a ticket to San Francisco and climbed aboard the train. Two minutes later it pulled out. As it plunged into Tehachapi Pass, Mr. Hennage, standing on the platform of the rear car, glanced back across the desert at San Pasqual.
“Nothin' like mystery to keep that rotten little camp up on its toes” he muttered. “I'll just leave that mess to stew in its own juices for a while.”
He went into the smoker and lit a cigar. His plans were well matured now and he was content; in this comfortable frame of mind he glanced idly around at his fellow-passengers.
Seated two seats in front of him and on the opposite side of the coach, Mr. Hennage observed a gray-haired man reading a newspaper. The gambler decided that there was something vaguely familiar about the back of this passenger's head, and on the pretense of going to the front of the car for a drink of water he contrived, on his way back to his seat, to catch a glimpse of the stranger's face. At the same instant the man glanced up from his paper and nodded to Mr. Hennage.
“How” said Harley P., and paused beside the other's seat. “Mr. T. Morgan Carey, if I ain't mistaken?”
“The same” replied Carey in his dry, precise tones. “And you are—Mr.—Mr.—Mr. Hammage.”
“Hennage” corrected the gambler.
“I beg your pardon. Mr. Hennage. Quite so. Pray be seated, Mr. Hennage. You're the very man I wanted to see.”